“Remember the time you tried to blow the straw wrapper at Luna and it went over the back of the bench and hit Mr. Johnson? And when he stood up, you blamed it on Ace?”
When we were kids, Mr. Johnson was the town’s cliché, grumpy old man that all of the kids were just a little scared of.
“Ace started crying, and I got in so much trouble,” I say with a smile, grabbing the paper she blew at me and twisting it around.
“You deserved it. You pointed right at him and said, He did it! so loud, everyone’s head turned toward us.” Her head goes back with a laugh, and just like then, everyone in the vicinity’s head turns toward us.
Not a single person is immune to the sound of Zoe laughing, moths to a flame. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse at the pure beauty of it.
While she laughs, I reach out to her hand, pulling it across the table and manipulating the straw wrapper onto her ring finger.
God, it looks good there.
Feels better.
Her head tips back down, the smile still on her face but transforming a bit as she looks at her finger.
I haven’t let go of her hand.
“Gorgeous,” I whisper, staring at her.
And I don’t mean the wrapper.
I mean her.
I mean this.
I mean us.
“I’ll keep it forever,” she says with smile and a girly shrug of one shoulder. Before I can say anything else, the waitress brings over our plates, and we eat, continuing to reminisce over Sundays at the diner with my family.
We ignore conversations about paper rings and potentially unhappy futures.
And it feels so easy, I almost forget I haven’t even started my mission to win her and get this every day yet, not really.
TWENTY
GOLD RUSH
-ZOE-
The little beach town we landed in is absolutely freaking adorable.
Everywhere we walk, people wave or tip their chins at us as if we’re not tourists but locals taking a normal Sunday morning stroll after a late breakfast at the diner.
When we walked out of the restaurant (where Zee and I got into an argument about who would pay—he won), he asked if I wanted to walk down to the water and wander around the docks.
How could I resist such an offer?
And as we strolled that way, I fussed with my hands.
How is this supposed to work? This pretending thing?
Do I give into every way I want to pretend with Zander, ignoring how that will most likely destroy me when I’m forced back into reality?
Do I reach out when our hands brush, linking our fingers?
Do I lean into him a bit, the way my body can’t help but want to?
But as always, Zander takes any confusion and overthinking from me, making a decision for both of us.
His hand moves out, grabbing my own, twining his fingers with mine.
I look at him, hoping to see something on his face, an explanation or a smile or a reminder to pretend.
None of it’s there.
Instead, he’s looking forward like this is so normal, like this is just us.
And without a word or a pause or anything, he pulls our twined hands up to his lips, pressing a light kiss on my knuckles before lowering them again.
His feet never miss a step.
He just keeps strolling.
My heart beats like crazy, and I wonder if he can feel it in my palm, if he knows how such a tiny, insignificant move impacts me.
And I know deep down in my soul that if this were us—if we were an us and we were walking around a tiny coastal town fully in love—this would be normal. Tiny. Insignificant. He’d do that, twine our fingers and kiss the knuckle of my ring finger just because.
Or he’d do it when we’re wandering out of the Springbrook Hills Diner on a lazy Sunday after having breakfast with his parents.
Or when we’re standing on the sidelines at our kid’s peewee game, my fingers cold in the fall air. He’d take them between his hands, puffing warm air over them while keeping his eyes on the field.
Stop, Zoe. Stop with the girlish daydreams. Daydreams get you nowhere. Daydreams and living with your head in the clouds gets you in positions where you question every choice you’ve ever made.
The last time I let myself fall into stupid daydreams and ignore danger signs and red flags, I had to call up Zander to save me.
I don’t live in daydreams anymore. I live in reality. Sound, safe, predictable reality where I have already thought of all of the outcomes of any given decision I make in order to avoid being hurt.
Except for last week when you remembered just how fucked your life is because you’ve been living too safe.
I shake my head, trying to forget that, to live in pretend.
A few minutes later, I feel it.
One, two, three squeezes of Zee’s callused hand on mine.
I tip my chin to look at him and he’s smiling at me.
“Want ice cream?” Zee says, eyes moving to a sign that says, Marjorie’s Old-Fashioned Ice Cream.
“It’s not even 11,” I say, looking at my watch, the watch I am thankful I wore since Zander has my phone.
“And?”
“That’s not a normal time to eat ice cream.” Our steps slow as we approach the store, all the lights on.
“Looks like they open at 10:30.”
“We just had breakfast,” I argue, even though I’m already eyeing the case through the large glass windows.
“You want ice cream,” he says, shaking his head and leading me toward the door. I slow my steps, feeling the need to argue.
I don’t know why.
I always want ice cream.
“I didn’t even answer.”
“You always want ice cream, Zoe. Even in the dead of winter.” I don’t respond, instead furrowing my brows. “Your birthday’s in February, and every year you’d force all of us to eat a freaking ice cream cake, ten-degree weather be damned.”
He’s not wrong.
I did do that for ten years straight.
“I don’t do that anymore,” I say, giving him a look.
“Why, because someone told you it was a pain and that it was too cold for ice cream?” He asks it as a joke but then stops right outside the building.
“I was kidding, you know,” he says, his voice turning to concern.
I don’t respond.
I don’t know why, to be honest.
Why is this happening?
I know how to change the subject.
I know how to bend the truth.
I know how to phrase things to protect hurt feelings.
I could have just laughed and moved on, but . . .
“Fuck. I was dead-on, wasn’t I?”
Again, I don’t respond.
I don’t tell him that I overheard my mom on the phone with my aunt one year, sighing that it was a pain to go three towns over to get an ice cream cake in February.
He moves, pinning me to the wall right before the ice cream shop. He’s looking down, and his eyes are fierce before his hand moves, grabbing my chin and tipping it up.
“No more of that. No more changing shit to make life easy for other people.
“No more doing things that don’t bring you immense, all-consuming joy, Zoe. Not while I’m here.” I lick my lips, unsure of how to answer.
But I don’t have to overthink it for long because, in a moment, his head is dipping down, and Zee’s lips are on mine once again.