A lifetime of Zoe trying to convince people of things.
A lifetime of Zoe thinking she doesn’t meet those expectations she’s set for herself naturally, that she needs to change to fit some mold.
“Says who?” She sighs, clearly annoyed, and snaps out her answer.
“As soon as I started straightening my hair, my parents stopped bugging me about my plans for the future. People started taking me seriously. Men started asking me out.”
“Even more reason to wear it naturally,” I say under my breath.
Her hand moves out and slaps me, but there’s a smile there.
“Shut up.”
“You know that could have just been you—your confidence, your own vision of yourself. Chances are, you thought changing your hair changed something about you, and people felt that. Not the other way around.”
She stays quiet with my words, playing with the brim of the hat while she thinks.
I let her.
And then she does what I hoped.
She moves her hand to her hair, gathering it and pulling it through the hole in the back before settling it on her head.
“How do I look?” she asks with a soft smile, tipping her head my way, her shoulder lifting as she does.
Shy, but beautiful.
“Fucking gorgeous,” I say, a pang of something I won’t look at too closely hitting me in my chest at seeing her in my hat, her face split with a smile.
She rolls her eyes, her hand moving to crank the music again before she goes back to sitting in the passenger seat, watching the scenery change.
I reach out, grab her hand, and place it on my thigh, my thumb brushing over her soft skin as I drive one-handed.
“You sit with me, your hair’s wild, okay?” I feel her gaze burning on me. She’s waiting for me to look at her so she can try and read my face, but I don’t.
I give her this, this moment to think about what I’m saying.
“When we’re together, you’re not the version of you you made for other people. You’re the version of you who danced crazy in my living room, the one who got grounded for telling me to fuck off when I was bugging you. You’re that Zoe when you’re with me, okay?”
Silence.
It lasts through the end of the song that’s playing, but my thumb continues the brush over the back of her hand, and as I do, I wonder if I went too far.
Too obvious.
Where we are is precarious, close both to paradise and utter ruin.
But then she speaks.
“Okay, Zee.”
And with those two works, I feel like I won something big.
I might have won the old Zoe back, too.
TWENTY-SIX
GIRL AT HOME
-ZANDER-
Zoe’s in the shower at the little hotel I found in Georgia while I lie in the bed, waiting for our takeout to arrive, thinking about that night.
This isn’t new—I think about that night often.
The look on her face.
The fear in my gut.
The words she said.
The way I figured that was my sign to move on.
And how she was always just a little bit different after, and I could only guess why.
Because the night Zoe changed was the only time I took a shot at her, and I’ve regretted it for almost fifteen years.
One summer night when Zoe was 19 and I was 23.
“Zander,” the voice says when I answer my phone.
I know who it is, the contact giving me her name, but even if I didn’t, even if the number were blocked, I’d know who it was based on that voice alone.
“Zoe?” I ask, my gut dropping. “What’s up?”
Her breath sounds shaky when she speaks again.
“Can you . . . uh, can you pick me up?”
Not shaky—scared. Or hurt. Or both, maybe.
“Zoe, what is going on?”
“Can you pick me up, Zander?” The words are a bit firmer but still shake. “If not, I—”
“I’ll get you, babe, but where are you? Are you okay?”
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks, the words a whisper.
“I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think he’d try.”
Acid burns.
He.
He’d try.
Try what?
Who?
Who made her sound this scared?
“Zoe, are you okay?” I ask, standing from where I was sitting on the couch in the apartment Tony and I rent, moving to grab my keys and wallet.
“I’m not hurt,” she says, her voice cracking. “Maybe this was—”
“Where are you?”
I don’t miss how she doesn’t say she’s okay, just that she’s not hurt.
Fuck fuck fuck.
“Where are you, baby?” I repeat, my voice lower, calmer, as I walk toward my truck.
We can’t both be freaking out.
One of us needs to be calm.
And with that hint of calm control, she relaxes just a bit, something I can feel even through the phone line as she gives me her location. I slam the car door, start my truck, and begin to drive in her direction.
“On my way,” I say, putting her on speaker and placing the phone in the cupholder.
“Okay, I’ll just—”
“You’ll stay on the line, Zo. You’re not going anywhere.”
The way she sounds, I need to keep her on the damn line.
“You don’t have—”
“I do and I will. Your voice? Zoe, it’s shaking. You’ve got me worried. I’m not letting you go until I see your face.” The panic of that truth, of the conclusions my mind is making, has my own stomach churning.
“Zander—”
“Stay on the line or I’m calling your father,” I threaten.
Something tells me . . .
“Please don’t.” Her voice is low and scared.
Instantly, I regret threatening her like that.
“Fuck, Zoe, I—”
“Please, Zander. You’re the only person I wanted to call. Please. I just . . . I don’t need them all to know.” I only wait for a beat to pass before I answer.
“That’s fine, pip. No worries. I’m on my way. Stay on the line, okay?”
“Okay, Zee,” she says, and the way her voice shakes has my foot hitting the gas heavier.
When I get to her, Zoe is standing outside an apartment complex, her arms wrapped around herself, and I have an absolutely terrible feeling about all of this.
It’s not right.
Something happened.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen sweet, carefree Zoe like this: wrapped into herself, fear on her face, voice shaking.
I park at the curb, and she tries to get in my car instantly, but instead, I kill the engine, hop out, and walk out to her.
“What’s going on, Zoe?”
“Zander, I—”
“What’s going on? What’s got you shaken up?” There’s no real reason for her to be on this side of town.
None of this is adding up to anything even slightly good.
My entire life, I’ve felt responsible for Zoe Thomas, for keeping my sister’s best friend safe, keeping her whole and happy. The girl who would come downstairs at two in the morning and chat with me about everything and anything. The girl who would sneak me all of her burnt marshmallows because she knew I liked them that way and my mom would limit us to three each.