“Who are you?” the voice says, the curtains moving to show a big man I’ve never seen before.
Holy fuck, could this get worse?
“My name’s Zoe?” I say, panic taking over. “I’m so sorry. I’m looking for Zander. I—”
“Zander?”
“Yes! Is he there?” I ask as if maybe he’s in another room and this guy is visiting.
“No, he lives next door.” I can now see the man’s head as it tips to the left at a different fucking apartment.
Oh my god.
“Oh my god. I’m so, so sorry.”
“You’re standing in his spot, though.” I stare at him, confused.
“What?”
“His parking spot. All of them are assigned. That’s Zander’s. The kid’s not home.”
Not home.
Oh my god.
His car isn’t here.
Why wouldn’t I have looked for his car first?
I am not cut out for this life of spontaneity and romance.
“I’m so sorry. Please. Uh . . . go back to sleep,” I say with an uneasy smile, backing up with my eyes on Zander's blacked-out apartment.
He’s not home.
Where the hell is he, then?
At eleven at night after he’s been away for a week?
Where could he be?
But I guess it doesn’t matter, does it? Because he’s not here.
So I get in my Jeep and head back to my childhood home, where I’ll wonder if I fucked it all up by telling him I needed time and space.
FIFTY
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR
-ZOE-
I’m staring at the clock, watching it, waiting for it, prepared to feel wrecked when I don’t feel that squeeze of my hand at midnight.
I think that’s when I’ll start my cry.
That’s when I’ll give into the urge, let the tears and disappointment and frustration come once and for all.
When midnight hits and I’m not with him.
I don’t get the chance to mourn, though.
Because as I watch the seconds tick to the new day, the moment it hits 12:00, there’s a clink at my window.
I stare there, confused.
Then again, a clink.
It’s all so familiar.
Too familiar.
I wonder if maybe I’m already deep into my crying coma and I’m hallucinating or dreaming, but then I stub my toe as I stand and take the two steps to my window and realize I wouldn’t be able to feel that if it were a hallucination, right?
I think that’s how that works, at least.
But then I wonder if maybe I am having a hallucination.
Just a very, very vivid one.
Because down in the grass outside my house is Zander Davidson.
Another tiny click, and I realize what’s happening.
For the second time in a week, Zander is throwing rocks at my window.
I open it, the creaks filling my quiet room and the cold rushing in, but none of that matters.
“What are you doing here?”
“Coming to get you,” he shouts up in a hushed voice.
“What?”
“Jesus, Zoe, let’s not do this again. Come downstairs.”
“Zander—”
“Please, pip.” I can see in the light from my parents’ front porch that his eyes are soft, kind.
Pleading.
And really, how am I supposed to say no to that?
To him?
So I sigh, throwing a jacket on top of my ugly ass pajamas (no one mopes around in sexy silk) and padding down the stairs.
My dad is sitting at the kitchen island, just a single light on.
“Daddy?” I say, pausing.
He sighs, looking at me.
“He outside?” he says, his voice gruff. I blink at him. “Zee. Is he outside?”
I stare before answering.
“I, uh . . . yeah.”
“Good.” My dad stands, his body moving slower than I remember as a kid, back when I would wake in the middle of the night and eat a bowl of cereal with him when he got home from a night shift.
That’s where my habit of waking up in the middle of the night came from—hearing my dad come home, needing to check on him.
Just like the midnights of my childhood vacations where Zee and I would talk about random shit, those are some of my favorite core memories as a kid.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t make the kid stay outside. Bring him in. Your mother sleeps like the dead. I’ll go up, give you two some privacy.”
I’m so lost, but even more so when he pulls me into his arms.
“I always wanted the best for you, Zo. If that means marketing in the city, I’ll be overjoyed. If that means being a stay-at-home mom, would love that for you. If it means something else, I’m sorry if I never told you, Zoe, baby, but I would be researching color combinations just so I had something to talk to you about. I never made that clear, and that’s on me.”
My body freezes.
“You’re my girl. My only girl, my entire world. But honey, that does not mean—” He moves, pushing my shoulders back and bending just a bit until we’re face-to-face. “That does not mean that your mother and I are supposed to be your whole world. You’re supposed to live your life for you, Zoe.”
“Daddy—”
“I’d say we can talk about this in the morning, but you know me well enough to know I do not like this shit, heart to hearts and life confessions. Just know that you have that boy's full heart, and he has my permission. Just know that never—and I mean never, Zoe—would you do a single thing that I wouldn’t be proud of. You could start finger painting and not sell a single fucking one and I’d brag about you till I was blue in the face. I’d buy every single one under aliases just so you’d feel good and keep going. And I am so fucking sorry I never made that clear.”
My tongue comes out to lick my lips, and my eyes start to water.
Where is this coming from?
Why is he saying all of this now?
I refuse to give myself the answer I think I already know.
“No. No tears. Could never handle that, my baby girl crying, and that’s not changing any time soon. Now go—go let that boy in, probably freezing his goddamn balls off in the fuckin’ cold.”
He’s not wrong.
The low is something like twenty-seven degrees tonight.
“Just hear him out, okay?” my dad says before squeezing my shoulder and turning around.
I watch him pad to the stairs, frozen in place, before I call his name softly.
“Daddy?” I say, feeling like I’m ten again and he’s going upstairs after a long shift. He stops, turns, and looks at me.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I love you,” I say, my voice cracking as I give him a tight smile.
He nods the way he always did when I was a kid, and right as he turns back around, I see the wet in his eyes.
“Love you to the moon and Saturn, Zoe.”
And then he’s gone.
My hands are shaking as I walk to the front door, unlocking and opening it.
And there he stands, hands in his pockets, breath coming out in white clouds.
“Hey,” I say, my voice low.