Chapter 5 | Zoey

Chapter 5

Zoey

I watch my sister pace the length of our living room as I pull my hair back into a ponytail. Andrew practically ran out the door after Liz’s interruption, so I’m well within her five-minute deadline. From this vantage point, with worry lines etched onto her face, Liz looks like Dad, which is not something that happens often given how much she takes after her mother. I should go to her, but there’s something off about Liz. The first thing being that she’s in my house. Sister or not, Liz hasn’t been in this house in a year. The second thing is that, sure, this situation is awkward, but does it really warrant pacing? I mean, it’s not like she caught us in the middle of the act or even saw anything uncouth. We were completely covered.

I clear my throat and step fully into the room. “Here I am as you demanded.”

Liz stops midstep and turns to me. She’s pale and not wearing any makeup. Her hair is in a messy bun. And her eyes, usually the same vibrant hazel as mine, are dark, and wide, and frantic. I swallow the rest of the sass I intended to give her. There might be more than a dozen years between us, years that can feel like an uncrossable chasm full of triggers and land mines and other people’s opinions, but I know my sister. I spent a lifetime studying her, sometimes wanting to be her and sometimes wishing she’d walk away and leave me be. Something is wrong. Something more than the shock of finding me in bed with my ex-boyfriend.

Her eyes find mine, and when she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. “You got back together with him?”

I flinch at the question, at the implication that I have any choice in the status of my relationship with Andrew. As if I’m the one who is keeping us apart. I wish I could say yes. Yes, I took back my cheating boyfriend because he is repentant and he loves me. Despite the tone of her inquiry, Liz wouldn’t judge me for that choice. She of all people might be the only one who could possibly understand why I would go back to Andrew. She’s been here. Not exactly here, no, but close enough. Liz and Julian were on-again, off-again for so long until they tied the knot. And every time he came back, she accepted him. I want to be able to say yes, but I’m not ready to follow through on that lie, to deal with the emotional torture it would bring.

I shake my head. “We’re not back together.”

“Jesus.” Liz rubs her temple. “How long has this been going on?”

My mind goes back to the night a month ago when it all started. Becca dragged me to a party, declaring that there was no way I was hiding out all summer. Andrew and Claire would not win. So I went to the party, and in true friend fashion, they handed me from person to person until the party started to wind down and those left were paired off.

Andrew found me sitting by the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the cool water. He sat down too close for our lack of relationship. Andrew knocked his shoulder into mine and then leaned down and kissed the bare skin there. His smile was lazy but real. This was the boy I loved, not the cold stranger he’d been since I found him in bed with one of my best friends weeks earlier. He whispered words of reconciliation and regret, and my heart, still bleeding out, accepted them. My brain knew he didn’t mean them, not really. Maybe he did miss me and wish I didn’t hate him. In the morning light, sober, he wouldn’t feel that way. But my brain stopped being in charge the moment his scent hit my senses. When he brushed my hair behind my ear and cupped my cheek, I let him. And when his lips grazed mine, I leaned in. And when I saw Claire watching us, an awful idea took shape, and I knew, no matter how stupid it was, I was going to go through with it. Because, like Becca said, Claire didn’t get to win.

“How long, Zoey?”

Liz’s voice pulls me back to reality, and I shake off the memory and the pain. I try not to think about that night or any of the nights that led to it. The only way to get through this affair , or whatever the hell it is we’re doing, is to not examine it too closely. Sleeping with Andrew is stupid and risky, but having any part of him is better than being without him. Acid rises in my throat at my own thoughts. Pathetic.

Frustration, pity, and anger war in my veins as a flush creeps up my body. This is none of her business. “Why does it matter?”

Liz opens her mouth as if she’s about to protest but throws her hands up in frustration and sits down in a huff in Dad’s favorite chair. She hugs her knees, her eyes locked on mine. “How can you even look at him?”

I sit down across from her on the couch and clasp my hands in front of me. Because I still love him. The answer comes automatically, as if her question isn’t rhetorical. I don’t know how to be without him. These are such unhealthy answers. Ones I should be sharing with my therapist. But I can’t say those words out loud. I can barely think them without wanting to melt into a puddle of tears on the floor. Because I still love him, but he doesn’t love me. I know that rationally. But when he texts me to come over, when he says my name the way he always has, when his lips touch mine and the world feels right again, the rational part of me falls quiet. The overly emotional, lovesick part claims that if nothing else, I’m winning. If Andrew is sleeping with me, he’s not sleeping with Claire. That is my only rule, and despite what happened this spring, I believe he won’t break it.

“I have to get ready for orientation.” I tear my eyes away from Liz’s gaze. I don’t want to know why she looks frazzled or why I’m almost certain her question wasn’t rhetorical. The reasons might tear apart the fragile belief I still have in first love. That Andrew and I will get through this and find our way back. I know it can happen. The proof is sitting in front of me. Except right now, Liz doesn’t look like proof. She looks like a rebuttal.

Liz blinks, and her face pulls itself back together. Her eyes return to normal size, and the creases in her forehead smooth. She unclasps her hands and fiddles with her phone. If she smiled, she would be the big sister that I know and love. But she doesn’t smile.

“Are you going to tell Dad?” I ask, getting my priorities straight. Dad and I have a good thing going, mutual respect of a father and his almost-adult daughter living together for the summer. Andrew in my bed as opposed to any other guy will most certainly destroy that comfort.

Liz eyes me, as if taking my measure. She seems more herself each second, the shock of my situation with Andrew having worn off. After an extra second, she shakes her head. “No, I’m not going to tell Dad.”