Chapter 8 | Zoey

Chapter 8

Zoey

T he chances that Liz believes I’m out with Becca are dismal. My sister has no poker face. She thinks she does, but every little reaction Liz has is broadcast in her expressions. She knows about Andrew, and she wants to tell someone. Whether it’s half-sister solidarity, Liz’s overcompensation for Cecilia’s rejection, or something else making her keep my secret I can’t be sure. But the window before the truth bursts out of my sister is growing smaller, which is why I stopped at Ardena Café before heading to Andrew’s. If I come home with proof of whereabouts, maybe she’ll think she was wrong or be placated for another day. Because if Liz spills my secret, my dad is sure to lock me down for the summer. Worse yet, he might ship me off to my mother. This wouldn’t be different than most summers, except for the fact that this summer my mother not so subtly informed me that her family—my mom, her husband, and their two kids—was road-tripping to Disney World and that I wasn’t invited. What’s a few more months on top of a few more months when I barely see my mom as it is?

I roll the Ardena Café bag to preserve the freshness and look up at the expanse of Andrew’s house. He and his mother live in one of the mansions in what is called North Ardena. It isn’t actually its own town, only a few uptight old men who didn’t want to be associated with the “riffraff,” as my dad put it when I was old enough to ask about such things. He left out that “riffraff” technically included him and me. Andrew’s house is impressive, if not a little formulaic on the outside, but inside it always feels empty. His dad moved out during freshman year of high school, before we met. His mom got Andrew and the house, but they’ve never been able to fill the space left by Mr. Singer. I’m not even sure they tried.

The house is dark, but that doesn’t mean anything. Andrew’s room is on the far side, and I know his mom is out for the night. My phone buzzes, and I drop the car door handle. If he is canceling on me now, I’m going to use the spare key they keep under the potted plant and smear this alibi pastry all over his bed. Not really, but he would deserve nothing less.

I scan the notification on my phone. Hi, it’s Max. What? My fingers can barely swipe the passcode fast enough. He’s supposed to be out of town for five more days. Why is he texting me? It’s not particularly late at night, but still. Questions swirl through my mind. Did I forget a form? Does he want to talk to me? I should be asking why I’m sweating bullets over those three innocuous words, but not going there.

My phone buzzes again, and I scan the stack of messages.

Back in town early.

Want to train together this week?

Say, tomorrow at the school around 8?

Not exactly worth the jolt that went through my body. And yet... he wants to train with me. What normal human wants to spend their last week of freedom before summer camp training at eight in the morning? I glance back at Andrew’s house. Whatever Max’s intent, nothing in these messages will keep me from walking into that house. I pause, my hand on the door handle again. Do I want a reason not to walk into Andrew’s house?

A knock sounds at the driver’s-side window, and I jump back, reaching for the lock, though I know it’s already locked. Andrew’s laugh sounds outside the car. I glance up to see him smirking as he motions for me to roll down the window.

I do so while glaring at him. He can be such a jackass. “Scaring me half to death isn’t good foreplay.”

“You’re the one lurking in my driveway with your lights off.” He opens my door and offers his hand after I roll up the window and unlock the doors. His hands are cold despite the warm night. Goose bumps rise on my arms. I let myself believe it’s because of his touch alone. He can still do that to me. I remember his hand on my cheek that night by the pool at that awful party. My whole body felt like it would break apart at his touch. I missed it so much. It hasn’t been like that since then, but there’s still something. Will there always be? Is that the aftereffect of loving someone?

“I was reading a text message.”

He doesn’t take the bait. And why would he? Andrew has me, and he knows it. I’m so fucked.

He drops my hand but pulls me against his side, moving his hand to the small of my back as we walk. Like he always did. For the briefest moment, I step back from this night and what I’m about to do and whom I’m about to do it with. I forget my reasons. I forget the ache of losing him. I focus on him. Aside from easy sex, what is Andrew getting out of our arrangement? He made his feelings on our relationship clear before and after his cheating. During our last argument, he told me we weren’t good for each other anymore. That we were holding each other back. Don’t ask me from what because, for me, Bellewood is the definition of living my best life. The next morning, he rescinded all his comments with kisses and sweet words and promises of giving me a lavaliere one day. And I wanted to wear his Greek letters so badly. I wanted that privilege. But two weeks later, I found him in bed with Claire. Since that moment, his actions and words haven’t aligned. When we’re together, he is the boy I love. The second we’re apart, we’re exes through and through. Sometimes I wonder if he would acknowledge my presence beyond a nod of welcome. That situation has not occurred yet, thank god. Anytime we’re at the same place at the same time, we leave together. But beyond that, we aren’t putting on a show. No one would mistake us for friends and definitely not for lovers.

Andrew’s voice pulls me back from my spiraling thoughts. And I’m grateful. If I go too far down, I’m not sure I’ll walk through the door. And if I don’t walk through the door, who will?

“Mom’s out with Gary.” He leads me through his house, as if I don’t remember the way to his bedroom.

I try not to look around. I haven’t been here since Christmas break. If Andrew remembers that, he doesn’t let on. His voice is calm and collected and normal, as if we still do this every day. And we did this so many days. Memories wash over me despite my protests. Dinners and movie nights, double dates with Rob and Claire, hours cuddling and whispering and being in love. No. I push everything away. I cannot do this now. If Andrew sees a hint of weakness, he’ll stop texting. There’s no “I love you” in this arrangement. He’s said it more than once in the moment, but I know better. The first time I say those words is when this ends.

Andrew pushes open the door to his room and fixes me with a sardonic look. “She doesn’t even try to hide the fact that she’s spending the night there anymore.”

I turn my gaze from him. His room has not changed. Literally not at all. The picture of us with all our friends on prom is still on his desk, the one of us from graduation on his nightstand. My face stares back at me from amongst his things, and yet we’ve been home for over a month. There was more than enough time to discard all of this. I did it before I unpacked. But here, our memory remains alive and well. I sit down on the bed and stare at my hands in my lap. My heart thumps a broken beat. Whatever any of this means, I can’t think about it now. Or ever.

“Seriously, Zo, it’s like I left for college, and she forgot how to be a mother.” He hits a few keys on his laptop, and music fills the space. “I told her you were coming over tonight, in case she came home or whatever, and she said, ‘Thank god,’ and told me it was about time I got my head out of my ass.”

I smile, and it’s natural. Ms. Singer loves me. Everyone knows that. And I’m a little glad that she sees her son for what he is. That she knows we’re better together. Maybe this move from the back of the car and motel rooms and other clandestine spots does mean something, considering he told his mom.

A little ball of hope snakes its way into my heart, and I let it stay.

“I knew that would win me a smile.” He crosses the room, lies down on the bed, and then pulls me on top of him. “I miss that smile.”

Damn, he’s good. Andrew knows exactly what to say to keep me coming back. Tonight, though, maybe because I let myself dig into the truth of what we’re doing or because his bedroom offers the comfort of nostalgia, I want to ask the question that trots through my mind every time he rolls out a line: If you feel that way, why did you sleep with my best friend? I’ll never ask it. The answer might kill me. But tonight, I want to grab his shoulders and shake him and scream, Why? Why did you destroy us only to come back to me?

I don’t do this because of course I don’t. I’m not an idiot, and I want to have sex tonight. I toy with the buttons on his shirt and then run my hand across the skin I uncovered. His heart beats the same steady rhythm as always.

“You saw my smile last week.” I keep my eyes from his, instead kissing his neck and removing his shirt.

“Not that one.” He kisses me, long and deep. It’s full of want and possessiveness and something else I can’t place. Something I haven’t felt in the last month from him. “I haven’t seen that one in ages.”

That’s your fault. Another thing I don’t say. Instead, I unclasp his belt and align our bodies. Desire rockets through me. He explores my body in the ways I like because he knows every way I like. We pull and tug at each other’s clothes until there’s little between us. Lust and desire replace love and need. This moment is urgent and fierce and our new normal. This is going to hurt tomorrow, more than any other time because of where we are, because of the softness of his smile, and the three words he whispers as we come together. But tonight, I can’t think of that because tonight, it’s only me and Andrew and the unerring truth that we fit—always.