Chapter Eight

Zoe

T he mirror stares at me with scrutinizing eyes.

Usually, I make a point to ignore it, just as I disregard opinions that say nothing about me. Today, it's emboldened by whispered agreements in the back of my skull, dodging my appearance, diving straight to something beyond the blue sleeveless jumpsuit with an elegant turtleneck that exposes my shoulders before falling in wide-legged pants.

The knock on the front door startles me as I'm applying a final layer of dusty pink lipstick, but I take my time combing my french tips through the straightened strands before my all-white toenails trudge to the rising sound.

A whiff of air comes bearing sun and sea before the door peeks open. I don't linger, knowing he'll follow—which is confirmed by quiet tap of his steady footsteps behind mine.

When I'm safely standing in the middle of my rug, a hideous family heirloom that unquestionably doesn't belong with the minimalist decor, I spin.

Miles's loafer-clad feet kiss the edges of the handmade Persian ugliness, carefully avoiding the pool of red with a diamond-shaped dark-blue elaborate work surrounded by a puzzle of other intricate patterns.

He remains statuesque—still, silent, stunning—as my gaze rises from his shoes to the slacks that cling to the muscled legs that earn him a living, to the white designer polo shirt, buttons undone low enough to showcase golden skin and sleeves folded to expose corded forearms.

"You look…" He trails off, eyes on my lips. I wonder if I smudged some lipstick. His throat bobs once, twice—I swear I see the words rolling up and down until he finally spits them out. "Good. You look good," Miles says, hoarse and pained, like the words have claws and scratch his throat raw.

The roughness of the rug digs into my bare feet, shooing me to the tile, where the chill takes root, snuffing all traces of fire from my recent short-circuit.

"I don't need—or want—your validation. Save your compliments for when we're in public," I remind us. "And try to be a little more convincing."

We're here for one reason. A temporary fa?ade.

In no time, it'll end. We'll go back to tolerating each other from a safer distance. The earth can tilt back to its regular balance—each of us at opposite ends.

His brow creases as he plows a hand into his meticulously combed straight strands of ash brown hair. I'm gone before he contests, not interested in whatever he wants to say.

I return five inches taller, the click of my heels pacing the pulsing tension as we pile into the shiny silver European something Miles owns. Determined to ignore him, I fix my gaze on the tinted window. Miles fidgets the entire short drive. I'm not particularly elated to spend my night with him, either—but this is his idea. The least he can do is pretend a dinner in hell with the devil himself wouldn't be more appealing than a dinner with me.

Although he clears his throat a couple times, he remains quiet. So, I do too.

A grinning man in his sixties with an Italian accent, almost one head shorter than Miles, receives us with a loud welcome in one of the rare family-owned businesses that survive the gentrification of Boston. The owner seems to know Miles, the familiarity in their interactions evidence of their friendship.

The Italian doesn't shy away from physical contact, cupping my cheeks to greet me with two kisses. I stare at him, a little stunned, and he stares back with a look that feels uncannily like he's trying to see right through me—and determine whether I'm worthy of his precious boy.

"You have cunning eyes." He's cryptic. "But be careful. Sometimes, it is the traps our own minds set for us that bring us down."

"Lucas is the owner." Miles intervenes, an amused tilt to his lips. Lucas arches a bushy eyebrow that prompts my fake-lover to add, "And a friend!"

Although the torture devices on my feet give me some additional height, my forehead barely reaches his chin, so I have to tip my head to assess him, wondering if this is some ambush for his personal amusement.

"I come here way more often than any professional athlete should," he explains when all I do is use my cunning eyes to keep staring.

"Still not often enough." Our host tsks. "Come, let's get you to your table."

He leads us through a maze of tables that defies the notion of space, winding from one side to the other like he could walk with his eyes closed, chased by the delectable smell that intensifies with every step.

Our table sits clad in a traditional red-and-white checked tablecloth in a secluded corner, undoubtedly designed to provide us a thin veil of privacy. Behind it, I breathe easier as Miles, the picture-perfect boyfriend, pulls my chair for me.

Lucas leaves us with the menus.

Like he doesn't want to drag this longer than strictly necessary, a sentiment I suppose I appreciate, Miles dives straight into perusing his options.

"I'm afraid I can't make one recommendation. Everything here is to die for." He shoots me a fleeting apologetic look over the pamphlet.

"Then you could've pointed a finger and picked at random," I say, opening my own menu. The smell of fresh bread has awakened my growling stomach, and I salivate as my finger traces the options. "Maybe I'll just try them all."

"I'm sure that could be arranged." Miles is pensive, working the logistics of the order in his head. "Knowing Lucas, he'd love you for that. Or hate you. Might go either way, honestly."

As though conjured by name, Lucas returns with a bottle of white wine and a question. My answer is a spicy shrimp Fra Diavolo while Miles opts for the healthier shrimp-and-quinoa stuffed peppers.

As we await our food, I busy myself examining the small space, cozy but not claustrophobic. The walls are naked except for four paintings of stunning landscapes conjured from a dream .

A willow leaning over a river, its branches falling on the riverside like a cascade of greens, blues and yellows. The other three paintings are much too far away for me to catch the details, but the common denominator is undeniable. Every piece of art is an anthem to the homelands of their ancestors.

The tables are distributed across the room in an arbitrary fashion. The beige hue of the walls, combined with the golden lighting dripping from the chandeliers, bathes the room with an intimate aura.

"I've been meaning to apologize," Miles says then. "For the other night."

I lean back in my chair, watching as he fiddles with the white linen napkin, his knee rippling the tablecloth as it bounces under the table. "Apologize, then."

"I'm sorry. I respect you, and I respect your job and… All that—it wasn't about you. It was all me, and it was out of line. I was out of line. I'm sorry."

That night, in my famished fury-haze, I'd made the decision to not broach the subject again and let him squirm in my silence, anticipating when my petty reciprocation might come. As he apologizes unprompted, like a mature person, I'm forced to acknowledge his apology—and let it go, like the adult woman I am.

We eat to a symphony of clattering cutlery and bursts of laughter and Italian music, mouths occupied with chewing and tasting, rather than speaking and arguing.

"So…" Miles smiles, and I find I missed that smile, I think. His face isn't complete without it. It's strange, and that weirds me out. "Why journalism?"

My teeth falter mid-bite .

It didn't occur to me that we would actually do this—dive deeper than trivial facts and random favorites, though I suppose it makes sense. It's only wise to know more than the bare minimum about each other—for the sake of this farce.

Which is why I answer.

"I suppose I always had a penchant to ask questions. ‘Too curious for my own good', my grandpa says."

I smile, hearing the fondness in his accent so vividly he might as well be eating pasta with us.

My heart tightens with love and the reminder of all the ways I will hurt him if my lies unravel.

On the other hand, my other dear grandfather. If I'd thought he'd be mad with my choices, I'd been wrong. He was only utterly disappointed, as he had told me. Repeatedly.

In his disappointment, I found comfort—the reliable kind that comes from familiarity.

I never disappoint in disappointing.

"I'm sorry."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't mean to upset you. I didn't know it was a sensitive subj—"

Unwilling to show weakness, I don't let him finish. "You did not upset me."

"You spaced out. And your face did this thing it does when you get upset."

"My face didn't do a thing ," I spit. My face has learned to say only the things I allow. "Anyways, what did you study?"

Miles sinks his fingers through stubborn strands that slowly escape the confines of whatever product he applied. "I'm not sure I want to tell you." I swirl the liquid in my glass until he relents. "Promise you won't mock me. "

"Promise." Across the table, he stretches his finger. I lock my pinkie in his.

"History. Philosophy minor," he blurts like the words would refuse to come out if he'd said them at a normal pace. Then, he promptly shovels shrimp inside his mouth.

My cheeks twitch and I crack my first laugh of the evening.

"Hey, you promised." He points the fork in my direction. "Pinkie-promised!"

"I promised I wouldn't mock you." I hold my hands up, still snickering. "Never said anything about laughing."

"I don't understand what's so funny." He lays down his fork. Miles leans back, his legs brush mine as he spreads them under the tablecloth. I forget it's my turn to answer, so he takes my silence as an opening. "I read too many books when I was young. When you're an only child and your mother is a librarian that tends to happen."

"I read books, too, and I didn't pursue a thousand-year-old career, Blackstein." I arch a brow at him.

"Well, I studied philosophy, and I really enjoyed it."

It's a first, hearing him so defensive.

I find it oddly delightful.

"I bet you did, love," I drawl, not missing the sheepishness painting the tips of his ears the color of the tablecloth.

"So how do you put your education to practice? Do you stand in front of a mirror and wonder about all those philosophical questions? Like, can someone so gorgeous be real?"

I'm not a funny person; it's a fact that's never bothered me. I was raised to be great and excel in my pursuits—not to be the clown on duty. But right now, I really wish I were the girl with quirky jokes .

As it is, all my jokes are bad, and I crack them anyway. Because, maybe it's the wine, but I finally realize I've been playing the game wrong all along.

I should've been resorting to his tactics. I should've been teasing him all along.

"Is physical activity a coping mechanism for you?"

His brow dents.

"When you finish, do you conclude ‘I stink , therefore I am'?"

"Zoe…" I don't hear him say my name because I snort uncharacteristically.

My hand instinctively covers my mouth. I lift it, as if to say I'm done. "I'm trying to stop."

Miles runs a hand through the fading flush of his high cheekbones, anticipating I'm not, in fact, done.

"I just Kant ." I crack up as soon as I deliver the awful punchline.

"That is such a lame joke."

But he's laughing too, the lines of his face dancing with indentations of amusement.

For a moment, I forget who we are, and we become just two people: a guy and a girl on a date.

Wine and food and fun.

"Do you think life is real, though? Maybe this is all some collective weird dream." I sweep the mist from the corners of my eyes with my knuckles and contemplate. My eyes widen like I hit the jackpot, and I lean forward on the table. "Or some crazy torture experiment, like The Good Place ! Us on a date, loosely getting along and not strangling each other sure sounds like a scenario that could only happen in a dream. And your presence in my life fits the criteria for elaborate torture. "

"I will pretend I didn't hear you for the sake of this very fine date. It's the nicest I've had in a very long time."

My first instinct is to read his words as sarcasm and bite back. But he observes me in the oddest way, making me feel as though he's teasing me with the truth.

"That's sad," I say. But I don't dwell—not when I just found fascinating topics to discuss. "What does a philosopher do, anyway? Just… think? We're all philosophers, then."

I bring my glass to my mouth, a prudent small sip to not exacerbate the strange alcohol flutters in my stomach.

For a small eternity he catalogs my features, searching, hoping for something he's unsure will ever come.

We're far enough away from others that we don't feel the brush of air each time someone arrives or leaves, but I resist the urge to fan my cheeks.

He tilts his head, the tip of his finger tracing the white and red squares on the table. "I guess, to some extent, we are. I suppose, at some point, we all wonder about the big questions of life."

"Isn't it kinda depressing, though? Some may say pointless."

"And you?" His finger halts, and he reaches for his glass. "What do you think?"

Something about that simple question sounds tricky, like a careful trap disguised in plain sight.

With the support of alcohol, I choose sincerity.

"I think it's either very foolish." I roll the stem between my fingers. "Or very brave. Spending your life trapped in your head, dedicating your whole existence to a search for answers to unanswerable questions. Sounds like a nightmare to me."

Usually, I'm able to ignore the fact that I don't— can't —know everything. I can ignore it for long enough that I can function and feel safe, feel the bite of the reins of control in my hands.

"Like, how do you make peace with the fact you will never have all the answers? I can barely handle not knowing the little things, let alone consciously dedicating my entire life to searching for something I know I'll never find."

"Someone who needs to know everything," he hums. "So you're a little bit of a control freak."

Understatement of the century.

"Runs in the family," I state matter-of-factly, self-deprecation evident.

"And a journalist. You trade in facts. Not possibilities and what ifs ."

I tilt my head and tip my glass in toast. "Ah! Some of my peers would disagree."

"It does sound like a big enemy of someone who thrives under the false guise of control." He watches me like I'm a puzzle. He's putting me together—one piece down, hundreds to go.

But one piece is enough to start.

I shift in my seat. Suddenly, I feel bare. Like he can see through me. Worse, like he can see me.

"Knowing brings you a sense of safety because it gives you a false semblance of control. Control is an illusion, though. One that comes with crushing responsibility. With the realization that we're never in complete control, comes fear—but also a life-changing sense of freedom."

"Sounds terrifying," I admit, the alcohol loosening my tongue.

"But also liberating."

"So you're just okay with not knowing? "

He pins me with meaningful gray eyes, and I ponder whether the wine is writing movies in my head. "I'm still learning."

By the time we finish, my stomach aches a little from how full it is and how hard I laughed.

Conversation stalled only at the occasional interruption, as fans asked to meet Miles or for a picture. I watched his signature smile, dripping with charm and approachability, as he acceded to each request.

Each time Miles introduced me as his girlfriend, I stamped on a smile, I stamped on a smile, thankful I was not the primary target of their interest. Fame never appealed to me. I can't imagine walking down the street, stared at and scrutinized like an attraction.

And Miles does it all with never-aching dimples.

Before we say our goodbyes to Lucas, Miles pays—I let him—and we leave with the promise we'll be back soon.

The dark of the night has long erased the pink sunset from the sky, and it's colder—cold enough that I shiver.

Quickly, I'm swallowed under a jacket that reaches mid-thigh, its fresh scent erasing all traces of chill. I cross my arms, clinging to its lapels, opening my mouth to thank him.

But Miles is swallowed, too—in a hug.

The girl that targeted my fake-boyfriend finally lets go, beaming like an old friend.

"Oh. Almost didn't recognize you." Miles confirms they know each other. I can't tell if that brings me relief. "Did something to your hair?"

Her manicured hands shoot to the dark bob of neat curls, fluffing them."Yeah. You like?"

"Sure." He smiles .

The wind picks up, rendering his coat useless. Ice shards permeate my veins so I nudge my way under his arm, which snakes around me and pulls me closer still.

Miles's gaze falls to me, the smile flickering with underlying meanings that I don't understand.

He doesn't look away from me as he makes introductions.

"This is Zoe, my girlfriend."

Lucy tells me her name with a smile, though it never reaches her blue eyes that have an edge I can't describe nor decipher under the streetlight.

"You're a lucky girl," she says, stuffing her fists in the pockets of her blue puffer-jacket.

"I am." I nod, and his muscles flex around me.

Miles smiles, shakes his head like he is the lucky one.

"We have to get home. Early morning, tomorrow—you know."

She knows? Knows what ?

Who is she?

The heavenly food no longer sits well on my stomach. In fact, it jumps, jives, pirouettes with the wine.

I have to get away.

Nausea jumbles my senses. I bury my face in his chest, breathing deep like he's the antidote to my sickness rather than the very cause.

I must have hit my recommended daily dose of Miles. And this sudden indisposition is the effect.

"I'll see you around," he says, making me draw back disconcertingly fast.

"Of course." Lucy nods once, reverently.

She looks back as she walks away, waving with a smile that Miles returns .

As soon as she steps out of sight, I unwind myself from him like he burned me and I stomp away.

I don't look back.

I don't smile.