following it before I’m being shifted and can suddenly smell Zoe’s lotion. I moan at the softness of her skin and nuzzle a little closer, and Zoe sucks in a breath and then the world tilts.
“Seriously?” she says, but my only response is a hum when dainty nails start pulling through the back of my hair.
“What’s that sound? It’s so fucking loud.”
“My heartbeat,” she says quietly. “You decided you needed to lay on me.”
“But I don’t like you.”
“I know.”
We stay quiet for a while, and I almost drift off under the sensation of her nails in my hair, the lullaby of her heartbeat. But my mind is reminding me that tonight may be the only time she’d ever dare to answer my questions, and I need to know the truth.
“Zoe?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Who’d you kill?” I ask, and suddenly I’m a lot warmer as arms and legs wrap around me. What the hell am I doing laying on her anyway?
Because I know I’m on my couch, but Zoe is between me and the black leather. I can feel the hem of her V-neck shirt against my cheek, the button on her jeans scraping my abs. My hips are centered between her thighs, my right arm under her back and my left hand settled on the curve of her waist. But there’s something else between us, and it’s the reason she hates me.
That’s what she said. That she hated me.
“Are you going to remember any of this tomorrow?” she says, and I faintly shrug.
“Probably not.”
“Okay,” she breathes. “When I was sixteen, I…I got pregnant.”
I lift my head and look at Zoe, and she holds my gaze.
“Yeah,” she says, and I lay my head back down on her chest because it’s too heavy not to.
“Abortion?” I ask, even though I already know the answer, and I feel her nod. “Why’d you do it?”
“I thought I loved him,” she says, and I have no idea what that means. How one equals the other. But she doesn’t seem like she’s going to elaborate so I just shake my head.
“No wonder you’re crazy.”
She lightly laughs. “Five different therapists have told me how because I refuse to forgive myself, or him, that I will continue to harm those around me because that’s how I choose to punish myself. By driving everyone away.”
I take a deep breath, dizzy and drunk and so confused about what’s happening. Because she just blurted out—if I’m right about what she’s implying—the most fucked up thing I can imagine, like we’re close or something. Like she trusts me. But we don’t talk like this because she doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her either.
Granted, there have been times when I thought I could. Times when I wondered if there could be more. A certain look she’d give me when no one was looking, and for a fleeting moment, the other night when it felt like we were making love instead of just having sex.
But she always makes me push the thought away when she turns on me, yelling about this or being irrational about that.
Like how she only informed me about being pregnant so she could drop the bomb that she wasn’t going to stay that way.
But once again, here I am. Because instead of cutting myself loose, I keep letting her back in, giving her another chance. Curiosity or masochism, I don’t know what it is. But it sure as fuck isn’t healthy. She’s like cancer that I keep volunteering for.
“What happens when they keep coming back for more punishment?” I ask, and she takes a deep breath, her palm cupping my cheek as I listen to her heartbeat speed up.
“That’s what scares me the most about you.”
“You’re not scared of anything. Least of all me.”
“I am,” she whispers. “I’m broken, Luca, and I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want. I will never be able to trust you, or love you—”
“You won’t even try.”
My mind stumbles at what I just said, because I don’t know where that even came from. Christ, I need more therapy than she does if I’m actually trying to convince her to stick around.
“I
“Seriously?” she says, but my only response is a hum when dainty nails start pulling through the back of my hair.
“What’s that sound? It’s so fucking loud.”
“My heartbeat,” she says quietly. “You decided you needed to lay on me.”
“But I don’t like you.”
“I know.”
We stay quiet for a while, and I almost drift off under the sensation of her nails in my hair, the lullaby of her heartbeat. But my mind is reminding me that tonight may be the only time she’d ever dare to answer my questions, and I need to know the truth.
“Zoe?”
“Mm-hmm?”
“Who’d you kill?” I ask, and suddenly I’m a lot warmer as arms and legs wrap around me. What the hell am I doing laying on her anyway?
Because I know I’m on my couch, but Zoe is between me and the black leather. I can feel the hem of her V-neck shirt against my cheek, the button on her jeans scraping my abs. My hips are centered between her thighs, my right arm under her back and my left hand settled on the curve of her waist. But there’s something else between us, and it’s the reason she hates me.
That’s what she said. That she hated me.
“Are you going to remember any of this tomorrow?” she says, and I faintly shrug.
“Probably not.”
“Okay,” she breathes. “When I was sixteen, I…I got pregnant.”
I lift my head and look at Zoe, and she holds my gaze.
“Yeah,” she says, and I lay my head back down on her chest because it’s too heavy not to.
“Abortion?” I ask, even though I already know the answer, and I feel her nod. “Why’d you do it?”
“I thought I loved him,” she says, and I have no idea what that means. How one equals the other. But she doesn’t seem like she’s going to elaborate so I just shake my head.
“No wonder you’re crazy.”
She lightly laughs. “Five different therapists have told me how because I refuse to forgive myself, or him, that I will continue to harm those around me because that’s how I choose to punish myself. By driving everyone away.”
I take a deep breath, dizzy and drunk and so confused about what’s happening. Because she just blurted out—if I’m right about what she’s implying—the most fucked up thing I can imagine, like we’re close or something. Like she trusts me. But we don’t talk like this because she doesn’t trust me, and I don’t trust her either.
Granted, there have been times when I thought I could. Times when I wondered if there could be more. A certain look she’d give me when no one was looking, and for a fleeting moment, the other night when it felt like we were making love instead of just having sex.
But she always makes me push the thought away when she turns on me, yelling about this or being irrational about that.
Like how she only informed me about being pregnant so she could drop the bomb that she wasn’t going to stay that way.
But once again, here I am. Because instead of cutting myself loose, I keep letting her back in, giving her another chance. Curiosity or masochism, I don’t know what it is. But it sure as fuck isn’t healthy. She’s like cancer that I keep volunteering for.
“What happens when they keep coming back for more punishment?” I ask, and she takes a deep breath, her palm cupping my cheek as I listen to her heartbeat speed up.
“That’s what scares me the most about you.”
“You’re not scared of anything. Least of all me.”
“I am,” she whispers. “I’m broken, Luca, and I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want. I will never be able to trust you, or love you—”
“You won’t even try.”
My mind stumbles at what I just said, because I don’t know where that even came from. Christ, I need more therapy than she does if I’m actually trying to convince her to stick around.
“I
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