Chapter Three Zoe #2
The rest of the evening flew by in seconds, but when I returned from brushing my teeth that night, ready for an evening of impossible bliss, I knew that something had changed.
Instead of lying on the bed, he paced the room.
Instead of staying over, he claimed to have suddenly remember an early morning meeting for which he had to prepare.
I awoke the next morning to a text that left me bleeding and broken, an empty, aching cavern located where my heart used to lie.
This won’t work between us. Thank you for some lovely memories. Hopefully, one day, we can still be friends.
I guess he didn’t like the cufflinks.
The doorbell rouses me from the couch. Maybe I ordered pizza.
I’m so out of it, anything is possible. On my way to the door, I spy my image in the small hallway mirror.
I’ve never been a pretty crier, and now my face is all blotchy.
There’s a big ice cream stain on my pink oversized tee-shirt.
Beneath the hem, miles of cellulite connect with chunky knees.
Maybe I shouldn’t answer the door.
The insistent bell rouses me from my reflection. The neighbors are the persnickety sort. I’m sure to get a lecture on midnight disturbances.
But when I look through the peephole, there’s a brown eye staring back at me, one I know down to my toes. My back glues itself to the door as my heart races. No. No way. I’ve gone so far around the bend, I’m imagining the impossible.
“Come on, Zoe. I know you’re there. Open the door. We need to talk.”
My hands fly to my hair in an effort to tame the mess, but I give up.
Screw it. I can’t compete with Seraphina Freeman on my best day, and this clearly isn’t it.
Unlocking the several rounds of locks, I stand behind the door, delaying the moment he sees me.
No sense giving him that, “wow, I’m so glad to have escaped her” moment before I have to.
But the moment comes too soon. His careful gaze takes me in before flitting to the couch where the ice cream container and wadded tissues give me away, even if my tear-streaked face and stained shirt didn’t.
“What’s wrong, sweetling?” His voice is soft, coaxing, as if he cares.
It only makes my heart break a little more. The pieces of the stupid organ must be so tiny now that not even the best jigsaw puzzler could fit them back together.
In a stunning move, he reaches out and draws me into his arms, pressing my face against his muscled chest, his lips coming to rest against the top of my head.
His scent, warm like cinnamon and spicy like church, wraps around me.
It’s so familiar, so beloved, that I come apart.
I can’t even cling to him as I sob because all my strength deserts me for someone better.
If he wasn’t holding me, I’d be in a puddle on the floor.
But he’s always been unnaturally strong. I used to tease him that for someone so long and lithe, he could pick up three buses without breaking a sweat. Even now, he supports me easily.
“Tell me, Zoe. What’s happened? Did that guy hurt you?”
“What’s happened?” I sob some more, shaking like a malaria patient. “What guy?” I draw out the last word like it’s a feral cry.
His entire body tightens. “The guy you met last night. The one you left with.”
“I didn’t... you left, Finn. You left me! You...” Sobs overwhelm me. I have to gasp words through them. “Y-you just sent a-a text, and I-I th-thought we w-w-would get m-married, and now you’re m-marrying her?” My voice rises to a screech, but I can’t control it. I can’t.
To his credit, Finn doesn’t try to justify what he’s done or offer any excuses. He doesn’t make me feel like a fool for having believed in him. He just holds me, rocking me slightly, as if what I’m feeling matters.
I don’t know how long I stand there, inhaling him and sobbing, but when I can’t cry another tear, I become aware of the mascara streaks I’ve left upon his blue tee-shirt.
He’s wearing work-out clothes, as if he’s just come from the gym or is on the way there, but judging by his clean smell, he hasn’t exercised yet.
I’ve always loved him in casual dress. Most men can look good in a suit, but to be stunning in a tee-shirt and sweat pants? That’s a gift.
But even as I try to pull away, to wipe my runny nose on my tee-shirt since I don’t have a tissue, he keeps me close. It’s almost as if our parting has been as hard on him as it has been on me.
Yeah, right. And blue fairies are going to fly out of the microwave and perform Shakespeare for us.
From his pocket, Finn removes a nicely folded tissue and clears his throat. As I make use of the paper, he says, “Zoe. Can we sit? I can make us some tea. I, um, remember where you keep everything. And how to brew it.”
I’m a tea snob. I insist upon loose leaves, not bagged, and always organic.
I used to teach Finn about the various types: where they were grown, the benefits of black, white, and green, and how long to steep each variety.
I chuckle now at his remark, but more tears spring to my eyes at the reminder of what we had. I’ve become an endless well.
A low growl sounds in his throat as he leads me to the couch. Once there, he ignores the heaps of used and disgusting tissues and tucks me under the blanket. Only, once I’m there, when I look up, he rubs his thumb over my cheekbone and his eyes—his eyes look sadder than mine.
“I’ll be right back.”
I grab his hand. “And we’ll talk?”
His beautiful face screws up, but he gives me a curt nod. I guess I have to be content with the small action. The fact he’s in my apartment, caring—or at least acting as if he cares—is enough. It has to be. There’s nothing else left in the world that I can cling to.
While clanging noises come from the tiny kitchen behind the wall, I lean my head back, until I suddenly realize he’s given me the opportunity to clean up.
Flinging off the blanket, I rush to the bathroom and run the water, splashing it all over my face and rubbing at the long, black streaks covering me from cheeks to shoulders. I look far worse than I thought.
I look marginally better after washing my face. Though still red and puffy, at least the black streaks are gone.
Set the bar low, Zoe, I remind myself. You won’t be disappointed.