Zoey set the tub of ice cream on the coffee table, then tucked one leg beneath her, angling her body toward me. The shift in movement closed what little distance remained between us.
“This show is all about people wanting something and pretending they don’t,” she said.
The statement hung between us longer than the dialogue on screen.
I cleared my throat. “That seems inefficient.”
“It is.”
“Why not say what you want?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone on the screen storming off again, and yet another producer was chasing them. Zoey’s hand rested on the couch cushion between us, close enough that I could reach it without effort. Close enough that the decision not to reach felt purposeful.
“That would be showing vulnerability,” she said lightly.
“And?”
“And I prefer chaos.”
“You don’t.”
She raised an eyebrow in challenge, then sighed. “I prefer control.”
“There we go.”
“And sometimes,” she added, her tone softer now, “it’s easier to watch other people ruin things than risk ruining something yourself.”
The noise from the television seemed distant now.
Markie shuffled on his perch and muttered, “TURN IT OFF.”
Zoey’s gaze flicked toward him, then back to me. Picking up the remote, I lowered the volume instead of killing it completely.
Her hand shifted closer to mine. A subtle adjustment. An invitation.
“I like it when you ask questions,” she said.
“Oh, I have more.”
“Obviously.”
I placed my hand on top of hers, gently rubbing my thumb against hers. Her hand stayed in mine for three seconds.
Four.
Five.
Then she withdrew it.
She muted the television entirely, then stood and gave me a look I hadn’t seen since the night in the hot tub as she stepped between my knees.
My body reacted before my mind caught up, every instinct and nerve going on alert.
She tentatively put her hands on my shoulders, waiting to see if I accepted her touch.
I didn’t move.
Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of my shirt.
