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I WANTED TO wake up with Zoë in my arms. With her using my arm as a pillow, with her soft breaths falling against my neck, with her golden hair tickling my chin . . .
When I woke up the next morning and saw that she wasn't even in bed with me anymore, I wanted to punch something.
You should've just fucked her last night. Fucked her so hard until she cried again and wouldn't have been able to move in the morning.
It wouldn't have changed whether she remembered anything from last night or not though. Did anything matter if she didn't remember coming to my room last night? Coming in and telling me that she'd missed me even though it'd only been a day since she'd seen me last, and telling me she wanted me to kiss her and hold her, and telling me that she didn't care what we did as long as I was there with her . . .
She wasn't making it easier for me to detach myself from her, but for most of last night, I didn't even want to do that anymore. The fuck was the point in pushing her way if there was a small chance she had feelings for me too?
Even though she'd been drunk, I wanted to believe that the alcohol had made her tell me things she'd been hiding from me— that it had made her wear her heart on her sleeve.
Then when she'd used being drunk as an excuse for saying stuff she didn't mean, I didn't know what to believe in anymore. 'Cause being drunk had made me do and say a lot of stupid things in the past so what if that's what happened with Zoë last night?
And then there was the fact that I'd woken up to an empty bed. I'd been so hopeful that we would've woken up in a tangle of limbs and she would've told me she remembers every last thing that happened between us last night.
