Alyson Noël - Saving Zoë

“Because I wanted to do this,” he whispered.

Then he leaned in and kissed me.

And when he pulled away he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pen. Then he pushed up his sleeve and held out his arm. “Here,” he said. “Write down your number so I can call you. And write big so I can see it in the dark.”

And when I was done, he flipped open his phone and walked away. And by the time I made it back to my room, mine was ringing. And we talked for so long, I had to plug it into my charger. And he told me so many things, and answered so many questions, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as well as this. Seriously, he even told me about how…

Crap. I drop the diary and listen to the doorbell ring. One time, quickly followed by two. Gotta be Parker. And I hate to admit this, but I wish he’d just go away so I can finish reading about Zoë and Marc and how it all began. It’s like, in the beginning they were so much in love, but then later, they were a lot lessso. And I need to know what happened in that space between, learn exactly what it was that made everything change.

But then the bell rings again, and I push the diary back under my mattress, gazing at the tree outside, and wondering if I should try to rappel my way down and run across the lawn just like Zoë would’ve done. I mean, it definitely seems a lot more romantic than making my way downstairs, opening the front door, and letting him in the usual way.

But then again, I’m not Zoë.

Which means I don’t even stop by the mirror to check my reflection before I go downstairs to greet him.

I’ve never cooked dinner for anyone before, much less a guy. Though to be honest, I guess I still haven’t. I mean, my mom’s the one who actually made the lasagna. All I did was reheat it.

“This is excellent,” Parker says, taking another bite.

“Glad you like it.” I nod, hating the way I sound so stiff and formal, and how it’s practically impossible for me to ever relax and be normal around him.

“I had no idea you were such a good cook.” He smiles. “Which makes me wonder what other talents you’re

hiding.”

I reach for my glass and sip my water, even though it’s really more about nerves than thirst. “Well actually, I didn’t really make it. You know, the lasagna,” I say, mentally rolling my eyes at my lame-brain self, wondering what the heck he’s even doing here. I mean, is he desperate? Is this some kind of bet?

“Well, you’ve got the whole reheating gig down, and that’s gotta count for something, right?” He smiles.

We mostly talk about school, classes, teachers, people we know. And every time there’s a break, every time it gets silent, the scraping of his fork sounds so incredibly loud that I say just about anything to fill up the gap.

He helps me clear the table, then I lead him to the den. But just as I make a beeline for the couch he touches my arm and goes, “Where’s your room?”

And I go, “Oh, urn, it’s upstairs.” Then I point in that direction, like he doesn’t know where up is. Oh God.

“Can I see it?”

I glance at the clock, then back at him, knowing my parents won’t return for at least another hour. Which

technically should make me want to say yes, even though I’m a lot closer to no.

“Come on. I just wanna see what it’s like,” he says, smiling in a way that’s trying a little too hard to seem friendly and harmless, and like he has no ulterior motives.

If i was Zoë, I would’ve served the entire meal on my bed, sitting Indian style on my duvet, with plates and dishes spread all around, just lighting candles, cranking a CD, and not giving a shit if anything spilled. But even though I’m nothing like her, that doesn’t mean I have to act like me. So I grab his hand and take a deep breath, promising myself it will all be okay.

He stands in the doorway, scoping it out. “Yup,” he says, making his way across the room until he’s standing before my bookshelf.

“Yup, what?” I ask, leaning against the wall and trying to see my room for the very first time, to see it like he sees it.

His eyes scan the titles of all of my books, as his fingers brush lightly over my Softball trophies, second and third place, from fourth and fifth grade. “Just like I thought,” he says, turning to smile.

I just stand there, wondering if I should feel more disappointed that I’m apparently so predictable and easy to read.

“Lots of books, a few CDs, but thank God no puppy posters or pictures of Aaron Carter.” He laughs.

“Well, I got rid of all that on my fifteenth birthday. Dumped it right in the trash. I’m into older men now. You know, octogenarians. Know where I can find a good Harrison Ford centerfold?” I ask, going over to lean on the edge of my desk and smiling nervously.

He checks out my TV, my iPod dock, and my bulletin board full of cards and letters and photos, including the one of me, Jenay, and Abby, making faces and hamming it up for the camera, and the one right next to it of Zoë and me sitting at the kitchen table, heads close together, crossing our eyes and sticking our tongues out at my dad, who was taking the picture. Then he wanders over to my bed, and sits on the edge. “When’re your parents coming back?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like he’s only mildly interested in the answer.

“An hour, two at the most,” I say, gazing down at my feet and my messed-up pedicure, and then curling my toes under so he won’t see.

“Would they freak if they found me here?”

I shrug. I mean, I really don’t know the answer to that since it’s not like I’ve ever had the opportunity to risk that kind of trouble before.

“No worries,” Parker says. “If they come home, I’ll just jump off your balcony.” He nods toward my open french

doors. “Or scale down that tree.” He smiles.

Then he pats the mattress like a silent invitation, and I take a deep breath and move toward him.

We’re kissing. We’re lying on my bed and kissing. And I can taste the lasagna lingering on his tongue, and smell the garlic mixed in with his breath. And even though it’s not near as bad as it sounds, it’s not what you’d call “amazing” either.

Still, I’m going through the motions, moving my lips against his and running my hands through his hair, even though all the while I can’t help wishing it was just a little bit better, just a smidge more romantic than it actually is.

But maybe it will never be like that for me. Maybe I’m not the kind of girl who inspires guys to spontaneous midnight visits and secret-message gift giving. Maybe I’m just like all the other girls who pretend they’re content with this, when really they’re longing for something more.

So far Parker hasn’t tried to do anything more than just kiss, which mostly makes me glad. And the only reason I say mostly is because I’m hoping he’s just trying to be cautious and respectful, and not because he’s turned off by my dowdy sweatpants and tee.

I know I should’ve brushed my hair. Or at the very least, smeared on some lip gloss. I mean, we’ve been dating for less than a month, and I’ve already let myself go.

I move in closer, kissing him harder, and shifting my body so I’m lying on top of his. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and dream of another place, one where he’s not really him, and I’m no longer me.

I run my fingertips down the side of his face, imagining his long dark lashes resting against his high, chiseled cheekbones. And when I reach up to brush my hair out of the way, I pretend that it’s smooth, wavy, and rich, not limp, lank, and dull.

“Echo,” he says, rolling me off ’til we’re facing each other, lying again on our sides.