Look Both Ways(46)

“Really?” I ask, and she nods. “I loved it. I loved dancing with you.” If there was ever a time for honesty, it’s now, when we’re both hazy and warm and not thinking too hard.

Zoe rolls away so her back is to me, and for a minute I’m certain I’ve said something wrong. But then she snuggles deeper into my comforter and mumbles, “So tired,” and I realize she’s planning to stay here all night. I’m not ready for her to go to sleep yet, though. Something started between us on that dance floor, and I need confirmation that it’s real, that we can be like that even when we’re alone.



Zoe’s hair has slipped off her shoulder and pooled behind her, right next to my nose, and it still smells like grapefruit even after all the dancing. I sink my fingers into it near the nape of her neck and slowly drag them through to the ends, which are tangled and damp from sticking to her skin. Zoe tips her head back a little, and I wonder if I’ve pulled too hard. But when I retreat, she murmurs, “Mmm, no, don’t stop.”

I plunge back in, more confident now, and comb through the whole length of her hair, roots to tips, over and over and over. The room is totally quiet except for the soft, rhythmic shushing sound of my fingers. I drag my nails gently along her scalp, just to see what happens, and I’m rewarded with a soft, appreciative sigh that’s almost, almost a moan. I wonder if she makes that sound when Carlos touches her other places, and the thought sends a nervous, satisfying warmth straight to my center.

In a fleeting moment of bravery, I sweep Zoe’s hair to the side and run a single fingertip down the soft length of her neck. The top flower of her tattoo is right below where my finger’s resting, and I trace the outline of it. I expect it to be raised a little, but it feels as soft and smooth as the rest of her skin. I trace the next flower and the next as they meander over her shoulder blade, down toward where they disappear under the back of her dress. Zoe’s breathing more deeply now, and even though she’s not facing me, I can tell how totally with me she is. There’s something about holding her captive with my touch that bolsters my tiny spark of courage and builds it up into a small, constant flame.



I trace the top edge of her dress, back and forth, until I finally work up the nerve to grasp the tiny silver zipper. So slowly that it’s almost excruciating, I pull it down. One, two, three inches of Zoe’s inked back come into view as the zipper’s teeth separate.

“Is this okay?” I whisper, and she nods. It’s like she doesn’t even want to speak for fear of tearing the web I’m weaving around us.

Her permission makes me hungry, and I slide the zipper down as far as it’ll go, right below the edge of her underwear. I spread the fabric of her dress apart, revealing the expanse of her back, and when I slip my finger underneath the clasp of her bra, she shivers and nods again.

It comes apart, and for the first time, I can see Zoe’s entire tattoo, a network of delicate branches and tiny pink flowers that reaches all the way down to her hips. It’s absolutely gorgeous. I remember what she told me about the tattoo’s symbolism—that life is beautiful but short, and you have to take advantage of every opportunity—and it makes me bold enough to reach out and run a fingertip all the way down her spine. Her back arches, and my breath catches in my chest. I’ve never felt so powerful in my entire life.

I start again at the very top and trace each flower and branch as slowly as I can, and I watch Zoe’s body move as she breathes with me, all her attention focused on that tiny point where my skin and hers come together. Her skin is soft and slightly damp, and I’m not sure if it’s from dancing all night or from what I’m doing to her now. When I reach her hips and there’s no more ink left, I kiss her back once, right where I imagine the other side of her heart would be. I lick my lips and taste salt.



“Brooklyn,” she whispers, and when she rolls over to face me, her pupils are so huge, they’ve swallowed all the blue in her eyes. She weaves her fingers through my hair at the base of my neck, and when she moves a little closer, I don’t pull away.

“Can I?” she whispers against my mouth.

I answer by moving forward that last inch and closing the gap between us.

It’s weird how you can spend countless hours remembering the feel of someone’s lips and still be totally unprepared for the exquisite reality of them. Zoe’s mouth is warm and lazy and sweet against mine, not urgent or aggressive at all, like it was during Never Have I Ever. This time it feels totally genuine, like she wants to take her time and drink me in. I expect kissing her to be different from kissing a boy, but it’s really not, except that her face is smaller and smoother and fits in my cupped hand. Her cheeks are flushed, and my whole body heats up as I think, I did this to you.

She catches my bottom lip between hers and playfully bites me, and I gasp, which makes us both start laughing. Our mouths don’t fit together when we’re smiling, so we pull back a fraction of an inch and stare at each other, the kind of look I’ve been giving her for weeks when I thought she wasn’t paying attention. This time, she looks back.

“Finally,” she whispers, and my heart supernovas.





All we do is kiss. In the world of theater people, that barely even counts. But the next morning, I slip out of bed and walk to Kayla’s Cakes, where I buy a single doughnut. I leave it on Zoe’s desk while she sleeps in a tangle of sheets and silky hair and unfastened clothing. She’s so beautiful, I can barely stand to look at her.