Page 20 of Watch Me

When she finishes her drink and puts down her empty glass, I lift the bottle and hold it out towards her.

“Another?”

She slides her glass my way.

We drink a bit more as the noises continue, rising up through the floor, coming up the staircase, climbing the walls until it feels like the whole house is rocking. It’s beyond maudlin to sit here listening, and it’s surely not doing Zoë any good, so finally, I turn to her and say, “It’s quieter upstairs.”

She nods, pressing her lips together, and I take her hand to lead her out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

We walk down the hall, and I hold my bedroom door open, feeling like a creep for leading her there, but not sure where else she could sleep.

“You can have my room,” I tell her. “I’ll sleep downstairs on the couch. Sorry, the bed isn’t made.” I glance at the bed, where the covers are half thrown off, the sheet crumpled, and then indicate the couch under the window. “There’s also a couch in here, too, if you’d rather sleep on that.”

“Thank you.” She looks up at me with shiny emerald eyes. “The bed would be okay.”

She climbs into the other side of my bed, the side that hasn’t been slept in, and leans back against the headboard. The cognitive dissonance of seeing her there nearly unravels me.

Here she is, the girlfriend of my son. The girl who lives in my house.

Here she is, the betrayed girlfriend of my son.

Here she is, the only woman who’s made me feel something—really feel something—in ages. A girl I’m acutely interested in. Borderline obsessed.

She is all of these things.

“Will you stay with me for a while?” she asks, patting my side of the bed with her hand.

Although everything in me tells me I’m supposed to keep distance between us, Tate’s inexcusable behavior has empowered me to take some license. I feel justified sitting down on my side of the bed and stretching my legs on the mattress. Even though I’m slightly self-conscious of the fact that I have no shirt on, I lift my arm around her shoulders anyway, feeling protective. She immediately leans into me, her head on my chest, her soft blonde hair curtaining my stomach.

She smells like shampoo and body spray, and exactly the way I remember her from the club, and she feels so fucking good in my arms, like she fits.

“I actually don’t drink very much,” she says with a little giggle.

“You don’t?” I’m surprised because she’s around alcohol all the time at work. But given her dance training, she’s probably too disciplined. “Are you drunk, Bean?”

“Maybe a little,” she says with another giggle. “I like that nickname.”

I chuckle with endearment and lean my head back against the headboard, looking at the ceiling and thinking about all the things I want to say. How ashamed I am of my son… and of myself. Tate has failed to protect her, and maybe I have, too. I should have drawn a line in the VIP booth. I should have known better.

“I’m sorry, though,” I say, not knowing how to say she deserves better. That she deserves everything. “I’m sorry for this and… for a lot of things.”

She turns her face inwards until her nose is pressed against my skin and shrugs.

“Meh.” She hiccups, giggles at herself, and then gives a little sigh. “You smell good.”

She burrows her nose deeper against me and I think, I should stop her. I should stop this. But I don’t do anything. I just sigh and relax into the warm weight of her against my side.

* * *

I blink awake to movement and cool air as Zoë's warm body moves away from me. Early morning sunlight streams through the window, and she’s sitting up, rubbing her eyes.

“What time is it?” she asks, and I blink again, groggy with sleep.

I can’t believe we fell asleep.

Together.

“Hey Google, what time is it?” I mumble.

---