Page 47 of Zeppelin
We’ve done so much of that with each other already. In the angry moments, and in the quiet ones. In those painful moments where I found him in the garden, and in the wretched ones where he pulled me up from the floor and held me in his lap.
It sounds like the time you’ve shared together has brought you two together very quickly.
Bronte’s words are already haunting me.
“About apologizing,” Bronte ventures, dropping her voice as a warning that something is coming that I might not want to hear. “You can’t be honest with someone else until you’re honest with yourself.”
That’s a hard one to digest. “How can I be honest when I don’t even know what I want?” What if it’s just hormones going crazy? Do I want Zeppelin as a friendandas a lover? I guess so. Right now I do. Do I want it to be more? I don’t know. He doesn’t know. Neither of us know. That’s why it’s such a mess. It was never supposed to happen, and then it did, and it can’t unhappen. It’s not wrong, but it’s not right. I can’t get lulled into believing something based on emotions that can and will change at any time.
Feelings aren’t facts. If there’s one great truth in life, it’s that.
“You can both not know and still care,” Bronte says. “What if he said something flippant to you that really dugdeep? Maybe into something you’re insecure about, or afraid of, or just something super inconsiderate and you just shut right down? Even if you werejustfriends, you could still have deep emotions.”
“Zeppelin isn’t—”
“What? Like that? Capable of that? Maybe not. But maybe. Maybe he didn’t even know he was.”
“Or maybe he’s just insulted that I made it seem like he was somehow beneath me or that I didn’t want part of him or that he was dirty or something silly.”
“Is that likely? Honestly?”
I grasp my mug harder, wrapping both hands around it and staring into the pale green surface. “He’s said some harsh things about himself. He’s used to making himself a joke of sorts. Saying he’s illiterate and stuff because he didn’t graduate. I don’t like when he does that. He’snotstupid. I think he knew that I’d never imply that.”
“So then itwasthe attachment thing.”
Shit. Now that Bronte’s convinced, she’s not going to let it go.
“He’s falling, Ginny. If you’re not, I think you need to take a step back before you hurt him or yourself orbothof you get hurt. You need to reestablish some hard lines and make sure they’re not crossed again. Sexual gratification is great if it’s mutual, but if it leads to ruin and a mess of two lives with a third life between those two lives, it’s hard.” I open my mouth to defend myself, but she rests her hand on my knee, silencing me with a sympathetic expression. “I’m not trying to lecture you.You can do what you want. This is just what I think and I need to say it, because if I don’t, it’s going to bother me forever.”
I curl my fingers over hers, studying where they’re linked. Hers are painted a bright pink. I do a doubletake as soon as I notice.
“Do you know who Tarynn is? Crow’s wife?”
“Which one is Crow again?”
“He’s tall, likes to wear black, has black hair, super scary vibes, really quiet, but super nice if you get to know him?”
“So… like ninety percent of the guys?”
She laughs. “Okay, you’re right. Anyway, she owns a salon here. She convinced me to get my hair done and she just hired someone to do aesthetics there. She’s still kind of training and was wondering if she could practice a manicure on me for a discount. I didn’t really want it, but she was so sweet that I couldn’t say no.”
“Don’t you just want to pick it all off?”
Nothing’s changed since we were young. “Yup. I haven’t though, and it’s been six days. A new record.”
I look her hair over. We both have the same sandy hued, thick, wavy hair. I used to get mine cut all the time, but I haven’t in a while, and it’s grown out to being almost as long as hers. “What did you get done?”
“Just a trim. You know how I am when it comes to my hair.”
I do know. She hates anyone touching it.
We lapse into silence for a few minutes, listening to each other breathing. I know that I need to bring the conversation back around. Even if I didn’t, Bronte wouldn’t force me. She’d drop it and never bring it up again unless I did.
“I need to talk to him,” I blurt. I slide my mug onto the coffee table. The candle has burned down so far that the three wicks are swimming in a layer of molten wax.
“I think you might want to know what you’re feeling yourself before you attempt that conversation.”
“What if I don’t know? What if I don’t know for a good while?”
