by Azzi, Gina
My stomach sours, my blood runs hot, and shame fills me up. Along with it are anxiety and self-loathing.
“As luck would have it,” Harlow continues, drinking my smoothie for me, “they ran into Evan and Connor.”
Relief punches me in the gut and I swear, sagging forward.
“If all the social media stalking is to be believed, Connor took the whole gang for pizza before safely delivering your girl to her dad’s house a little before 4AM. Your brother, on the other hand, took Charlie home with him.”
My eyebrows shoot straight up at this news. Is Charlie the girl who’s got Evan twisted up in knots? Interesting…
“You got all this from Instagram?” I lean back in my seat, much more relaxed now that I know Violet didn’t go home with a stranger last night.
Harlow blushes, averting her gaze and pushing my smoothie into my chest. “Shut up.” She flips her chin toward the smoothie. “Finish this, and we can run through your day. You can stalk Zoe later, when she’s awake and nursing a wicked hangover.”
Harlow runs me through my day. I make it to set on time, I eat a salad for lunch, and I shoot all my scenes with careful precision.
Even though I go through the motions, my mind is preoccupied with Zoe. I wish I was with her last night, laughing and dancing. I wish I’d been the one to feed her pizza at 4AM and carry her over the threshold of her dad’s house because her feet hurt from her heels.
I wish this day was already over so I can call her again.
* * *
“Hello?” she answers on the second ring, her voice nearly breathless.
The sound, more enticing now since it’s been missing from my life for weeks, washes over me like whiskey, drowning some of my sorrows and heightening my need for more.
“Violet.” I breathe out, clenching the phone tighter in my hand.
It’s funny, almost ironic, that in the age of FaceTime, when I could read her eyes and memorize the lines of her face, I still opted to call her the old-fashioned way. Somehow, it’s more comforting, allowing us to continue to exist in the lies we’ve spun.
“Hey.” She’s smiling. I can hear it through the line. The mental image eases some of the worry in my chest, allowing my heart rate to regulate.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Honestly? I’ve been better.”
“I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Really. But I meant because I’m hungover as fuck.” She chuckles and I grin in response.
“I heard you had quite the night out.”
“Ahh.” She groans. “Who spilled the beans? Evan or Connor?”
“Harlow, actually.”
“Harlow? I haven’t even spoken with her yet.”
“Something about Instagram.”
“Freaking Charlie.” Zoe says, her tone light. “I kept thinking it was strange that we just happened to run into Evan and Connor at Lush, but now it makes sense. Charlie was probably posting pictures all night, offering little breadcrumbs for your brother to find her.”
“I had no idea something serious was brewing between them,” I admit, still surprised and mildly annoyed that my brother hasn’t confided in me.
“Yeah, well. It’s been flipping hot and cold.”
Nodding, I put two and two together. Evan hasn’t been in a good place since Sophie left. I imagine he’s struggling big-time with moving on with another woman, especially one whose circle overlaps with his. Plus, there’s Ollie. My brother would never put him in a position where he could get hurt. Sadly, it’s impossible to move on otherwise. “That’s a very diplomatic way of saying my brother is tossing your girl mixed signals.”
Violet chuckles. I picture her face opening, bright like a sunflower. “You said it, not me. Girl code ’til the end.”
“Did you guys have fun?” I ask, still wondering about her night out, still wanting to know everything even though I gave up the right to ask her such questions when I pushed her away.
“Yes. It was just what I needed.” She says it breezily and it irks me. Even though I know Zoe is a master at hiding her true feelings behind flippant remarks and big smiles, I had hoped she’d be more forthcoming with me.
“A girl’s night?”
“Just a night out. A night without worrying and agonizing—” She pauses, taking a steadying breath. “Look, I’m glad you reached out, Eli. I’ve been thinking of you. A lot. I’m not going to pretend that I’m not hurt by your actions, but I understand your decision. There’s no need to feel guilty about voting me off the island.” She chuckles, but the sound is hard, forced. “I’m a big girl. I’m moving on. So should you.”
Fuck. Her words cut through me like a million paper cuts. Tiny, barely noticeable wounds but all of them at once, unbearable. “I didn’t vote you off the island,” I scoff, frustrated that she doesn’t realize I’m doing this for her own good. I hate that I’m still too damn proud to tell her that. “I just want you to be in a place with the support you need. Besides, I called to check in about your dad. How’s he doing?”
Zoe sighs. I can feel her frustration through the line. “He’s doing okay. It’s not the news we expected but it’s the news we got. The doctor is giving him about six months before he won’t be able to see anything. Not even shadows.”
I work a swallow, my hand fisting the phone so tight my knuckles turn white. My breath stutters in my chest, and my throat tightens as I hear the pain in her voice. I hear it and hate that I’m too far away to do anything about it. “I’m sorry, baby.” The endearment slips out effortlessly and I don’t even care. “You’re strong, Violet. Stronger than anyone, even you, knows. You and your dad are going to get through this.”
“I know.”
“I’m thinking of you. You know that, right?” I hold my breath, needing her confirmation to believe it.
“Yes.”
The line fills with broken promises and unsaid truths, tense and terse and stifling.
“What do you need, Zoe? Anything you need, it’s yours.” My voice is low, so low I wonder if she can make out my words.
I hear her inhale through the line and know she’s closing her eyes in pain.
No matter what I do or say to this woman, I always end up causing her agony. To do right by her, I’ll have to let her go completely. And I can’t. A part of me has wanted Zoe Clark from the first moment I saw her and that want has only increased. Even with all the bullshit, even through all the lies.
“Tell me what you need.” I repeat, desperate to take some of her pain away, to ease some of her hurt since I can’t seem to stop inflicting it.
“A miracle,” she whispers.
I massage my temple, digging my fingers in as my head spins with ways to provide her some shred of comfort, an ounce of relief in the new reality she’s navigating.
“How about a friend?” I say finally, my words breaking the silence like an echo.
I don’t want to hurt you, baby, but I can’t lose you either.
I close my eyes, unwilling to say words that will only hurt her more.
“A friend?” she echoes, disbelief coloring her words.
“I miss you, Zoe. If talking to me is too hard, just say the word and I won’t reach out again. But if any part of you, the smallest sliver, thinks I could still be in your life and maybe not fuck it up, then I want to be your friend. I want to be here for you.”
I want to be your goddamn moon, orbiting around you.
I want to yell the truth through the line so there’s no misunderstanding, but I swallow it back down, unable to be selfish with her now.
Silence stretches between us, thick with emotions we won’t share. Finally, just as my heart starts to sink to my feet and the silence becomes uncomfortable, Zoe clears her throat.
“Friends would be nice.”
* * *
Just because we said we’d be friends doesn’t mean a friendship effortlessly blossoms between us.
No, that’d be too damn easy. And ridiculous. Instead, a he
sitant and tentative testing of the waters occurs.
Over the next two weeks, we check in. And by “we,” I really mean me.
I call Zoe after shooting every other night. I send her text messages in the mornings. Throughout the day, I share silly memes that make me laugh or an article about MMA I think she’d enjoy.
And slowly, she reciprocates.
She doctors up photos of me printed in Gossip or some other magazine, adding Devil’s horns and a crazy moustache and forwards it to me. Or, whenever I’m pictured with a new love interest, she decorates it in wild hearts. She laughs at my jokes, asks questions about my workouts, inquiries about the film, and wishes me luck on my scenes.
Little by little, I grow emboldened, determined to show up for her the way she needs, even for the scary parts.
With each passing day, she sheds some of her friendly, bubbly facade and offers me glimpses into the challenges she’s facing.
“I can’t believe you’ve only got a few weeks left of filming,” she says one night, chewing loudly in my ear.
“I know. Less than three weeks. I can’t wait to wrap this film.”
“Tired of living in paradise?”
“Quit it, wise ass,” I say, but I’m grinning. I lean back against the couch cushions and lift the bottle of beer to my lips, taking a swig. “No, I’m excited to see the finished product is all. This is the film I’m most proud of, and I’m eager to see how it turns out.”
Zoe’s voice softens. “I’m sure it’s going to be brilliant.”
“Thank you.”
“You know, because of Preston.”
“You suck,” I snort, laughing along with her.
“Wouldn’t you—”
“Yes, I know how hard,” I cut her off, remembering that first night she fucked with my head, the night she helped me become Dr. Henry Shorn.
Zoe giggles through the line. It’s genuine, filling me up with her lightness.
“How are you, Zo? For real?” I ask, desperate to know all the things I know she’s not saying. I’ve checked in with Evan, made him spill the beans about Charlie, and even he admitted to me that Charlie is worried about how nonchalant Zoe seems about everything happening in her life.
She sighs, and I strain to hear all the things she isn’t voicing, any bit of subtext I can catch. “Two lies and a truth?”
“What, are you making up the rules now?” I snicker.
“Come on, Hollywood. I know how much you like to play games.”
I roll my eyes at her dig but give in, more desperate to know the one truth she’s going to share. “Let me hear it.”
“Only if you’re going to share too.”
“Fine.”
“I’ve never been more terrified. I’ve never felt more alone. I’ve never understood hopelessness ’til now.”
I close my eyes, dropping my head as the sorrow in her voice cuts at me like lashes. My heart beats frantically as my fingers itch with the need to reach through the damn phone and pull her over to me just so I can cradle her in my arms and crush her against my chest.
“Zoe,” my voice rumbles, dark and sad.
“Isn’t being my friend fun?” she jeers before hanging up the phone.
19
Zoe
The second I hang up the phone I feel silly. Childish. Overly emotional, and frustrated with myself for lashing out at Eli. For sharing the thoughts I keep buried, the secrets I guard closely.
The truth is, I gave him three truths.
I am terrified. Lonely. Hopeless.
I was more terrified and hopeless after Mom passed away. Now, I’m just lonely. Floating through my day-to-day with a permanent smile and a ‘keep your chin up’ attitude is wearing on me.
It’s difficult being positive and cheerful ninety-five percent of the time. Not only because it takes a ton of effort but because it’s what people expect of you. Demand of you.
I’ve spent too many nights behind a bar, listening to other people’s problems, lamenting their issues, to know just how important it is to remain calm and smiling and steady.
Under normal circumstances I’d be able to talk to Dad, but his diagnosis has thrown him for a loop. Not that I blame him. With each passing day, though, he’s withdrawn more into his own mind, falling deeper into the shadows he’ll no longer decipher. The last thing I want to do is burden him with my fears.
I should be able to confide in Charlie. Lord knows she’s tried to get me to talk more times than I can count, but a part of her, a big part, is wrapped up in Evan and the emotional roller coaster of their (non) relationship. One day, she’s flourishing, the next, shriveling. One hour is happy, the next filled with tears. Honestly, I can’t keep up, but I know she’s not in the right frame of mind to take on my concerns.
Harlow suddenly seems too far away to burden with my issues.
I would never confide in the guys at the gym because, ahem, I’m still super professional in Chicago. That Fit Bitch Life and yada yada yada.
So, yeah, I lashed out at Eli. Damn it.
My phone rings in my hand, startling me. I roll my eyes as his name flashes across the screen.
Taking a deep breath, I answer, “I’m sor—”
“Don’t you dare apologize,” he cuts me off.
“What?”
“Don’t say you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m so fucking relieved you’re finally being real with me again. Hi, Violet. I’ve missed you so goddamn much.”
The sincerity in his tone causes my lips to stretch into a smile and tears to burn behind my eyes. “Hollywood,” I murmur, my voice thick and uneven.
“Tell me all your truths, Violet. I want all of them. The ones that keep you up at night worrying. The ones that make you wonder. The ones that hurt too much to think about. The ones that make you cry in your shower so your dad won’t hear. Everything you feel, I want it. Every. Damn. Thing.”
The tears spill over as I recall the same words, murmured in a very different context, over three months ago. “I don’t know if I can do this, Eli.”
“Be honest with me or navigate tomorrow?”
“Both.”
“Can I tell you a secret, Zoe?”
“Please.” I press my phone harder into my ear, hanging onto every syllable that drops from his lips.
“Your truths frighten me less than your lies.”
Dropping my face into my hand, I cry, silent tremors that wrack my body and cause a headache.
Through it all, though, Eli sits with me on the phone, his rhythmic breathing comforting. When the tears finally dry on my cheeks and my body feels lighter than it has in a long time, I manage to say, “Don’t tell Charlie, but you’re a really good friend.”
Eli chuckles, but I detect the worry in his tone. “You’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, Zo. Nothing will change that.”
* * *
In the days that follow, I let Eli in a little more. During our nightly conversations, I share details about Dad’s diagnosis, concerns for his future, the financial stress of Shooters.
The only thing I don’t share is how much I miss him—not just the routine we fell into in the Seychelles, but him. His touch, the sound of his chuckle, his smartass remarks. I miss the sleepy warmth he emits when I snuggle into him first thing in the morning, and his remarkable cussing when Harlow makes him drink a green smoothie. I miss him more than I ever thought possible.
For the sake of our newfound friendship, I keep that to myself.
“So, these preventative surgeries?” he asks on a Thursday night, leaning back against the couch cushions in his living room. His arm is bent behind his head, his T-shirt riding up to show a ripple of perfectly sculpted abs.
Several days ago, we upgraded to FaceTiming. It’s been the best and worst decision of our friendship.
Best, because I can see him. And worst, because I can see him.
Seeing Eli Holt, after having him, and knowing he’s no longer mine, is the sweetest torture I
will ever endure.
“Zoe?” He pulls me back to the moment as he takes a sip of his beer, his full lips pressing to the top of the bottle.
Jesus.
“They’re both elective. Considering how high my odds are of developing breast cancer, I’m definitely opting for the double mastectomy. Still a bit unclear about the oophorectomy.”
“The ovary one?”
“Yes.”
His brows thread together, his green eyes dark with concern. “Because of never being able to have kids?”
I freeze, knowing I already told him I won’t ever bear children. And I won’t. I’m not strong enough to be saddled with the guilt of passing my fucked-up mutation on to my kid. Still, a part of me, a part I keep locked away, desires nothing more than to have a baby.
My baby.
Staring at Eli, I can picture her. Bright green eyes, a teeny cleft in her chin, my dark hair. She’d be so perfect. So loved. A miracle I’ll never know.
I clear my throat, nodding without voicing the words.
Eli’s face crumbles, his eyes shuttering closed. “I thought you didn’t want kids.”
“I don’t.”
“But if you didn’t have this mutation, you would.” He says it as a statement because he already knows. He stares straight at me, as if he’s peeling back all my layers and crawling into my soul.
I look away.
“Violet.” His voice is soft, his expression tender. I wish I could reach out and touch him, brush his hair away from his forehead, slip my hand into his. “There are so many different treatments, possibilities—”
“Yeah, if you’re a gazillionaire. Those gene manipulation specialists don’t exist for people like me.” I flash a half-hearted grin to take some of the hurt from my words.
He sighs, pinching his nose. “Zoe, don’t make a huge decision like this because of money.”
“Hollywood, your reality is so different from mine.”
“No. My reality is your reality. I told you, whatever you need and—”
“Stop. I’m not going to ask you for money.”