March 2009

ZOE

There's one big problem with sleeping with your best friend: when a perfectly nice guy asks you out, you don't feel like you can go to your friend for advice.

Richard is everything I want in a partner. He's kind, funny, attractive, and he cares about me. There's just one thing holding me back: he isn't Mark. He doesn't make my heart race. He doesn't fill me with giddiness whenever we kiss. I don't have this magnetic urge to tear off his clothes.

With Richard, what you see is what you get, and maybe that's a good thing. Maybe we're less likely to have a row about him hiding his emotions if he's always up front with me. I just can't help worrying there's no excitement there, no anticipation about discovering something new, about seeing a part of him reserved only for me.

It's irony at its finest. And I've got nobody to talk it through with. Everyone on the grad scheme is tight-knit, and since Richard is included in our circle of friends there, I can't chat to the other girls without the risk of it finding its way back to him. If it did, if he did find out that I'm comparing him to my best friend, I couldn't bear the hurt that would cause.

If I do talk to Mark, there's a 90% chance he won't show any emotion at all. He'll give me advice like always, but with that comes an inevitable sense of rejection that he just doesn't care either way. That I've been right to hold back all these years. We're not a couple. Far from it. But our friendship and sex is incomparable. How can I ignore that? Throw it away?

I somewhat dug my grave a year ago when we had the argument in my bedroom. We made up fairly quickly, but the damage was done. I said a stupid thing out of fear, and now every insecurity I had about my relationship with him has multiplied tenfold. On the one hand, it proves I was right to hold back. On the other, my heart is broken into a million tiny pieces that can only be reconstructed by him.

Richard deserves a chance. I'm just not sure I do.

*

Mark and I spend Easter with my parents in Devon. Sometimes I think Mark likes my family more than he likes me. With everyone else, he's a closed book who doesn't enjoy socialising. With my parents, he opens up. He relaxes. It might be because he doesn't have a family himself anymore, and he misses those parental figures in his life. It's healthy for him anyway, even if I suspect he does talk to my dad about things he'd never discuss with me.

"You're quiet, love," Mum says to me as we clear up the dinner plates. "Everything okay?"

"Fine." I place two wineglasses onto the worktop above the dishwasher. "Just tired."

"We were going to watch a film, but if you and Mark want to head to bed early—"

"Mum." I close my eyes to summon patience. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm seeing Richard. There's nothing romantic between Mark and me."

She hums like she doesn't believe it. "I have eyes, Zoe. I see the way you look at each other."

My stomach twists. "You're imagining things."

"You should hear the way he talks about you to your father. The boy is smitten."

The 'boy' has about twenty kilos on my father thanks to his obsessive gym sessions recently, but I let that one slide. In Mum's eyes, he's perfect. She's also seeing exactly what she wants to see, not what is happening in reality.

"This isn't fair, Mum," I say. "I'm seeing Richard, and—"

"So when do we get to meet this Richard? It's been three months. Can't be that serious if he's not even made things 'official' with you." She uses air quotes to emphasise her distaste of modern dating.

Little does she know, it's not Richard slowing things down. I'm skittish as hell and, infuriatingly, he's understanding as hell about it.

"Just don't bring it up in front of Mark, okay?" I drop a handful of cutlery into the dishwasher basket with a loud clang. "I don't want to make the weekend awkward."

*

I struggle to keep my eyes open for the film, which at least backs up my exhaustion excuse I used with Mum earlier. On the sofa next to me, Mark's deep timbre filters through my semi-conscious mind as he exchanges comments and theories with Dad.

When I next open my eyes, credits are rolling, and my head is propped on a hard shoulder. Gentle fingers sift through my hair, drifting back and forth in a lazy pattern. As I regain awareness, hints of familiar cologne and laundry detergent seep from the fabric beneath my cheek.

I sit bolt upright. Mark's hand falls casually to his lap. One quick glance around the living room confirms we're alone, but the intimacy of the moment sends guilt rattling through me.

Richard deserves better. We might not be 'official' or even exclusive, but this is exactly why I'm applying the brakes with him.

"Relax." Mark stretches his arms above his head. The hem of his t-shirt rides up to reveal a slice of tanned muscle. "You cuddled up to me."

That does not relax me. In fact, it pisses me off on multiple levels. Mostly with myself for my subconscious desire to get close to him, but also with him for once again reminding me that he's not the slightest bit interested in anything intimate. Even if his hair strokes say differently. It's confusing. And that also pisses me off.

"Please tell me my parents had already left by that point."

Mark nods and stifles a yawn. "Yes. Just me and you, Zo."

He's relaxed. Something about my family brings that out in him. Part of me likes it, but the other part is terrified about getting swept up in a narrative that wouldn't hold if I pressed it.

"Sorry for falling asleep on you," I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

"It's fine. You don't snore." A teasing glint sparkles in the hypnotising green of his eyes.

My stomach dips, and I tear my gaze away. Why is he being so playful? Glimpses of his humour make themselves known every now and then, but he's been so stressed with work recently that I've barely seen it. It's a good thing that he's dropping his guard, but my pathetic heart will read too much into it if I'm not careful.

"I should go to bed," I say.

"Didn't sleep enough during the film?"

"Your shoulder wasn't very comfy," I bite back.

He slaps his hands against his thighs and pushes up from the sofa. Then he holds out a hand to help me to my feet. I stare at it. The broad palm, the long fingers. The muscled wrist leading to sinewy forearms.

I ignore it.

Heat sears my cheeks when I brush past him to leave the room. Hot on my tail, he follows me upstairs, so close that I can feel the warmth of his body scorching my back. I reach my door and carefully twist to face him.

Dark intent clouds his face as he plants a hand above my head, leaning in to press his mouth to my ear.

"Invite me in."

As much as the carnal memories try to influence my decision-making ability, all I see is Richard. His cute dimples. His soft eyes. His floppy brown hair.

We rarely have sex nowadays—certainly not since I started seeing Richard—but I've never turned him down before. Mostly because I'm usually the one who initiates it. Even after the stupid argument in my bedroom, he's never said no to me. And on the rare occasion he's lingered in my doorway with that unmistakeable glean in his eyes, I haven't said no either.

Not tonight, though. Tonight it's not about me. It's about a different guy who doesn't deserve to be second best to someone who I know there's no romantic future with.

"I'm tired," I say to Mark.

Rejecting him is bad enough. I'm not going to mention Richard. That would be a kick in the teeth. Once we're official and I know it's serious, then I'll tell him. Rip off the band-aid in one clean tear.

Mark straightens up and takes a step back from me. With the loss of his magnetic masculinity, rationale returns. It's the right decision. For Richard. For the longer-term.

"All good." He flashes me a tiny smile, a crook of his lips that almost looks guilty.

I want to reassure him, to say that I want him just as much, but I can't do that, because it wouldn't be fair to Richard.

"Night." I force a smile.

His fingers graze my wrist for the shortest of seconds, then he continues down the corridor without looking back.

*

Before we drive back, Mum plies us with food. Mark eats about three portions, and I doubt he's being polite. I can barely conceal my eye roll when she comments about him being a growing lad.

"He's twenty-eight, Mum."

"But he needs the strength to deal with that difficult musician." Mum tuts as she wipes the corner of her mouth with a napkin. "I don't know how you have the patience, Mark. I read a story about him snorting cocaine hours before going on stage. To think, he's performing high? In front of kids?"

Mark times his next mouthful to perfection, slow chews acting as a delaying tactic. He's a true professional who would never betray Curtis Heywood's confidentiality, but Mum seems to think gossip magazines are a source of truth.

"I'm only a small part of the team," he replies. "There's another guy who leads it. I just be where I need to be, do what I'm told to do."

"And Curtis Heywood's target audience isn't kids. It's people your age," I say. "He's, like, fifty."

Dad sighs. "I think it's always the same with these ex-rock-band types. Must be difficult going solo when you're used to being in a successful group. The pressure to prove you have your own talent and audience away from your band mates."

"We should change the subject," I say. "Mark probably isn't allowed to discuss it."

"Of course." Dad waves his hand to dismiss it. "What about you, Zo? What's on the agenda for next week?"

I wind my fingers around my water glass. The cool condensation chills some of the uncomfortable heat blazing through my veins.

"It's the last week of my food and beverages rotation," I say. "Then I move onto some of the backend operations, like finance and HR. Hopefully they don't kick me out when they realise how bad I am at numbers."

Mark glances up at me from his seat opposite. "I can help."

Yep, because that worked out so well last time.

"Which division does Richard want to work in?" There is faux-innocent curiosity in Mum's question, like she's just making conversation.

She's not. She's stirring the pot.

I keep my answer vague and dismissive. "Not sure."

"You haven't discussed it?" she asks. "Don't you spend every day together?"

"Who's Richard?" Dad's brow furrows.

"Just some guy on the scheme," I say. "He's in my group. There's a bunch of us who've become quite close."

I hope that's the end of it, and I reach for the wine bottle as a distraction tactic, topping up Mum and Dad's glasses. In solidarity with Mark, who's driving us back later, I'm not drinking, which is a shame because I'd kill for some alcohol right now.

"Zoe, it's been three years since JJ." Mum levels me with a sympathetic smile. "You need to move on. With Richard or... someone else."

All the food in my stomach curdles, and when Mark leaps to my defence, I feel like I could throw up there and then.

"In fairness to Zoe," he says to Mum, "she did go on a date with Richard a few months back. They didn't click."

Mum's narrowed eyes slide across to me, full of judgement. This time, I can't even resent her for it. I did tell Mark about the first date—couldn't exactly hide it when he saw me getting dressed up—and I did tell him that we didn't click, because at the time I wrote off the date as a "never mind, at least I tried" experience. But then Richard remained persistent, and I kept giving him more chances, until eventually he started to win me over.

"Is that right, Zoe?" Mum's leading tone is full of reproach. It's like I'm six again, being asked to explain why I smashed one of the neighbour's greenhouse windows with my tennis ball.

"Am I missing something?" Mark's confused eyes flicker between Mum and me.

"No," I clip. "Nothing at all."

But it's too late. A muscle in Mark's jaw ticks as he lowers his eyes to his plate. With his attention off me, I shoot a glare at Mum. Her mouth twists as she shrugs. Of course she doesn't feel like she's done anything wrong.

In her eyes, she's Cupid. 

***

Thank you for reading :) xx

***

In the next chapter, Zoe & Mark have an awkward car journey home. We also meet Richard. Do you think Zoe will take the plunge with Richard or will she try to hold on for Mark?