Chapter 6: The Wait, The Worry, and The Wardrobe
She lasted about three minutes before her phone was in her hand.
Not texting Sam. Not even pretending to text Sam. Just holding it, thumb hovering over the screen, her reflection staring back from the black mirror with wide, dazed eyes. She looked wrecked. Flushed. Her hair was still tangled from sleep, and the t-shirt—Sam's t-shirt—hung off one shoulder like something from a music video.
She set the phone down. Picked it up again. Set it down.
"Get it together," she muttered.
The textbooks on her desk were calling to her. Two chapters of cognitive psychology, a problem set for statistics, a paper outline that was due in—she checked the date on her laptop—oh god, four days. She had things to do. Important things. Things that didn't involve replaying the sound Sam made when she'd taken him in her mouth.
She sat down. Opened the textbook.
The words swam. Neurons and synapses and developmental stages all blurred together into a meaningless soup of academic jargon, and underneath it all, her brain was running a highlight reel on a loop.
His hands in her hair.
His hips bucking off the mattress.
The taste of him, salty and sharp, flooding her tongue.
"Focus," she hissed.
She read the same paragraph four times. Retained nothing. Slammed the book shut and pushed it across the desk, watching it slide into a stack of overdue library books she'd been ignoring for two weeks.
The coffee mug beside her laptop was cold, half-full, a skin of oil congealing on the surface. She picked it up, sniffed it, and grimaced. Yesterday's brew. Or maybe the day before's. Time had lost all meaning since Sam had shown up at her door last night.
She dumped it in the sink, rinsed the mug, and stood there with her hands braced on the counter, staring at the water spiraling down the drain.
Her phone buzzed.
She was across the room in two steps, snatching it off the bed.
Sam: "What are you wearing tonight?"
She typed back before she could overthink it: "Clothes."
Sam: "Groundbreaking. What kind?"
Zoe: "The kind that covers my body."
Sam: "You're killing me."
She grinned, thumbs flying: "You'll survive."
Sam: "Debatable. Pick you up at seven?"
Zoe: "Seven."
Sam: "Wear something you can move in. I have plans."
Her heart stuttered. "What kind of plans?"
Sam: "The kind that don't involve your mother walking in."
Zoe dropped the phone on the bed like it had burned her. Her face was on fire. She pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool them, but the heat was everywhere—creeping down her neck, pooling in her stomach, settling between her legs.
She grabbed a hoodie from the pile on her bed—one of hers, faded gray, soft from too many washes—and pulled it on over Sam's t-shirt. Then she sat back down at her desk, opened her laptop, and pulled up the restaurant's website.
The menu was exactly what she'd expected. Pasta. Wine. A dessert section that made her mouth water.
She scrolled through it twice, trying to decide what she'd order, but her brain kept drifting. Would Sam hold her hand across the table? Would he kiss her when he dropped her off? Would he come inside?
The knock on her door made her jump so hard she nearly knocked over her water bottle.
"Open up, bitch!"
Lydia.
Zoe's heart rate slowly returned to normal. She crossed to the door and pulled it open.
Lydia stood in the hallway, arms crossed, wearing leggings and an oversized flannel that belonged to her latest hookup. Her dark hair was piled in a messy bun, and her eyes were sharp with curiosity.
"I saw him," she said.
Zoe blinked. "Saw who?"
"Don't play dumb. I saw him leaving your room. Tall. Dark hair. Looked like he just won the lottery." Lydia pushed past her into the room, already scanning for evidence. "That was Sam, wasn't it?"
Zoe closed the door, her face heating again. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" Lydia spun around, her expression incredulous. "Zoe. I saw you straddling a naked man last night. I gave you space. I gave you time. And now I'm cashing in." She pointed at the bed. "Sit. Talk."
Zoe sat.
And talked.
It all came out in a rush—the years of crushing, the way Sam had shown up last night with that stupid grin and those stupid hands, the almost-sex that had been interrupted by Lydia herself. The kiss. The blowjob. Sam's fingers inside her, finding spots she hadn't known existed. The condom, the knock, her mother's voice through the door.
By the time she finished, Lydia's mouth was hanging open.
"Your mom?" she whispered.
"My mom."
"Holy shit."
"I know."
"What did she say?"
Zoe groaned, burying her face in her hands. "She said she wanted to make sure I was being safe. She said she didn't need details. She said—" Zoe's voice cracked. "She said she always liked Sam."
Lydia let out a low whistle. "That's... actually kind of sweet. In a horrifying way."
"It was the worst moment of my life."
"Worse than me walking in?"
"Much worse."
Lydia flopped onto the bed beside her, sending a cascade of hoodies spilling onto the floor. "Okay. So where does this leave you and Sam? Are you back to being just friends? Was it a one-time thing?"
Zoe shook her head. "We have a date tonight."
"A date?"
"A real one. He's taking me to that Italian place off campus."
Lydia's eyebrows shot up. "The one on Maple Street? With the checkered tablecloths?"
"I think so. Why?"
"No reason." Lydia's grin turned sly. "Just... that place is romantic. Like, candles-on-the-table, share-a-plate-of-pasta, feed-each-other-tiramisu romantic."
Zoe's stomach flipped. "Oh."
"Oh is right." Lydia sat up, suddenly all business. "What are you wearing?"
Zoe gestured vaguely at her current outfit—hoodie, t-shirt, leggings with a hole in the knee.
Lydia grimaced. "Absolutely not."
"What? It's comfortable."
"Comfortable doesn't get you laid."
Zoe choked. "Who said anything about—"
"Please." Lydia held up a hand. "You're telling me you spent the whole morning watching porn and touching yourself, and you're not planning to close the deal tonight?"
Zoe's face went scarlet. "How do you know I—"
"I saw your browser history once. It wasn't hard to figure out." Lydia stood and crossed to Zoe's closet, yanking the door open. "Now. Let's find you something that says 'I want you' without screaming 'I'm desperate.'"
Zoe sat on the edge of the bed, watching helplessly as Lydia rifled through her clothes. Sweaters flew onto the floor. Skirts. A dress she'd bought on a whim and never worn.
"Too casual," Lydia muttered, tossing aside a hoodie. "Too formal. Too... what even is this?"
"It's a costume from Halloween."
"It's a crime against fashion." Lydia held up a black lace teddy—the one Zoe had bought yesterday morning. "What about this?"
Zoe's stomach clenched. She'd worn it last night, under her clothes, hoping Sam might see it. He had. Briefly. Before everything had gone sideways.
"I don't know," she said. "It's... a lot."
"It's gorgeous. You'd look incredible."
"I'd look like I'm trying too hard."
Lydia considered this. Then she nodded and hung the teddy back up. "Fair. What about—" She pushed aside a row of hanging clothes and pulled out a soft gray sweater, a pleated black skirt, and a pair of knee-high socks. "This."
Zoe tilted her head. "Sweater and skirt?"
"With knee-highs. It's cute. Approachable. But also—" Lydia held up a simple black bra and panties set, cotton and unadorned. "These underneath. Practical. Comfortable. And when he sees them, he'll lose his mind."
"They're just plain underwear."
"They're plain underwear on you." Lydia tossed the whole bundle onto the bed. "Trust me. He'll like whatever you wear, but he'll lose his mind over this."
Zoe stared at the outfit. It was simple. Unassuming. Nothing like the lace teddy she'd bought thinking she needed to be sexy. This was just... her. Sweater. Skirt. Socks.
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Lydia sat beside her, her voice softer now. "He's been into you for years, Zoe. Years. You could show up in a burlap sack and he'd still be hard."
Zoe laughed despite herself.
"I'm serious. But this—" She tapped the sweater. "—this is you. And that's what he wants."
Zoe took a breath. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." She stood, grabbing the clothes. "I need to shower again. And fix my hair. And—"
"And figure out what you're going to do if he tries to come inside after the date," Lydia said, grinning.
Zoe threw a pillow at her.
---
The afternoon crawled by. Zoe showered, shaved her legs twice, and spent twenty minutes trying to decide if she should leave her hair down or put it up. She settled on down—loose waves that fell past her shoulders, the red catching the late afternoon light.
She put on the bra and panties. Cotton. Simple. But when she looked in the mirror, she felt... good. Not like she was pretending to be someone else. Just like herself. The best version of herself.
The sweater came next, soft against her skin. The skirt, swishing around her thighs. The socks, pulled up to just below her knees.
She looked like she belonged in a coffee shop. Or a book club. Or anywhere but a date with the guy she'd been in love with since before she knew what love was.
The knock came at 6:58.
Zoe's heart stopped.
She checked herself in the mirror one last time—hair, face, outfit—and then she was moving toward the door, her pulse thundering in her ears.
Lydia had left an hour ago, with strict instructions to text if anything went wrong. "Went wrong how?" Zoe had asked. "Like, if he turns out to be a serial killer?" "No," Lydia had said, rolling her eyes. "Like if you need an excuse to leave. Or if you need back-up. Or if you just want to brag."
Zoe reached for the doorknob.
She opened it.
Sam stood in the hallway, freshly showered, his hair still damp and curling at the ends. He smelled like cedar and clean cotton, and his eyes—those bright, warm eyes—found her instantly.
His smile was slow. Real. The kind of smile that made her forget how to breathe.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
"You look—" He paused, his gaze traveling down and back up, and something shifted in his expression. Something soft and hungry all at once. "You look like you."
Zoe's throat tightened. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's the best thing."
She reached for him, and he took her hand, fingers lacing together like they'd done it a thousand times. His palm was warm against hers, a little rough, and she felt the contact all the way up her arm.
"You ready?" he asked.
She nodded. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere with candles. And pasta. And a dessert menu that'll make you cry."
"Sounds perfect."
"It will be."
They stepped into the hallway together, hands still linked, and the door clicked shut behind them. The evening stretched ahead like a promise, and Zoe felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Hope.
Real, terrifying, electric hope.
She squeezed Sam's hand. He squeezed back.
And they walked into the night.