Zessa

chapter 4

Chapter 4

I'm awoken in the morning by the light of the rising sun through the uncovered windows. I squint into the soft white-gold glare and rub the sleep out of my eyes with my fists.

Last night, after the movie was over and I'd finished crying and being all emotional, Zayn and I had stayed up past three in the morning, talking about movies and music and life and Harry and moving on. More than once, I found myself wishing we were in a different place so I could kiss him again, but the rational side of me kept winning out.

When we'd both started slurring our words together with exhaustion, he'd untangled himself from the warm, cosy afghan and gone to bed, throwing me one last buttercream tongue-between-teeth smile over his shoulder before half-closing his bedroom door.

As I stretch my arms over my head, I wrinkle my nose at the taste of my own breath. God, I really need to brush my teeth. I can't believe I forgot last night.

I grab my phone out of my purse on the side cabinet and check the time. It's almost nine o'clock. Zayn's bedroom is still half-closed, cracked open just wide enough that I can make out the shadow of his bedside cabinet and the corner of his uncovered mattress.

I yawn and stretch one more time, then swing my legs out of the warmth of the soft sofa and make my way to the bathroom. I rub the pads of my middle fingers into the inner corners of my eyes and glance up at the mirror.

Oh my God, I look disgusting. My hair has somehow given itself an entirely new part overnight and now I've got a tangled mane on one side and almost nothing on the other.

I look around frantically for a brush, a comb, anything, but no luck. What does Zayn use to fix his hair?

I resign myself to reparting my hair and combing it into submission with my wet fingers. I hope the sound of running water doesn't wake him up. I've bothered him enough already.

I wash away the last bits of the mascara and foundation I wore last night and never took off, then dry my hands on the faded blue hand towel and consider my next dilemma. How am I going to brush my teeth?

There are only two brushes on the counter. Based on our conversation last night, I'd guess the Marvel electric toothbrush is his and the other, more generic one is his roommate's. I briefly consider using his, just this once, before deciding that it's too awkward and uncomfortable. I wonder where his roommate keeps the extras. This kind of brush usually comes in packs of ten, right?

I check the bathroom cabinets and the shelves behind the mirror, but I don't find what I'm looking for. Maybe I should just put some toothpaste on my finger and rub as hard as I can. I check the drawer under the sink and find a container of floss. I guess this is as good as I'll get.

When I'm done finger-brushing my teeth and flossing with the cheap G.U.M. floss, I smooth down my hair with a little more water and return to the living room to fold the afghan I used last night and straighten up the mess of textbooks and notebook paper on the coffee table.

From the look of his notes and assignments, I'm pretty sure Zayn's studying something science-related. I'm not sure what it actually is, though. I'm about to check the title of the biggest textbook when his bedroom door creaks open behind me and I hear him say in a low, rasping, just-woke-up voice, "Tessa?"

I jerk around, shutting his textbook and blushing to the roots of my hair. "I was just looking at what you were studying," I explain hurriedly. "I wasn't, like, messing anything up."

He rubs the back of his wrist over his eyes and squints at me, yawning. "It's fine," he says sleepily, stumbling slowly toward the bathroom. "I'll be out in a minute. . ."