Zessa

chapter 8

Tessa

We drive under the navy sky and the bittersweet glow of flickering streetlights for what seems like hours. I sit silent and still with my hands folded in my lap, letting the pain in my shoulder and the back of my head rip through me with each beat of my heart. Everything is honey slow and razor sharp, the freeway rushing past us like a streak of black lightning, burning through the tarnished night.

Zayn wipes at the blood on his face with the sleeve of his jacket, the leather filthy with snow and ice and gravel. Without bothering to ask me, he rolls down his window and lets the freezing air blister our skin. A terrible anger is etched in the furrow between his brows, and his mouth is pressed into a firm, tight line. Every now and then, I chance a quick glance over at him, but his expression doesn't change.

It's almost eleven by the time he finally pulls into the car lot next to his apartment building. He shifts into park, pulls his keys out of the ignition, but makes no move to get out. He just leans his elbows against the wheel and presses his bruised knuckles into his eyes, his heavy breaths clouding in the frigid air.

"Zayn?" I ask gently. But I don't know what I want him to say. I don't know what I can say. I don't know if there's anything left to say.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, then looks up at me. The fury in his eyes has melted into a deep shadow, and I can't read him. It reminds me of Harry. How I could never really read his emotions either. How I never really knew what to say or what to do or how to act.

I don't like it. "Zayn. Say something." I look down at my lap. "Please."

He takes another deep breath, then says softly, "It's okay."

His voice is so tender, so delicate, so sweet. My heart stutters in my chest, and an electric tingle rushes down my spine and into my fingertips.

When I don't respond, he reaches toward me and curls his hand around the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the pulse under my jaw. "It's okay," he says again, his voice softer and yet so sure. "It's okay, Tessa."

And the way he says it, the way his skin feels against mine, caressing and uncertain - it makes me want to believe him. It makes it real. If he says it's going to be alright, then it will. There is a quiet safety harboured in his throat, and I'm not afraid when I look up at him, meet his gaze in the lingering darkness. His eyes are full of soul and infinitely deep, golden and warm and familiar. They smile at me even as he tilts his face and lets out a slow sigh.

"Zayn," I start, my voice catching in my throat. "I'm so sorry."

"Not your fault," he replies firmly, threading his fingers into my hair. "None of this was your fault."

I shake my head and let my gaze fall again, back to my hands in my lap. "What do I say?" I look back up at him. "I don't know what to say to you."

He bites down on his lower lip and sucks it between his teeth, staring back at me steadily. He hesitates, then murmurs, "Just tell me something."

I swallow a nervous shiver. "Anything," I answer earnestly.

"What happened tonight -" His voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat. "Has it happened before?"

What happened tonight. What happened tonight.

I close my eyes. I don't want to remember what happened tonight. I want to wrap it up in newspapers, filthy with death and despair and destruction, and tuck it somewhere deep inside my chest, where I don't have to talk about, where I can leave it and pretend it doesn't exist. Tonight never happened.

"No," I reply, and the word seems to shatter my mind. My chest burns with the memory of pain, my head and shoulder throbbing in tandem with my bruised ribs.