Zessa

chapter 3

Chapter 3

Zayn

It's Tessa. I feel a tight knot constricting around my chest as I meet her uncertain grey eyes. "Of course. I was just thinking about you. . ." I quickly stop myself. Why am I telling her this?

"You were thinking about me?" she asks, with a nervous curiosity drawn in the crease between her eyebrows.

"I . . ." I feel my cheeks get warm and awkwardly rub the scruff on my chin.  Why do I feel so embarrassed? "I guess."

"Well. . ." Tessa offers me a slow smile. " I guess it's a good thing I came."

I try my best to return the smile, but now that she’s here in front of me, I can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss her again. I step aside and gesture for her to come in, averting my eyes.

She hugs her clasped hands to her chest as she cautiously walks in, her sharp eyes catching the frayed edges of the curtains, the scuff marks on the varnished wood of the coffee table, the bare spots on the thin carpet, and the places where the white stuffing is spilling out through little tears in the fabric of the sofa. I’ve never really been embarrassed about my apartment before, but now that Tessa’s here, I feel the need to clean up the pile of dirty laundry on the floor next to the couch, wipe away the film of dust that’s settled on top of the television stand, dump the overflowing ashtray on the edge of the table, and shut the door to the bathroom so she can’t see the mess on the counter.

“So, talking,” I remind her as she turns back around to face me. My heart is pounding in my chest. I don’t know for sure what it is that I want to hear from her tonight. There’s a strange, indecisive burning in my chest that I can’t get rid of, and every time I meet her eyes it flares hotter and hotter.

“Yeah,” she agrees half-heartedly. “Zayn, I’m so sorry -”

I stop her. “You don’t have to be sorry,” I laugh nervously. “It’s just - I just need an explanation. I need to know I’m not just your rebound from him. From Harry.”

She bites down on her lower lip and tugs on the ends of her long blonde hair. “You’re not,” she says softly. “I don’t know if I can explain this to myself, let alone to you, but you’re not my rebound.” She sighs, frustrated, and tangles her fingers in the roots of her hair. “I’m just so confused right now,” she groans.

I let out another humourless laugh. “You’re confused?”

She buries her face in her hands. “I know, I know. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey.” I step closer to her and fold my arms over my chest. “Stop apologising.”

She lets out a heavy sigh. “Okay. I owe you an explanation, though. For . . . for what I did earlier.”

I cautiously put a hand on her back and guide her to the couch. “Alright, then. Sit down.” She sits down on the sagging sofa and I take the seat next to her, careful to keep a safe distance between us. I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to be your second choice.”

She purses her lips. “I told you you’re not,” she replies, a slight edge in her voice.

I press my mouth into a tight line. “Alright. So what am I? What is this?”

She opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “You’re my - you’re my friend.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. “So do you always kiss your friends like that?”

“No!” she replies sharply. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

I roll my jaw in growing irritation. “Well, if you don’t know what you’re thinking, who does?” I snap.