Before anyone can trap us into a conversation, we slip outside and stumble across the lawn toward our dorm, clinging to each other and laughing as our heels sink into the dewy grass. Livvy’s whiskey ran out halfway through the night, and the effects have long worn off, but I’m so tired that I feel tipsy anyway. There are people everywhere, but they all seem flat, like extras who have been hired to provide background noise for Zoe and me. She’s the only one who feels solid and real. I’m hyperaware of the stripe of skin where my arm presses against hers.
Our heels click up the stairs, synchronized without us even trying. As we make our way down the hall to our room, Zoe giggles in the quiet, then claps her hand over her mouth and exaggeratedly shushes me. We’re the first up here, so it’s totally unnecessary, but I laugh and shush her back. It makes me feel like we’re getting away with something delicious and forbidden.
I unlock our door—it takes me a couple of tries—and we push inside, both bumping our shoulders into the doorframe because we’re not willing to separate long enough to go single file. Neither of us bothers to turn on the light, but the streetlamp along the path outside casts a soft glow over the room. Zoe steadies herself on my shoulder as she kicks off her shoes, then lets go of me to stretch her arms over her head. Her silver eye shadow is smeared, like a little kid at the end of trick-or-treating, and I have an unaccountable urge to press my lips to her eyelids. How much am I allowed to touch her, now that we’re not performing for anyone?
She heads toward my bed and flops down onto her back, her hair splayed across my pillow. For a second I think she’s still drunk enough that she’s gone to the wrong side of the room by accident, but then she pats the spot next to her and says, “C’mere.”
There’s barely space for us to lie next to each other, and Zoe doesn’t move over to accommodate me, so I end up on my side, curled toward her like a parenthesis. Our inside arms are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, and my top knee rests against her bare thigh. I close my eyes and try to memorize every place our skin is touching.
“Tonight was amazing,” she says. She turns to look at me, and our noses almost bump. I feel a laugh rising in my chest at our clumsiness and sudden closeness, but she looks serious, so I swallow it back down. “You were amazing. I’ve never seen you let go like that. You’re a great dancer.”
“Really?” I ask, and she nods. “I loved it. I loved dancing with you.” If there was ever a time for honesty, it’s now, when we’re both hazy and warm and not thinking too hard.
Zoe rolls away so her back is to me, and for a minute I’m certain I’ve said something wrong. But then she snuggles deeper into my comforter and mumbles, “So tired,” and I realize she’s planning to stay here all night. I’m not ready for her to go to sleep yet, though. Something started between us on that dance floor, and I need confirmation that it’s real, that we can be like that even when we’re alone.
Zoe’s hair has slipped off her shoulder and pooled behind her, right next to my nose, and it still smells like grapefruit even after all the dancing. I sink my fingers into it near the nape of her neck and slowly drag them through to the ends, which are tangled and damp from sticking to her skin. Zoe tips her head back a little, and I wonder if I’ve pulled too hard. But when I retreat, she murmurs, “Mmm, no, don’t stop.”
I plunge back in, more confident now, and comb through the whole length of her hair, roots to tips, over and over and over. The room is totally quiet except for the soft, rhythmic shushing sound of my fingers. I drag my nails gently along her scalp, just to see what happens, and I’m rewarded with a soft, appreciative sigh that’s almost, almost a moan. I wonder if she makes that sound when Carlos touches her other places, and the thought sends a nervous, satisfying warmth straight to my center.
In a fleeting moment of bravery, I sweep Zoe’s hair to the side and run a single fingertip down the soft length of her neck. The top flower of her tattoo is right below where my finger’s resting, and I trace the outline of it. I expect it to be raised a little, but it feels as soft and smooth as the rest of her skin. I trace the next flower and the next as they meander over her shoulder blade, down toward where they disappear under the back of her dress. Zoe’s breathing more deeply now, and even though she’s not facing me, I can tell how totally with me she is. There’s something about holding her captive with my touch that bolsters my tiny spark of courage and builds it up into a small, constant flame.
I trace the top edge of her dress, back and forth, until I finally work up the nerve to grasp the tiny silver zipper. So slowly that it’s almost excruciating, I pull it down. One, two, three inches of Zoe’s inked back come into view as the zipper’s teeth separate.
“Is this okay?” I whisper, and she nods. It’s like she doesn’t even want to speak for fear of tearing the web I’m weaving around us.