Zoey had lost count of how many glasses of wine she had — clearly enough to feel a buzz — but Whitney was pouring the remnants of the second bottle into her lipstick-stained glass and about to crack open another. This was how they had spent most of their time together. Her legs stretched across the couch, draping over the brunette's lap, and Whitney took that as an invitation to let her hand slowly glide up the inside of her thigh, sending a silent, subtle signal. It was the perfect distraction from the one thing had been on her mind for almost two months: Nick.
Forgetting about him had proven to be difficult. She had managed to commit every bit of him to memory, from the way he felt to the way that he smelled. And those memories continued to haunt her. There was a pile of his shirts buried deep in her closet that couldn't bring herself to wear again. It was the closest she had been to a legitimate break up in a long time.
But that convenient distraction came to a screeching halt when her phone rang. The rest was just a blur. Everything Emily said, the ride to his house. Somehow she suddenly blinked and was standing in front of his door. Maybe it was the alcohol impairing her better judgment, but despite the awful messages he had sent her — when he was presumably drunk — she knew she had to be the one to show up for him.
She rang the door bell once and then again just in case, as well as knocking for good measure. Time seemed to stretch for an eternity as she stood there and waited to see his face. She felt like she was either going to throw up or cry. Neither were a good option given how they had left off, so she quickly tried to mask any emotion before he answered the door. @kierankyleculkin
