She goes home and gives her parents the quickest, simplest run down that she can, and then proceeds to pace her room, worrying herself into a knot of anxiety, biting her nails down to the quick. Not knowing anything about what’s going on is the worst possible torture she can imagine because her mind fills in all the blanks she doesn’t know.
And permeating every inch of her worry is that CD. It’s buried at the bottom of her bag, but she can’t stop thinking about it. What could be on it? What could he have possibly said to give Emma the idea that he was — that he could ever —
Well, whatever it is, she isn’t going to listen to it. She isn’t. Because if he wanted her to hear it, he’d have sent it.
But —
But maybe, if she listens, she’ll know what — what made Emma do whatever it was she had done. Maybe she’ll know what could possibly make Emma think—
Oh, just Emma, huh? says that small, traitorous voice in her head. You’ve heard his letters, Zoe. You’ve heard the things he’s said about you.
“They don’t mean anything,” she whispers out loud into her pillow. “That’s just Alex, he’s just being nice, he’s always been like that.”
What are you afraid of? that voice demands, refusing to be silenced despite Zoe’s best efforts. That he’s not gonna say he loves you? Or that he is?
Zoe refuses to answer that question. She’s not playing this game anymore.
Shouldn’t you at least hear what he has to say? If he recorded it, didn’t some part of him want you to hear it? Don’t you owe him that much? He’s spending his night in a juvenile detention center. What are you going to spend your night doing?