She pulls on his back. Presses her hips to his.
She wants to make him happy. She can make him happy. She knows how. She needs him to need her.
She pulls him down so his weight presses on her from above, so leaves press at her back. So a glittering black sky looks down on her. On her.
Special, Zoe.
Stars, Zoe.
She fumbles for his belt, tight between them. He lifts slightly so her fingers can maneuver. Loosen. His buckle is cold in her fingers. Cold. Hard. His breaths are lost in her hair. Heavy. Moving. Lips pressing her ear. Her throat. Hot.
But the buckle is cold.
Stays cold.
Smooth coldness.
Like porcelain.
Cold. Like never-eaten eggs.
Cold.
Like.
Gray.
Water.
She pushes him away. Gasps for a breath.
Touch.
Need.
Is fractured.
He sits dazed. Tight. Drawing into himself already.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I—”
but there is nothing to say.
She is not sorry. Not really.
She still wants him. Wants to touch him. Have him touch her. But not, too. Two wants pulling against each other.
“It’s too soon,” he says. “I don’t know what I—”
“No. It’s me. Don’t say anything.”
They go back to her room. Listen to the Everly Brothers on the jukebox. Listen in the dar
k when the circle of bargain-bin light is gone and all that is left are a few faint ceiling stars still reflecting borrowed light. They lie on her bed and don’t touch except for his hand stroking the edge of her little finger. He stays. Doesn’t rush. And it all seems too much. Too much for someone like her.
Thirty-Four
“Home fries, not hash!” She slides the plate across the stainless-steel shelf. “Please,” she adds. She never says please. Not usually, but today every order seems to come up wrong. Is the cook out for her? Her tips are nosediving faster than one of Kyle’s kites on a windless day.