“Would I know anything you’ve written?”
My eyes drop to his ribcage,
where the answer’s carved,
where my words are inked across his skin.
I look away fast. “Yeah, maybe.
“But here comes the bad news:
“I can’t tell you which songs.”
His grin shatters. “Why not?”
I rock my feet against the blanket.
“Label shit. Can't really talk about it.”
“Sonny—” he says, but it sounds likeminewhen it leaves his mouth.
“Deadass, other than Ma and Momma P?
“You’re the closest thing I got to a best friend.”
I snort. “Your best friend?”
“Think about it,” he says, serious.
“We’ve kissed. A lot.
“I’ve touched you pretty much everywhere.
“You held my dick?—”
He throws his hands up in defense.
“Just statin’ facts.”
Then he continues,
“You cried on my shoulder, I cried on yours.
“You know about my family.
“I’m lettin’ you eat my food, for fuck’s sake.”
He gestures toward the plate between us.
I roll my eyes, but my smile betrays me.
“No pressure,” he says, seeing it.
“But if you feel like talkin'... I'll listen.”
This is a territory I rarely even let Celie cross into. How could he understand without knowing everything?
“Trust me,” he reassures. “I know what it's like bein' your own back up.”
