“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a well-read woman.”
“I meant changing the subject,” he says. “But good to know you thinkbookscan teach you this.”
“They definitely can,” I argue, mid-kiss. “And”—I pull my lip away from his teeth—“we’re masters at changing the subject…it’s kind of ourthing,it seems.”
He nods against my neck, lifting to kiss my pulse point. “Exactly. So put a pin in it, Prue. I’m trying to impress you.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, running both hands through his hair as I suck on his bottom lip. “Yes, no more talking.” I press my tits to his chest and roll my hips against his abdomen. “Unless…” I whisper against his lips, avoiding his kiss narrowly. “We want to debate the benefits of literature some more?”
“Fucking kiss me back already.”
“Only when you admit I’m right,” I tease, my nose bumping into his.
“God,you’re right, Prue. So damn right.”
I give in, and we kiss forhours,riling each other up over andover and over again. Milo gets me off again with his hands because I refuse to give up his lips. Afterward, he won’t let me return the favor.
“Let’s leave it there for the night,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple as I wind back down and hesitantly reach toward his hip. “There’s no rush.”
But there is, isn’t there? The more seconds that pass in Milo’s presence the more aware I become that he seems to be a transient, unkeepablething.His stories, his tattoos that tell them all the same, all point to one thing: Milo doesn’t stay in one place for long.
His lips have said that too, though that is easier to doubt now that I’ve had them buried into the side of my neck.
Still, I’ll need to listen, to trust that he means it when he says he’s not staying. That he does nothing but casual. Despite how it feels, or how he looks at me.
I close my eyes and snuggle in closer to him as he tightens his hold. And, as he tells me a long-winded story about a mishap in Peru that nearly led to his arrest, I fall asleep.
Two passing ships cannot share an anchor, no matter how much they try.
No matter how much they’d like to float idly, they cannot.
And they’ll still wish for more, no matter the wreckage.
—P.W.
Seventeen
Milo
I am anidiot. I initially told myself that I’d sneak out once Prue fell asleep. But we were too intertwined for that—I’d have woken her up. So, instead, I told myself I’d leave once she was in such a deep sleep that she wouldn’t notice me slip away.
Waiting for that time to come, for Prue’s breaths to deepen and her limbs to grow heavy and soften, I decided to do some light reading. I picked up one of her journals and helped myself to one of her poems.
Then, I did it again…and again…and again.
Like I said, I’m an idiot.
I don’t know what came over me but once I started I couldn’t stop. I devoured an entire journal before I even came to the realization that I was in the wrong.
It seemed to be some of her older stuff, not that you’d know by the way she weaves her prose. But talks of cafeterias and high-school politics gave it away. And as much as I felt guilty over it, I couldn’t stop myself from picking up another notebook after that one.
I want to know her so deeply; I feel the need in my bones. She’s fascinating to me. Like a puzzle I need to solve. There are simply not enough hours between now and the time I willinevitably leave here to learn all of her. So, I guess I have no choice but to give up sleeping.
When she stirred and rolled out of my hold, I stopped pretending that I wanted to leave. I rolled over with her, pressing myself into her back until sleep took me under as well.
But when I woke up before sunrise, my phone was laying in Prue’s place. I tapped it to see the time, 4:45A.M., and found texts from her.
Prue: Sorry if I woke you. Dad called, Mom was trying to bake during the night and nearly set the house on fire. I’m with her now.
