Her gaze flickers as if she’s surprised I noticed anything that wasn’t skin. “Do you always say things like that?”
“Only when they’re true.”
The chorus fades into a bridge. We don’t stop. She steps closer without stepping closer, the way smart girls do, and I inhale a breath that tastes like sugar and salt and a future.
“What do you want from me, Matteo?” she asks finally, wary again.
“Sixty more seconds.” Then, because something in me wants so much more I add, “And your real laugh. The one you don’t give to strangers.”
“That’s very greedy.” A hint of a smile curls her lips.
“I can be patient.” It’s the first lie I tell her and the easiest to mean.
“Hmm.” She considers me like I’m a puzzle with one missing piece. “I don’t like olives,” she blurts, as if we’re trading truths.
I bark a laugh. “I’ll eat yours then just to prove how serious I am. I can at least tolerate the black ones.” I pause and find her eyes glistening with mirth. “I’m also known to burn toast.”
“Criminal.”
“And I read subtitles out loud.”
“Absolutely not.”
We’re grinning like idiots now. The song returns to its chorus, and I swing her once more, careful and sure. Wet sand brushes our ankles and a wave creeps close before thinking better of it. Her hand tightens in mine for a heartbeat longer than it needs to.
“One minute’s up.” Her words nearly get lost on the breeze.
“Time is fake,” I counter, just as softly.
She should walk away here. She knows it. I know it. Instead, she looks at our hands, then at my mouth, and then back to the sea. “I’m not going to date you,” she warns.
“I wouldn’t dream of asking.”
“And I’m not some summer conquest you get to tell your friends about.”
“Dioforbid.” And I mean it so much it scares me.
She lets go first because she’s smarter. But she doesn’t move until I step back, because she’s clearly kind. I tuck my hands into my pockets so I don’t reach for her like a prayer.
“Goodnight, Matteo.” AndDio, my name in her mouth sounds like a real possibility.
“Goodnight, Caitríona,” I reply, giving each syllable the care it deserves.
Then I watch her weave through bodies and noise and realize two terrible, beautiful things at once: I’m already in over my head, and I have no intention of ever coming up for air.
CHAPTER 27
IT’S DONE
Caitríona
The bus judders like it’s held together by motor oil fumes and duct tape. The vinyl seats squeak, and a baby cries three rows back with the stamina of an athlete. I press my fingers to my temples in a vain effort to stave off the headache. New Jersey rolls by in slabs of parking lots, torn billboards and a graying sky.
I keep my hood up and my face down, thumb hovering over the burner.
Donal: (typing…)
I beat him to it.
