“Dog bite,” Cary said.
“How old were you?”
“Three or four.”
She kissed it again. “I’ve got two,” she said.
He opened his eyes. “Where?”
She pointed to a scar on the bridge of her nose. It was faint. You could feel it more than see it.
Cary rubbed it with his index finger. “How old were you?”
“Too young to remember the bite. I only remember my mom’s boyfriend yelling at the dog.” She lifted her face, so he could see the bottom of her chin. “And here.” This was a nasty one—she’d had several stitches—but it was hidden, too.
Cary rubbed her chin with his thumb. “Same dog?”
“No. Later.”
He pulled his hand away to show her a thick scar under his thumb.
“Same dog?” she asked.
He shook his head.
Shiloh took his hand and put her mouth over the scar, feeling it with her tongue. Then she gently bit the meat of his thumb. Then kissed the heart of his palm.
When she looked up again, Cary cupped her jaw in his hand and kissed her.
His kisses pushed her head back at first, like he was driving forward, gulping down his first drink of her. Shiloh let it happen. She wrapped her hand around his wrist and held on.
Cary was leaning on her. He was sleeping in a T-shirt and white boxer shorts. All his clothes were Navy-issued. It made Shiloh feel a little sick. They were making Cary anonymous. They were going to drop him into a sea of boys with the same shorts and haircuts, and Shiloh wouldn’t even recognize him there—no one would. She tried to clench her free hand in his hair, but there wasn’t enough of it left.
He climbed on top of her.
They were both still dressed. They didn’t have this worked out—they weren’t smooth. The condoms were in Shiloh’s desk. She kept putting them away when they were done with them.
This time when Cary pushed into her, Shiloh held on to his neckwith both hands. “I love you,” she said. She kept saying it, like it was urgent that he know. Every time she said it, he kissed her.
When it was over, Cary rolled on his back and Shiloh rolled with him, resting her head on his chest. He was still wearing his T-shirt, and she could see the outline of his dog tags under the fabric. She had no desire to look at them.
Shiloh scooted up until she was peering down at his face. Her hair fell against her cheeks—she was still getting used to how light it was now. Cary smiled at her and rubbed the top of her nose. She held his face in her hands. “I love you,” she said. “Backwards and forwards. Coming and going.”
Cary’s face got serious. He nodded. And lifted his head off her pillow to kiss her.
Before he left her dorm room, Cary tried to give her one of his dog tags.
Like she’d want a reminder that the government had tagged his corpse while he was still walking around in it.
“I don’t need this,” Shiloh said. “I already know who you are.”
“Keep it safe for me,” Cary said.
Forty-Four
before
His dad died of a heart attack when Cary was eight. That was Rod, his mom’s second husband.
