“No.”
Shiloh pushed her forehead into his cheek. She felt like crying.
Cary brought his hand up to her back. He rubbed between her shoulder blades. He sighed. After a second, he said, “What do you need?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s spinning around your head?”
She closed her eyes. She clenched her teeth. Cary rubbed her back.
“I want to light you on fire,” she said.
“Literally or metaphorically?”
“Literally, I think?”
“Why?”
“So I can remember you.”
“Huh...” He didn’t sound alarmed.
She tried again: “I don’t know what to do with you when you get close.”
“What do youwantto do?”
Shiloh touched his cheek. She touched his chest—it was hairy, she shivered. She touched his side, where his tattoo was. She poked his belly. He flinched.
“Are you really going to move back here?” she asked.
“Look at me.”
Shiloh tried to look at him.
Cary looked stern, he looked handsome. She was thinking about the lines on his cheeks and the tan line at his throat and the fact that he’d stopped to buy condoms, and one time a bottle of wine—and another time Pringles and Cherry Coke. Cary was never empty-handed.
“I’m going to try,” he said. “I’m going to do everything I can to be with you.”
She shivered.
“Are you cold?”
“No.” Shiloh shook her head. She wasn’t cold, she was weird. She was running 110 on a 220. “I guess we’re just going to get married, then.”
“Only if you want to.”
“I want to,” she whispered. She found his ear. “Cary, I want you.”
His hand tightened on her waist. “I always want you, Shiloh.”
“You said that before.”
“Because it’s true...Look at me.”
Shiloh tried to look at him.
He looked handsome. He looked concerned.
