“I don’t trust myself yet,” he said. “They’re too good. Sometimes I don’t trust myself to touch you.”
Shiloh started to come. She stretched her neck long. She held on to the sheet.
Cary found her ear. “You’re so good at this.”
Seventy
Cary was trying to get the window open. He’d put on his white boxers.
Shiloh had gone to the bathroom to get a drink of water. She climbed back into bed. She was wearing a T-shirt that said,Let’s put on a show!
“Is this painted closed?” he asked.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been able to get it open.”
He grunted a few times, shoving at the windowpane. “This is a fire hazard.”
“Just leave it,” she said. “It’s hot out.”
“I’m trying to get some fresh air.” He grunted again, and the window budged. “A-ha.” He worked it farther open. “You need a new screen. Do you have a fan?”
“Maybe in the hall closet?”
Cary headed out the bedroom door.
“Cary!”
She heard him open the closet.
“What are you doing?” she called.
“Getting the fan!” he called back. “This closet is a Charlie Foxtrot, Shiloh!”
“Come back to bed!”
He came back with the fan. “You need to keep the kids away from this; it has metal blades.”
“That’s why it was in the closet.”
He plugged in the fan and set it up in the window frame. It made a choppy helicopter sound. The air blew in from outside cool and sweet.
Cary came back to Shiloh’s bed.
“That’s nice,” she admitted.
He lay on his back and pulled her against him. His forehead waslined. Shiloh tapped his head and mimed pulling something out of his ear.
“What’s that?” he asked, frowning at her.
“It’s a list. It says, ‘Fix Shiloh’s window, repair screen, buy new fan.’” She blew the imaginary list out of her hand.
“I’m going to do all those things.”
“You’ve got bigger fish to fry, my friend.”
He held her close to him and closed his eyes, humming. “We should get married now.”
“That’s not even possible...”
