Chapter 22: Not Slow

Keith's house sat at the end of a gravel road, with a porch light and a dog who had no interest in me.

"That's Biscuit," he said. "He doesn't like anyone."

Biscuit sniffed my hand and lay down across my feet.

"He likes me."

"He's fickle."

Keith took my coat, and his hands brushed my shoulders, and neither of us said anything about it.

He had made soup, and it was good.

We ate at his kitchen counter, and I told him about the dragon book.

He told me about the first winter after his wife left, when he ate cereal for dinner for three months.

I laughed so hard that I had to put my spoon down.

Then he stopped laughing.

I saw it happen in his face.

He stood and took my bowl and set it in the sink with his back to me.

"Monica."

"Yes."

"The clock said ten forty-two this morning."

"I know. I was there."

"I've been counting since."

I slid off the stool.

I crossed his kitchen in my socks and stood behind him and laid my forehead between his shoulder blades.

His whole back went tight.

"Turn around," I said.

He did.

He didn't kiss me yet.

He put one hand on my cheek, and his thumb ran along my jaw, and I turned my face into his palm.

"Tell me what you want," he said, very low.