Chapter 8: German Village

Caleb lived in a brick row house in German Village, on a street so narrow that my car barely fit.

I sat in it for five minutes at midnight with the engine off.

Rule three said not at my father's house.

Nothing said I had to be brave anywhere else.

The porch light was on.

He opened the door before I knocked, in a grey T-shirt and jeans, barefoot, with his hair damp.

"You came," he said.

"I said I would."

"You didn't say anything. You didn't text back."

"I was busy being scared."

His face softened.

"Come in."

The house smelled of garlic and old wood.

He had left a lamp on in the front room.

The kitchen table was set for two, with a pot of pasta and an open bottle of wine.

I stood in the doorway and looked at it.

"You cooked."

"It's spaghetti. Don't make a big thing."

"You made a big thing."

"I had four hours." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I told you, I wanted to do it properly."

I laughed, because he looked so embarrassed.

Then I stopped laughing and crossed the kitchen and kissed him.

He tasted of mint and wine.

His hands settled at my waist, very careful.

"You're shaking," I said against his mouth.

"So are you."

"Fair."

We ate the spaghetti anyway, at the little table, with our knees touching, and it was good.

We talked about nothing.

He told me about the bike crash that gave him the scar through his eyebrow when he was twelve.

I told him about the time I fell out of a rowing shell in front of three hundred people.

Neither of us mentioned work.

When I'd finished my wine he stood and held out his hand.

"Upstairs?"

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