Chapter 12: No Touching, Georgina

"Don't," he said again, and he held my wrists against the pillow.

His voice was not angry.

It was frightened, and that scared me more.

"What is on your back, Winslow?"

"Nothing. An old scar."

"It's not old. It's wide and it's rough and I could feel it through your shirt."

"Please, Georgina."

He had never said please to me before this month.

I lay under him with my wrists in his hands.

My heart was still pounding from what we had done.

I looked at his face in the dark.

I let it go.

I told myself I let it go because I was tired.

He rolled onto his side and pulled me against his chest, and he kept his back to the wall.

I fell asleep with my cheek on his shirt, listening to his heart slow down.

I woke at dawn with sun on the slanted ceiling and an empty pillow.

He was standing at the kitchen window in his jeans and shirt with his coat over his arm.

His bare scarred hands were around a cup of my terrible coffee.

I came out in his sweater, which I had found on the floor.

"Morning," I said.

He turned.

His face went soft, and for a second he looked at me the way he had in the first year.

I crossed the kitchen and put my hand on his chest.

He caught it.

He held my fingers away from his body, carefully, with both hands.

"No touching, Georgina," he said.

I stared at him.

"What?"

"That's what you said. On the bridge. No touching, unless you ask."

"I asked. Last night. You know I did."

"You asked once." His eyes were steady and tired and hurt.

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