Chapter 8: Hers

"I read it," I said. "I'm sorry. It fell out."

"I know." He turned the envelope over in his big hands. "I would have told you."

"When?"

"After the match. After they'd found someone for your mother in the chain. I didn't want it to be a reason."

"A reason for what?"

"For you to stay."

I stared at him.

The back hall of the restaurant was narrow, and he was so big in it that I could feel the heat coming off him.

"Gram told me about your mother three weeks ago," he said. "Before your stepfather ever picked up a pen."

"She said Noreen was dying slowly, and I had two good kidneys and no good excuse."

"You didn't know me."

"I didn't. I still would have done it."

"Ewan."

"If you walk out tomorrow, I'm still going to the clinic on Tuesday."

He shook his head.

"It isn't a payment. It's not on any page. It's something I can do that can't be added to a bill."

My eyes were burning.

I had been angry for nine days, at Dale and at the whole house on Hird Avenue.

I had not been ready to be given something.

"You idiot," I whispered.

"Probably."

"You beautiful, stubborn idiot."

I took the envelope out of his hand and put it on the shelf above the mop sink.

Then I took his hand.

"Nothing in that letter is a reason," I said. "I want you."

"I wanted you at the lawyer's, before I knew a single thing. I wanted you at the pass with a bowl of noodles."

"It has nothing to do with my mother, and it has nothing to do with the paper."

His breath went out of him.

"Rosie."

"Upstairs," I said. "Now."

We made it as far as the apartment kitchen.

I pushed him back against the counter by the stove he'd sworn was a gift.

He let me.

I took the front of his shirt in both fists and kissed him, and he kissed me back.

His hands came to my face, my shoulders, my waist.

I felt him go hard against my stomach, through his jeans, and I didn't pretend I hadn't.

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