Chapter 8: Open Door

I got out of bed and crossed the room in the dark, and I put my hand on the lock.

"Behind my door, nothing," I said through the wood. "That's what I told you."

"I know. I'll go."

"Why did you come?"

There was a long silence on his side.

"Your father stood up today," he said. "I stood against a bookshelf and watched, and I didn't say a word. I have been doing that my whole life."

"Chet."

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, and I didn't want to say it to a door."

I turned the lock.

I opened it.

He stood there in the dark of the hall in a plain white shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and he was ready to be turned away.

"I changed my mind," I said.

"June."

"About the rule."

"You said nothing."

"I said a lot of things." I took hold of his shirt and pulled him through the door. "You're taking a long time to get in."

He kicked the door shut behind him.

His mouth came down on mine, hard and hungry, with a day of holding still in it.

I walked him backward until his legs met the bed, and I pushed him onto it.

He looked up at me, startled, with his chest rising.

"You're in charge," he said.

"Yes."

"Good."

I climbed over him and pulled his shirt off over his head.

He was warm, and lean, and there was a long white scar along his ribs I hadn't known about.

I laid my hand over it.

"What happened?"

"A fence. I was nine." His breath caught as my mouth followed my hand. "Ask me later."

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