Chapter 8: Granted With Edits

I was in the shower when the paper slid under the bathroom door.

It was a folded sheet, a little damp at the edge, and I read it through the steam with water running into my eyes.

PROPOSED AMENDMENT 2.

Mr. Crewe may touch Mrs. Crewe's hair in public.

Below that was a space for initials, and below that, in smaller type: Reasons attached.

There was a second sheet.

I turned it over.

It said, in his exact handwriting: Because I did it twice at dinner without asking, and I would like to be allowed.

I stood there dripping.

"Sebastian," I called.

"Yes?"

He was right outside the door, I could tell. His voice had that careful sound.

"Come in."

The door opened.

He stopped on the threshold in his undershirt and trousers, with his glasses fogging at once, and looked at me through the glass.

"Take them off," I said.

"The glasses?"

"All of it."

He took off the glasses and set them on the sink.

He took off his shirt, and his belt, and everything else, slowly, as if he thought I might change my mind in the middle.

I didn't.

He stepped into the shower.

The water ran down his chest and over the faded scar along his ribs.

I put the amendment into his hand.

"Granted," I said. "With edits."

"What edits?"

"Not at the clinic. Not in front of my patients. And you ask first if my father is in the room."

"That seems reasonable."

"I know."

He looked at the paper, then at me, then at the paper.

"Do I initial it now?"

"After."

"After what?"

I put my hands flat on his chest and pushed him back until his shoulders met the tile.

"Hands on the wall," I said.

He blinked.

"Olivia."

"Hands on the wall, Sebastian."

He put them there.

They flattened against the wet tile on either side of his head, and I saw the muscles in his forearms jump.

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