out a laugh so loud that I cover my mouth in embarrassment. “It was so inappropriate,” I say.
He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.
“I did.”
He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”
“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.
“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”
He snorts.
“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”
“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.
“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.
I nod, unsettled by his question.
“Good,” he says. He grins.
I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.
My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.
“You just met me,” he says. “How in the world could you know what I need?”
He lets go of my hand. I feel suddenly more alone than ever. I look into his eyes. “I really, really want to kiss you,” I say.
He grins. “Good.”
“But what if I can never do that?” Never do it without seeing his face in my mind instead of Pete’s?
Pete tangles his fingers with mine. “Does this feel all right?” he asks.
It wouldn’t have felt all right yesterday, but it’s suddenly all right today. “No.”
He jerks his hand back like I just scalded him.
“Wait.” I need to explain. “It doesn’t feel all right. It feels fabulous.”
His posture relaxes. “You scared me for a second.”
I reach for his hand and hold it tightly. “For me, this might be as close as I’ll ever get to having sex or that kiss I think I want from you.”
“Okay,” he says, grinning. I roll my eyes at him. His face softens. “I happen to like holding hands with you, dummy,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Probably more than I should.” He squeezes my hand. “So, if that’s all you’re ready for, I’m happy to do it. And just that.” He bends again, looking into my face. “I just met you yesterday. Do most men you meet want to get in your pants within twenty-four hours?”
I heave a sigh. He met me long before that, but, technically, he’s right.
“If so, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong types of men.” He lets my hand go and turns to open the truck door.
“Pete,” I call.
He looks over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Reagan,” he says, his tone mimicking mine. But he holds up a hand. “I know you want to sleep
He sobers and looks at me after we get in the truck. “Who’s that guy to you?” he asks.
“He’s a friend,” I say with a shrug. “That’s all.”
“Why didn’t you tell him where I’m from?” he asks. He’s waiting with bated breath, I think.
“I did.”
He shakes his head. “You know what I mean.”
“He asked where you’re from. I said New York City. What more did you want me to tell him?”
“The truth would be a good start,” he mumbles.
“Jail is a place you stayed for a while, Pete. It’s not where you’re from.”
He snorts.
“That would be like the boys saying they live at Cast-A-Way Farms after staying for a week.”
“That’s not entirely accurate.” He rocks his head back and forth as if he’s weighing my words. Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t let him touch you.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “I don’t let many people touch me.” I had better tell him the truth. “We went on a date once or twice,” I say.
“You’ve been on dates with him and you still don’t let him touch you?” He lifts his brow at me.
I nod, unsettled by his question.
“Good,” he says. He grins.
I start the truck and lay my right hand on the console between us, driving with my left. His injured arm comes up to settle beside mine and his pinkie crosses over mine, wrapping around it. It’s comfortable. It’s kind. It’s unsettling in a settling sort of way, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“Quit overthinking it,” he says, smiling out the window. He’s not even looking at me.
“Okay,” I say quietly. I settle back in my seat and scoot my hand closer to his.
My nerves are a mess by the time we get back to camp. Pete looks over at me and smiles. “Honey, we’re home,” he sings, grinning. But then he quickly sobers. He lowers his head, arching his neck, so he can look into my face. “You’re still overthinking it, aren’t you?” he asks softly.
I nod. I blink furiously to push back the tears. He’s so kind and he’s so sweet, but I’ve labored over this the whole way home. “I’m afraid I can’t be what you need for me to be,” I say quietly. “I just can’t.” I’ll never be normal. Never.
“You just met me,” he says. “How in the world could you know what I need?”
He lets go of my hand. I feel suddenly more alone than ever. I look into his eyes. “I really, really want to kiss you,” I say.
He grins. “Good.”
“But what if I can never do that?” Never do it without seeing his face in my mind instead of Pete’s?
Pete tangles his fingers with mine. “Does this feel all right?” he asks.
It wouldn’t have felt all right yesterday, but it’s suddenly all right today. “No.”
He jerks his hand back like I just scalded him.
“Wait.” I need to explain. “It doesn’t feel all right. It feels fabulous.”
His posture relaxes. “You scared me for a second.”
I reach for his hand and hold it tightly. “For me, this might be as close as I’ll ever get to having sex or that kiss I think I want from you.”
“Okay,” he says, grinning. I roll my eyes at him. His face softens. “I happen to like holding hands with you, dummy,” he says. “I like it a lot.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “Probably more than I should.” He squeezes my hand. “So, if that’s all you’re ready for, I’m happy to do it. And just that.” He bends again, looking into my face. “I just met you yesterday. Do most men you meet want to get in your pants within twenty-four hours?”
I heave a sigh. He met me long before that, but, technically, he’s right.
“If so, you’ve been hanging out with the wrong types of men.” He lets my hand go and turns to open the truck door.
“Pete,” I call.
He looks over his shoulder at me, smiling. “Reagan,” he says, his tone mimicking mine. But he holds up a hand. “I know you want to sleep
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