Tempted by Molly O'Keefe

covers. It was miserable. But every night, that was what I was used to. When I volunteered I shared my tent with a boy from a few towns over. He was so quiet in his sleep. I don’t think he even rolled over. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I’d gotten so used to so much commotion that I didn’t know how to sleep without it. The soldier was shot and killed at Bull Run. Didn’t even make it through the first battle. The next man I shared my tent with—he snored. And I finally got some sleep.”
    She could not breathe for fear of shattering this moment. For fear that he would stop, that he would wake up from whatever dream he was in and he would stop talking to her.
    But he spoke again. “And then, in Andersonville, there was no tent, just whatever shelter we could make with our coats. And we were all together. All of us prisoners. Sleeping side by side. Barely any room between us. Some boys… they never slept. They were always waiting for the guards or the raiders to come by, kick us awake for the fun of it. Or the crying would keep them awake. Or the nightmares. The flies. Lots of things to keep a man awake in Andersonville. But I slept. It reminded me of that bed growing up. Gavin snoring. Cole jabbing me with his big elbows. The dog farting. It was… comforting. I can’t believe I’m saying that.” He rubbed his forehead and he even managed to smile, though his eyes were far away and she sensed, somehow, that he was being pulled away. This is why he didn’t talk about the war and Andersonville, because the memories had claws.
    “I slept with my sister until she got married,” she whispered, trying to keep him here with her. “It took me a long time to get used to sleeping without her.”
    He looked away from the fire and met her eyes. “I imagine.”
    “I never thought of beds as lonely places before she got married. Now…” Her sigh was shuddery and sad and she glanced down at the bed, with its sea of linens, its wide prairie of mattress.
    He stood up from his chair, and he was so close his knees touched her mattress. “My mother would have my hide for this,” he breathed.
    “I miss my mother,” Anne cried. Her mother who had not particularly liked her, but even she would not let Anne feel so miserable all alone.
    “Hey, shhhh, shhhh,” Steven whispered, and he lay down on the bed beside her. Facing her.
    “What are you doing?” she asked, blinking at him.
    “Pretend I’m your sister,” he joked, and she reluctantly smiled, because that was simply impossible.
    He mirrored her posture, his hands beneath his cheek, his knees curled up until they touched her. Both of them immediately rearranged their bodies so they weren’t touching. So there was one scant inch of buzzing space between her knees under the blanket and his knees over the blanket.
    “What would you and your sister talk about?” he asked. “Besides cotton.”
    “Boys. Boys were always a popular topic.”
    “I might have guessed.”
    “My sister was a terrible flirt.”
    “And you?”
    “I was too serious to flirt.”
    “Hasn’t stopped you lately.” He arched a golden eyebrow at her.
    “I have been quite scandalous, haven’t I?”
    “Totally shameless. It makes me doubt this picture you paint of yourself before the war. The shy wallflower. I don’t credit it.”
    “No one saw me.”
    “I see you.” His eyes were blue all the way through, just different shades. Lighter to darker, from outside to inside.
    She wanted to ask him why he went to that brothel, but the words were thick in her mouth and when she opened her lips she only sighed.
    The heat from the room was making her drowsy. The comfort from his weight on the mattress, pulling her slightly toward him, made her relax. And right now she didn't care about his being at the brothel. Tomorrow she would care. She'd remember her outrage and pain.
    Tonight she was just glad he was here. Part of her wanted to resist these crumbs of affection, but she had no will for