"You make it sound simple."
"It is with me."
Something raw and wanting moved across her face. She leaned sideways — just barely, just enough that her shoulder pressed against mine for three seconds. Warm. Solid. Chosen. Then she straightened, like she'd given herself a ration and the ration was up.
"Okay. You can be on the list."
They left at five. Maisie asleep in the back seat with dust on her boots and a new drawing: Starlight with a star that took up half the page. Below it, in careful letters with help from Momma:My horse.
Callie buckled Maisie in. Smoothed her hair through the open window. Walked around to the driver's side.
I followed. Couldn't not.
She reached for the door handle, and I got there first. Opened it. Didn't step back.
"Door service," she said. "Very chivalrous."
"Full-service operation, Monroe. Doors, picnics, horse grooming. I also do a mean two-step if you ever need a dance partner."
"I don't dance."
"Everybody dances. Some people just haven't found the right song yet."
"Does that line work on people?"
"I just made it up. Is it working?"
"Absolutely not."
"Liar."
Her smile softened. I was standing in the open angle of the door, one hand on the roof, and she was between me and the driver's seat. Close enough to count the freckles on her collarbone. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were wide and her breath was shallow and neither of us moved.
"Thank you," she said. Almost a whisper. "For the books. For today. For what you said on the porch."
"You don't have to thank me."
"I know." But her voice had lost its edge. What was left was just her.
Her eyes dropped to my mouth. She didn't try to hide it. Just looked, openly, and the want moved across her face like light across water.
Every nerve I had was screaming to close the distance. Three inches. I could see her pulse in her throat.
I leaned in.
She went still. Not pulling away — not leaning in — just still, the want and the fear so close together there was no space between them.
I pressed my lips to her forehead.
Slow. Deliberate. Tender in a way that cost me more than any kiss on the mouth ever had. I let my lips rest there — against her skin, against the warm, smooth place above her brow — and I felt her exhale. A shudder. Her whole body releasing something she'd been holding since the hilltop or maybe since long before me. Her fingers found the front of my shirt and held on. Two seconds. Three. I could feel her pulse through her knuckles, or maybe that was mine — I couldn't tell anymore.
Then she let go. Stepped back. Swallowed hard.
"Goodnight, Clay." Her voice was rough. Unraveled at the edges.
"Goodnight, Callie."
She got in the car. Her hands went straight to the wheel — knuckles white, gripping it like it was the only thing keeping her from getting back out.
