My chest caves in a little at the longing in his voice, the grief that hasn’t dissipated. I ache with the desire to fix it for him, even though I know it’s not possible.
“Tell me about the stars,” I say.
His eyes dip and catch on mine. Twin pools of black in the darkness, reflecting the fire in his irises. There’s stubble on his chin, and I wonder what it would feel like beneath my palms. I tuck them beneath me to keep from reaching out and closing the distance between us.
The alcohol is getting to me, making my brain fuzzy, my wants slippery.
“Okay.” His voice is soft yet rough. A dichotomy.
His gaze returns to the sky, but mine lingers on his face for a moment longer, watches as he lifts a hand, pale in the moonlight, and points up at the heavens.
“See thatW?”
I pull my attention from his face and follow the line of his hand, searching for what he’s pointing to. I have to lean closer, cross the barrier of our armrests to align my gaze with his, and I feel the heat of him seeping into me, sending goosebumps prickling along my skin.
“I see it,” I tell him, my breath puffing in the air. “What is it?”
“Cassiopeia.”
It sounds pretty coming out of his mouth in the deep timbre of his voice.
“In Greek mythology, she was punished for her vanity and placed in the sky tied to a throne that revolves around a pole, forcing her to hang upside down half the year.”
“Well, that’s sad.”
I can feel the laughter that rumbles through him, and it makes me want to press closer, memorize the feel of it.
“What next?”
I don’t pull away from him, the fabric of his sweatshirt pressed against my cheek, but I don’t think he minds.
He draws a line with his finger and I follow it. “That big rectangle,” he says. “It’s Pegasus.”
“It’s huge.”
He nods. “Hard to miss it when you know what to look for. Sailors used to use it to navigate.” He moves his finger again. “See thatVshape extending off the corner of Pegasus.”
It takes me a minute, but I nod.
“That’s Andromeda. And that bright spot just above it?”
“Mmhmm.”
“That’s the Andromeda Galaxy. It’s the closest large spiral galaxy to the Milky Way. 2.5 million light years away.” He pauses. “Or something like that, if I’m remembering right.”
I press a smile into the fabric covering his shoulder. He’s always so confident, self-assured, but I like that he’s not cocky, that he will admit when he doesn’t know something.
He keeps talking, pointing out stars, telling me their stories. His voice is soft, melodic. Between it and the alcohol, my eyelids are heavy. I don’t know when I drift off, how long he tells me about the night sky while I sleep on his shoulder, but when I wake up, I’m in his arms, still wrapped in my blanket, and he’s carrying me over the threshold of the back door.
I blink awake, eyes adjusting to the dim light in the cabin. “Did I fall asleep?”
I can feel his laughter again, but this time it’s pressed everywhere, so close it’s like it’s in my own body. “Yeah, you fell asleep.”
“How long did we stay out there?”
My brain is still fuzzy, but less so. There’s only a pleasant buzz left from the moonshine, enough to heighten my senses and dull my thoughts. It feelsgoodto be carried, and I wonder when the last time was that someone took care of me like this. Carried me.
“Mmm, maybe another half hour? Hour? I lost track of time,” he says. We’re in the living room now, and he sets me down slowly, holding me steady as my feet touch the floor. My worn, denim jacket rides up, exposing my midriff to the calluses on his fingers, the hands of someone who used to work on a ranch. Who hasn’t been home in years but still feels like it.
