Page 192 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“How do you know what I ate today?” Camille freezes, eyes widening. “Camille?”

“You told me.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

I narrow my eyes. “What did I say?”

“You sent me a photograph of your lunch.”

Oh.

Right.

A baguette, cheese, and a peach.

“Okay.”

His shoulders drop, and I feel guilty. Not because I asked, but because I see how quickly he prepares himself for the possibility that he has crossed a line.

I squeeze his hand again. “Hey.”

“Yes?”

“You can know things about me.” He looks at me. “You know that, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re my boyfriend. Not a parole officer.”

A smile touches his mouth. “Boyfriend.”

“You still get weird about that word.”

“I like it.”

“Boyfriend.” His smile grows. “Boyfriend.”

“You sound twelve.”

“You began this.”

“I know.”

He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“You can ask what I ate,” I say. “You can ask where I’m going. You can worry. You can even tell me you think I’m doing something stupid.”

“That final permission may prove dangerous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

I roll my eyes, then say, “What you can’t do is decide the answer for me.”

Camille’s expression settles. “I know.”