Page 46 of Her Wicker Guardian

I turn toward her. “No?”

“No privacy conversation before I finish my coffee.”

“You said later.”

“I did.”

“Now is later.”

Her eyes open, and I wait. After a moment, she studies my face as if she has only just understood how long I have been waiting to ask it.

“You’ve been saving this?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, God.”

I know a little about God now. I still don’t understand why Rachel needs him whenever our conversations become interesting.

She drinks the rest of her coffee and puts the cup down with exaggerated care. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Saturday. Shower.” Shannon has taught me numbers and the names people use for time: days, weeks, months, years. I know Saturday was the day Rachel stood outside the shower and looked up.

Her eyes narrow slightly. “What about it?”

I point toward the sky. “You looked. Fan.”

Color begins changing in her face. I like when that happens.

“The fan needed cleaning.”

I glance toward the house, then back at Rachel.

She catches the look. “Do not.”

“I said nothing.”

“Your face did.”

“I was thinking.”

“That is somehow worse.”

The warmth I first noticed Saturday returns between my legs. I understand it better than I did then, at least enough to know it happens when Rachel looks at me a certain way. I glance down at myself, curious whether anything has changed.

Rachel follows my gaze. “Oh, for the love of God.”

“Again?”

“Different God problem.”

I still don’t understand.

She rubs both hands over her face before explaining that privacy means people decide who sees their bodies and when, and that most humans wear clothes around other people.

“You saw me,” I remind her.

“I know.”