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“I can’t.” She’s breathing hard. Her voice trails off, but I can feel what she wants to say, like some third entity is nearby, looming dark over her usual shining bright light. Withdrawing in on herself, she curves her shoulders, making herself smaller.

Paloma bites her lip, eyebrows furrowed. As if she doesn’t know the answer to my implied question—or won’t tell me.

“Paloma?”

She finally nods and fury bursts in my chest, mixing with pain, threatening to swallow me. It’s overwhelming, my vision fuzzing out at the corners.

My fists clench with the need to pull her into my chest, terrified to touch her and not to in equal measure.

“Paloma—”

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she says again, helpless and small. She somehow sinks further into herself. “I should have just told you when you asked, but I was embarrassed—”

“Embarrassed?” The word booms out of me, angry. My voice is thick, torn between yelling and crying. I feel out of control. “Why? God—P. You didn’t choose that.”

Her eyes glance toward me. Like a cornered deer frozen but checking for danger.

“I— It’s complicated.”

“Did you want it?” Another hesitation. Another expression moving across her features like she’s unsure and looking to me for the answer.

“I don’t . . . no. I didn’t,” she says, as if the words are to herself more than to answer me.

Another piece of my heart breaks. I reach for her, taking her into my arms and bending down to kiss her forehead. I feel her flinch. It would hurt less if she had stabbed me. “That’s not complicated, Paloma.”

“Are you . . . Am I gross now?” she asks, vulnerability woven so deeply into every word.

“Never,” I say vehemently.

“Do you regret it?” A choked half-sob works from her.

I put a hand on my chest, as if I can stop the pain.

“Never. Paloma—the way I feel about you is almost overwhelming,” I attempt to explain. “I’m disappointed for you. I’m angry and hurt for you. I wish somehow, I could have known you then . . . protected you. Cared for you.”

She holds my gaze, longer eye contact than I’m usually comfortable with.

She chokes out. “I just . . . I wanted us to have this together.”

“Listen to me, P. This was just as much your first time as it was mine. Yeah?”

Tears threaten her doe brown eyes as she looks up at me. “Yeah.”

“Was it good?” I whisper before wrapping her tighter into me, holding her tightly to my chest as she maneuvers herself to straddle my thighs. “Did I . . . did I make it good for you, P?”

She nods into my neck, then peels back with a wet-eyed smile. “It was the only time sex has felt . . . good. Thank you.”

I shake my head, tucking her head back into my neck and holding her tightly again. Mostly so that she can’t see the tears threatening at the corners of my eyes.

“Don’t thank me, P. Just let me show you how it’s supposed to be.”

We stay in the cold too long. Paloma is tired but swears she can’t sleep. I feed her Goldfish and applesauce, trying to quell the oncoming fixation with feeding her by hand, then carry her inside.

It’s late, but I run another steaming shower and make good on my promise, taking her against the warm shower wall, her body wholly held in my hands, opening to me easier now. She complains softly of being sore and I apologize, ready to pull out of her—to let her rest.

But her nails sink into my back, holding me close.

“I want to feel it,” she says, voice quiet. “I want the reminder of you when I move.”