Funny Story(40)

His brows pinch. “Who?”

“It’s from a book,” I say. “Never mind.”

“Ah,” he says. “Not a big reader.”

“I know that’s a possibility,” I say, “and yet I truly cannot fathom it.”

“What do you like about it,” he says.

“Everything,” I say.

His mouth curls. “Fascinating.”

“I like that it feels like I can live as many lives as I want,” I say.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

At my pointed expression, he snorts a laugh. “Okay. But we’re more than just what happened in April. Let’s focus on the other stuff.”

“Like?”

“How did it start?” he asks. “The library thing.”

I cast my mind back, to before grad school, before undergrad even, all the way to the first moment I remember loving a story. Feeling like I was living it. Being, even as a child, bowled over by how something imaginary could become real, could wring every emotion from me or make me homesick for places I’d never been.

“Narnia,” I tell him.

“Now, that one I’ve heard of,” he says.

“Ever since Mr. Tumnus showed up at that snowy lamppost, this world was never going to quite cut it for me.”

“Who’s Mr. Tumnus?” he asks.

“I thought you’d read it!” I cry.

“No, I’ve heard of it,” he corrects me. “As a kid, I never read for fun. I’m dyslexic, and it took too long.”

“What about audiobooks?” I say.

“Does that count?” he asks.

“Of course it counts,” I say.

His eyes narrow. “Are you sure?”

“I’m a librarian,” I say. “If anyone gets to decide whether it counts or not, it’s me.”

His smile parts, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

For a second, we’re just standing there, a tiny bit too close. Or maybe it’s a totally normal amount of space, but the kiss is suddenly buzzing through me, replaying again and again.

His hands sliding around me. Lemon and lavender on his tongue. Our spines curving together. Him going hard. I’m fairly certain I can see it replaying in his eyes too.

“Shit!” He flinches away from me. “The asparagus!” He tries to yank one smoking stalk off the grill but jerks his hand back with a hiss, fumbling for the tongs before his second attempt to move them to the plate.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there, waiting for the fizz to settle.





12




THURSDAY, JUNE 6TH

72 DAYS UNTIL I CAN LEAVE





In the best of times, it’s inadvisable to start lusting after your roommate, and we are nowhere near the best of times.

I try to push the memory of the kiss to the back of my brain, along with any residual Miles’s mouth–based curiosity, but it’s not easy.

On Thursday I go to grab a late-night glass of water at exactly the right time to find Miles filling his own glass in the unlit kitchen, wearing nothing but athletic shorts, the disjointed assortment of tattoos splashed across his chest reduced to dark blurs, pieces of him I’ve seen before but not since the kiss, and now I find myself insatiably curious.

About the perfectly balanced scales of Libra, the illustrated Man on the Moon, the somewhat wonky horseshoe, the little red piece of fruit . . . a strawberry maybe?

“Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep. “You need something?”

I guiltily jerk my gaze back to his face. “Nope!” I’ve already spun back to my room before I realize that actually, yes, I needed the very water pitcher Miles was holding, but there’s no way I’m going back in there now.

On Sunday, we drive out to Sleeping Bear Dunes and it’s easier to be normal, because it’s eye-scaldingly bright out and we’re both fully dressed, and also this is possibly the most gorgeous stretch of turquoise shore I’ve ever seen—even if it’s also where I’m going to die a premature death, because today Miles has decided we should rent a dune buggy.

“You’ll be fine,” he promises as he holds a helmet out to me.

“Anything you need a helmet to do,” I say, “you probably simply shouldn’t do.”

He steps closer, the breeze ruffling his hair, and pulls the helmet down over my head. “Or maybe,” he says, eyes crinkled against the sun, “everything worth doing comes with some risk.”

His winsome grin sends a thrill up my spine, a lit fuse shortening by the second, and I have no idea what happens when it burns to the end.

He tips his head toward the buggy. “I promise to go slow for you.”

The way he says it, low and teasing, sends my thoughts scattering like pool balls on a perfect break. I can’t think of a single reply. Silently, I climb into the buggy.

On the upside, the experience of rumbling over hills in a vehicle with no door or sides, wind ripping through my hair and sand stinging my skin, turns out to be a good distraction from staring at Miles’s mouth too long.

Downside: every time we hit a bump, I accidentally grab his right thigh with both hands, until finally, he slows to a crawl and sets one palm over mine, murmuring, “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” in a velvety tone I assume he means to be soothing rather than tantalizing.