Page 155 of Across His Line

“And then you showed me your room,” I say. “With the dent in the floor. And the closet that doesn’t close. And you told me about your dad.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“He started somewhere,” I say. “That’s all. He started somewhere, and he did it for his family, and look at you.” I glance down. “You’re not a different species. It’s just different life choices.”

I feel my face get hot again. I’m getting carried away.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For what?”

“For taking this apart like it’s a case study.”

Something happens at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t be,” he says.

I put the pen down in the notebook in the crease, and close it on my finger. He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if it’s to give me space or because it’s late but I’m looking at the fabric of the comforter and I already know this is going to be the most expensive bed I’ve ever slept in. It beats a couch.

I quietly admit, “I never want to go back.”

He looks at me for a moment. “To your grandma’s?”

I nod, feeling horrible for saying it out loud.

He’s quiet.

“Then don’t,” he says.

And I almost laugh, because it’s so easy for him to say. He wasn’t born into it. It’s not that simple.

“If I don’t,” I say quietly. “Then I won’t have anyone.”

And I watch him understand it.

He doesn’t say anything about it, and I’m grateful. He just looks at the closed notebook on my lap for a while, and then he nods once like that’s mine, and he knows it’s mine, and he’s leaving it where it is.

Then he stands up.

“Take a shower,” he says. “Come to my room. We’ll watch something.”

I look up at him.

“Is that a demand, Rafferty Waleska?”

He looks down at me, and the corner of his mouth goes up. Not all the way. Just enough.

“If you want it to be,” he says.

Something low in my stomach turns all the way over.

I don’t know what it is. I sit there with my finger stuck in my notebook and my face goes hot. His words and his tone go through me, quick and warm, and I can’t tell what it is. Nerves. Or something else. Something that’s never happened to me before.

He goes to the door. He opens it the rest of the way. Then he stops with his hand on the frame and looks back at the notebook in my lap.

“Keep going,” he says.

“What?” I ask, trying to collect my thoughts from what he just said.