Page 59

Twenty-nine
Conner
2009
May
“Are you listening?”
I look up from her foot to find Henley watching me over the top of the book she’s reading from, a look of puzzled amusement on her face.
It’s Sunday, and somehow, I managed to talk her into the backyard hammock. We’re laying on opposite ends, my feet bracketing her shoulders, hers resting on my stomach. My mom is across the yard behind me, digging in her garden and my dad and Declan are in the house watching the Sox game.
“Yes,” I tell her, turning her bare foot in my hand so I can study the cluster of spots on the inside of her ankle. “How many freckles do you have?”
She glowers at me. “You’re not listening.”
“Sure I am,” I tell her and I am—for the most part. Usually, I’m able to concentrate with laser-sharp focus on any number of tasks simultaneously. Like everything else, being with Henley changes that. She distracts me. Makes it hard for me to see my way past her.
I like it. The way she muddles me. Smooths me out. I’ve come to depend on it.
On her.
Us.
Probably too much, but I don’t want to think about that right now. Right now, I want to tease Henley about her freckles. Make her laugh.
“How many?” I pull her toes apart and look between them. Yup. She’d got them there too. “Rough estimate.”
“Too many.” She lays her book on her chest and wriggles her toes between my fingers. “I’ve got them everywhere.”
“Everywhere?” I say it in a low tone, stroking my thumb along the curve of her ankle bone, casting my gaze up the length of her bare leg, following the trail of freckles that disappear under the frayed hem of her shorts.
“Conner,” Her mouth falls open for a moment, shooting a look over my shoulder to see if my mom is paying attention.
“What?” I say, giving her an innocent smile.
“You can’t say things like that,” she whispers, shaking her head at me.
“Why not?” I say, pretending to be confused. “It’s an honest question.” I give her a shrug. “One I think deserves an honest answer—do you have freckles everywhere?”
That tongue of hers darts out and licks my favorite freckle. The one near the corner of her mouth that straddles her upper lip line. Eyes wide, she nods her head. “Yes, I have them… everywhere,” she tells me, her voice held just above a whisper before she clears her throat and tries to pull her foot out of my hand. “They’re gross.”
“Gross isn’t the word I’d use to describe your freckles, Henley,” I tell her, my grin slipping into something a little less innocent, tightening my grip on her ankle.
She gives up and laughs at me, shaking her head. “You might be the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.”
“I like what I like,” I tell her with a shrug. “I’m not going to apologize for it.”
“Like what?”
“Like you. Like your freckles.” I wrap my hand around her ankle, tugging her deeper into the hammock. “I’d like to count them someday,” I tell her. “I’d start with this one, right here.” I point to a random spot on her toe. “And I’d stop with the one behind your left ear.”
“I have one behind my left ear?” Her hand comes up, finger brushing against her earlobe.
“Yup,” I tell her, flashing her my dimples. “It happens to be one of my favorites.”
“You have favorite freckles?” she says, half incredulous, half scandalized, like she doesn’t believe what I’m saying, but she wants me to keep lying her anyway.