Page 83

I open my mouth to argue, but he puts a finger over my lips.

“I’m not diminishing your circumstances or how stressful and scary it must be. But I’m telling you, I don’t care. I want to be with you. And your groceries. And your lists. I want it all.” He pauses,kisses me lightly, then, “Your genetic mutation is mine, Birdie. Let me do this with you.”

And this moment is one that I wish I could bottle up. It is the most romantic thing that has ever, will ever, happen in my life.

Sometimes I look at my chest and wish my life was as permanently beautiful as the ink on my skin. Mostly, my life is beautiful the way real North Carolina wildflowers are beautiful—only sometimes. A fleeting blooming just to eventually wilt. But this? This moment in sweaty gym clothes next to Bo who loves me is wholly perfect.

With no way to compete with what he’s just told me, “Okay,” is all I say.

His slow-to-grow smile is huge, and he rubs his nose against my cheek before repeating, “Okay.”

I look at my cart filled with groceries, some that I don’t even want. “I need to pay for these.”

“You do.” He pauses, expression turning wolfish. “Then we’re going to take them to your house, put them away in your well-labeled kitchen, and get George Strait.”

I raise my eyebrows, crossing my arms over my chest. “Oh really?”

“Birdie, if you think the night I find out the woman I’ve been chasing for four whole months loves me and is staying anywhere but my bed, you’re out of your mind. Lucy is at Libby’s. I want you.” Then, like we aren’t in a grocery store, he squeezes my yoga-pant-covered ass and nips at my neck, pushing the squeaking cart down the aisle.

I don’t bother arguing.

He knows just as well as I do—I want him too.

Thirty-three

Bo puts the groceriesaway while I take a quick shower and pack a bag. I grab clothes, enough for two nights—presumptuously—and start pulling things off my bathroom counter. At the small black notebook I keep in the bathroom, I pause, and anxiety starts to percolate in my belly as I thumb through the pages, filled with numbers.

I haven’t told Bo about this, mostly because I’m not sure what it means. What Iwantit to mean.

That’s a lie.

I know what Iwantit to mean; I’m just not ready to say it. I don’t think, I just grab it, slipping it into my bag along with everything else I’ll need before turning the lights off. Whatever I do or don’t do with it can be decided later.

Then we’re in his Jeep, with the dog, driving to his house. Somehow, I shove Veda’s situation out of my mind, because more than I should be sad or guilty, I want this. With Bo.

“So, I’m wondering, now that you’re weirdly in love with me or whatever,” I say, picking at my cuticles as I look out the window into the dark. “I have a home visit for Huck’s adoption in a couple weeks and, if you aren’t busy, maybe you’d like to, I don’t know, be there for it.”

His hand reaches across the center console in the darkness, fingers interlacing with mine. “I’d love to.”

I let out an exhale, my thumb rubbing across the slightest raise of a scar across his, and steal a look at him. The lights of the dash illuminate his face and chest. His hair hangs easily around his face, and the angle of his nose and forehead and curve of his lips look like they’ve been highlighted to perfection. With one hand on the steering wheel, his body casually leans toward me so his other can reach mine. I might not get to love Bo forever, but loving him right in this moment might be the most precious gift I’ve ever been given.

“I’m glad you love me, Bo,” I say. The words a freeing confession.

“Me too.”

The notebook shakes in my hands as I sit on the edge of Bo’s bed in an oversized Smoky Mountain National Park T-shirt. His bedroom—masculine and tasteful—is all exposed logs and dark furniture with a large cowhide rug on the floor. The lights aren’t on, but there are four simple beeswax candles lit on his dresser.

I’m terrified. Once I show him, I can’t take it back. Well, knowing Bo, I probablycouldtake it back, but I know I won’t want to.

“I hope that’s a notebook from Mabel,” he says with a grin as he walks out of the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it into a basket.

The sound from my lips is a nervous gargle ofmhm.

He sits next to me, slides the notebook out of my hands, and thumbs through it. The numbers mean nothing to him. His eyebrows pinch. “What is all this?”

I clear my throat. “So there’s this natural method of birth control where you track certain markers in your cycle,” I say, pulse quickening with every word. “And you know I love lists.” I laugh softly. He thumbs through the pages again. “Anyway, what I mean is, I guess, that I started tracking everything when we met. Well, that’s not true. Of course, knowing me, I’ve always been tracking my cycle, but I startedreallytracking my cycle in case someday…someday.”

I look at him, chewing my lip, wondering how I’m fumbling this so terribly.