Page 97 of The Same Backward as Forward

She doesn’t seem to know the answer to that question and settles for telling me that my sisters must be missingmeinstead.

“Come now, Hannah the Same Backward as Forward,” I say, compelled to move, to stalk forward, toward the water, “why would anyone miss me?”

Her hand catches mine. Hannah the Same Backward as Forward is not wired to let people go. With one touch, she calms the storm building beneath my skin.

Here.

Now.

This is what matters.I pull her toward the water.This is enough.

A wave breaks against the shore and washes over our feet, but I barely feel it as Hannah looks skyward and I look at her.

Here.

Now.

H-A-N-N-A-H.

Her fingers slip slowly from mine, and the next thing I know, she’s thrown both arms over her head, and her body is moving in a way that I have never seen it move.

Truly, I have never seen anyone move quite like that.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Dancing.” Hannah sounds a bit disgruntled that she has to clarify that.

The urge to tease her is impossible to deny. “You call that dancing?”

One thing about Hannah: Letting go does not come easily to her. She carries years of tension in her body, and experience has taught her to be uncomfortable as the center of attention.

One thing about me: I know how to dance. I let the movement of her body be my rhythm.

H-A-N-N-A-H.

The closer my body gets to hers, the more she lets go, and the more she lets go, the more compelled I am to make what little space remains between us disappear.

Little by little, reality and memory recede, until there is only this.

Here.

Now.

Us.

“What are we doing?” Hannah’s breath is warm on my lips.

There is only one answer I can give her. “Nothing—or everything.”

One thing aboutus: Deep down, Hannah and I both know which one we are.

Chapter 27

Hours later, I still haven’t given up on the idea of a grander gesture. I begin by taking stock of all the materials available to me. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but havingsomepieces of a puzzle is what allows a person to see the whole. Luckily for me, Jackson’s cabinets reveal that he is a bit of a hoarder—not surprising, I suppose, for a man who buries his whiskey.

Certain items jump out at me:

Mismatched silverware.