![]() “How is she already asleep?” Sully whispers. And we sit there, shoulder to shoulder, with our hands resting on the bed between us. He flexes his fingers so I can fit mine in the spaces between. My control shakes for a moment, but I turn in to it, and everything smooths out. As I’m moving myself into position, his hand falls over mine, and I don’t actually jump out of my skin. Then I go back to my room and sit down beside Wallace. “Be right back,” I say, and run to the bathroom to curl up on the floor. Later today? Tomorrow? A week from now? What if he never does it and I spend the rest of the time we hang out wondering if he will? What have I done? This was a terrible idea. ![]() Now he’s going to try to surprise me with a kiss. I hope that doesn’t make you regret asking. I don’t like writing the word “kiss.” It makes my skin crawl. This is a formal invitation for surprise kisses. I am giving you permission to surprise me with a kiss. Surprising me with it would probably work better. I will definitely freak out and punch you in the face or scream bloody murder or something like that. I don’t think it’ll go well if I know it’s coming. He hands me the pencil, again without looking. What good is “um” when I should say “YES PLEASE NOW”? Except there’s no way I’m going to say “YES PLEASE NOW” because I feel like my body is one big wired time bomb of organs and if Wallace so much as brushes my hand, I’m going to jump out of my own skin and run screaming from the house. Wallace’s entire head-neck region is already flushed with color, but the “um” darkens it a few shades, and goddammit, he was nervous about asking me and I made it worse. “Um” means “I want to say something but don’t know what it is,” and also “You have caught me off guard,” and also “Am I dreaming right now? Someone please slap me.” Then he hands it to me and looks the other direction. He stops writing, leaves the paper there, and stares. I sit down beside him again, but his big hand blocks my view of the words. tough to say things. Certain things.” His voice is hardly a whisper. He etches one careful line after the next. When I’m sure he’s writing something for me to read right now, I say, “I thought you only needed to do that when other people were around?” Here.” I grab him a paper from my deskdrawer and one of my myriad pencils, and he uses the first Children of Hypnos book as a flat surface to write on. Just one? Do you-of course you need something to write with. “Do you have a piece of paper I could write on?”
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