What I don’t add is that I’d been looking forward to it. I used to sit up straighter on the bench when our Divine Pastor spoke about wifely duties. Lie beneath your husband and give your body to God. Accept his love. Accept his seed. Bring forth a new generation to worship at our tabernacle.

I couldn’t wait to lie beneath my husband and accept his seed. When I was six, I asked another little boy to practice with me. He tattled, and we both got spankings. That little boy got tossed out of the compound when we were fifteen. (Not because of me, thank goodness.)

But I still remember his smile. His name was Jacob, and he had clear blue eyes. I always liked the boys too much. Eventually I learned to conceal it, but that was my secret shame. My cross to bear.

It’s still true, too. Since those kisses with Zachariah in the back of a car, no other man has touched me. But I wish one would.

Dylan, specifically.

But now I’m very tired of my own bullshit. “It’s your turn, Rickie. What’s your story?”

He pushes my refilled cider mug toward me with a teasing smile. “I grew up an army brat. Lived in ten places by the time I turned eighteen.”

“Is that why you speak German?”

“Das ist richtig. And here’s the part you won’t even believe—I won a spot at the U.S. Military Academy. I did my first year of college there. With the buzz cut and the uniform.”

“And saluting?” I can’t picture Rickie as a soldier. I just can’t.

“The whole thing.” He chuckles wickedly.

“Why’d you leave?”

“I don’t talk about that part.”

“Hey!” I argue. “I told you my story.”

“Did you really?” His intelligent eyes hold mine. “Or did you leave out all the shame?”

Well, heck. I guess I did. We consider each other across the small table. Then he smiles, and it’s very kind. As if we understand each other. “A professor basically said the same thing to me this week. Did you take freshman composition?”

Rickie shakes his head. “Is that the one where you have to write a different essay on the same theme every week?”

“Right. The semester’s theme is food. So I wrote something about the unseen miracle of microorganisms making milk into cheese. The professor hated it. He said there wasn’t enough of me in there.”

“I guess you’re supposed to bleed for him onto the page.” Rickie snorts. “Have some more rum.” He holds up the bottle. And I push my mug a little closer for him.

THIRTY-FIVE

Zambonis

Dylan

In my bedroom, I pour myself a drop of scotch and listen while Kaitlyn plays a new composition on her acoustic guitar. I swear she played the same thing for me last weekend, but I won’t want to be a dick and point that out.

Besides—it’s entirely possible that the music is just a ruse to get me alone. Kaitlyn is a crafty one.