Even after she crawls off of me, she lays with her back to me, and I wrap her up in my arms. My lips rest against her shoulder. I wish she’d turn around.

I can’t sleep like this, with so much goddamn uncertainty.

Then, I hear her sniffle, and I know she’s crying.

“That night, before the party, you asked me what I thought this was.” She whispers into the dark. “What is this, Murph?”

After a long silence from me, when I take too long trying to find the answer, she turns over and stares at me. “It’s just sex,” she says. “That’s all it was ever supposed to be. Just sex to avoid how much everything hurts. I’m not mad about that. When all of this is over, we won’t be at this house anymore. You’ll go home, and maybe I’ll stay on Wickett, maybe not. But we won’t see each other every day, and maybe I’ll come over for a quickie, but that’s it. Let’s not complicate things anymore, and I won’t pressure you to say anything you don’t want to say.”

I stare at her, stunned as she leans up and presses her lips to mine. Then she rolls over and falls asleep.

It takes me a while to decide that she said that because that’s what she thinks I want to hear. Maybe it was what I wanted to hear two weeks ago, but it sure as fuck isn’t what I want to hear now. Not at all.

Chapter 19

“Whatcha working on?” He peers over my shoulder and watches me sketch. I’ve been working on this view from the door of the shop all week. It’s almost a perfect view of the pier and the boats in the harbor across the way. But every time I try it, I shade the water too much and it comes out looking like flames.

“That boat is perfect,” he says, pointing to a sailboat coasting through the waves.

“Thanks,” I smile. When I turn my head up toward him, my eyes pause for a moment on his lips. I want to kiss him, but everything has changed between us. I thought defining this thing between us would make it easier, but it hasn’t. It only made it worse.

The will reading is tomorrow. Now’s not the time to start blurring lines.

He leans back for a moment and watches me with scrutiny.

“What?”

“Want to give me a tattoo?” he asks, and I let out a hearty laugh, but he doesn’t move or laugh. “Are you being serious?”

“Yep. Come on.”

I don’t move, gaping at him. He’s being serious.

“Murph, I can’t give you a tattoo.”