“I thought it was a good threat whenever I got in trouble. ‘I’m moving to the woods and becoming an anchorite and you’ll never find me!’ It sounded fun. Hole up someplace pretty, some, like, forest idyll that’s quiet and private. And you have an order or whatever that checks in from a distance and makes sure you’re not deathly ill and in the meantime, you can do whatever you want with your life. Dance or plant flowers or play your instrument or talk to the animals, with nobody around to witness it.”

The train began to slow. He rocked against me, legs touching, left, right.

“You don’t want to do that anymore, though, do you?” Oscar’s eyes were warm on mine. “Leave the world behind. All the people in it.”

“No.” I peered up at him. “I don’t.”

My pulse felt steadier, saying that out loud.

Oscar glanced over his shoulder. “Is this—?”

“Oh crap, this is us.”

We zoomed out like toy cars as the doors were sliding shut.

“Where to now?” I asked Oscar.

“Home,” he said, a dangerous edge to his smile. “Let’s be anchorites.”

21.

we maintained a G-rated distance from each other even after we ducked into the basement apartment and shut the door. Oscar’s couch, walls, floor were carpeted with composition paper. But the bed was clear.

He sat on the end of the mattress. “Come here.”

I walked over slowly, then stood in front of him the way he’d hovered over me on the subway. He lifted my shirt, gently, like it might disintegrate under his fingertips, and kissed my stomach.

I closed my eyes and my knees softened, the rest of me folding down, Oscar guiding my back to the side until I was lying on the bed and he was above me. Something told me this wasn’t something anchorites did much of.

He kissed me, slow and deep, his chest grazing my own, hips falling onto mine. I pulled him closer, thirsty to my bones. The more familiar his kiss became, the more it seemed to affect me.

His right hand cupped my shoulder and his left slid under my shirt, tracing the lace of my bra. His touch was so soft it felt respectful—reverent. He drew away to look at me, brown eyes wide, almost pained.

“Ruby,” he said. “Ruby Ruby Ruby . . .”

“Oscar Oscar Oscar,” I teased—but my mind was whirring back to life.

His voice had made my name sound apologetic. Like there was a caveat hanging over his head. Then I looked over his shoulder and saw it, pinned to the wall, strewn everywhere. Oscar’s “sick day” could only last so long. He hadn’t come to New York to make out with me, after all.

And there was one thing I was good at—I’d been doing it my whole life.