A slow, bright anger started up someplace deep in her belly, and along with it the dull throb of desire. Angie thought of getting up and moving; she thought of putting her head on his chest and closing her eyes.

John’s hand traveled up her back to the nape of her neck, slowly, tentatively, and then settled there. She could feel the curve of skin between thumb and first finger along her hairline, and then his fingers threaded into the curls, damp with sweat.

“John.”

“Shhh. I’ve got something to say.”

The fingers kept working, pulling gently, tugging. Angie closed her eyes and tried to close her mind to what he was doing.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His tone was even and steady and considered, and with some part of her mind Angie wondered if he had practiced this speech.

“It was my fault, that summer. I pushed, and I didn’t see what that was doing to you.”

Angie steadied her breathing, counted to ten, counted again. The exact thing she had wanted to hear from him for these five years, word for word, and now it was said. She was gratified and relieved and unhappy, because it wasn’t enough. She opened her mouth to say—what? And found he wasn’t finished.

“I’ve been thinking about all this a lot these last couple days. There are a few things I know for sure. The first is, I don’t want to be like them.”

She said, “Like who?”

“I don’t want to end up like Harriet and Tab. The second thing I know for sure is, I’m already halfway there unless I do something about it. And lastly, I know that I have a ways to go before I figure out why I did what I did. I’ve screwed things up.”

Angie made a noise in her throat, though she herself couldn’t be sure what it meant: Stop, I can’t bear it, or Go on, get it over with. John came forward, leaned over so that their shoulders touched and their heads were side by side, like kids whispering secrets in the back of the classroom. His hand was still on the nape of her neck and his fingers moved in her hair.

“I ran into Win Walker out in the parking lot,” he said.

In her surprise Angie turned her head, and found he was so close that her hair brushed his face. He smelled of the sun on skin, of perspiration and wine, of soap, and of whatever it was that made John himself. It brought a flood of memories with it, associations that came to her in half images and bright colors and tastes and ripples that skittered over her skin like ants, made her want to jump up and run away.

“What about Win Walker?” Her voice was small and creaky and unwilling, but she forced the words out.