“I don’t need decorations in my room to sleep better.” “Then what do you need?” she asks. I pull out onto the main road and head north toward Jackson’s, which is outside of town. “It’s not anything you can buy at a store,” I answer. “What is it?” “Nothing you need to worry about.” “Ryland,” she says as I can feel her eyes on me. “Tell me.” Feeling ridiculous, I say, “The best sleep I’ve had in a long while was the night we spent in San Francisco. So it seems to me what I need in my bedroom . . . is you.”
