Finn kissed me on the chapel floor once, a laugh like blasphemy in his mouth. His hands were cold from the water; he touched me like heat was a spell he could teach me. Later, at the pond, with frogs sawing the night in half, he’d crowded me up against a birch and turned me into a lit fuse. Bark bit my palms. His breath steamed in the dark. He set a rhythm in my hips that I swear my heart still keeps when I’m not looking.
