We stand as close as we stood the last feast day, when I leaned toward him and he jerked closer. And his breathing has gone light again, telltale light, and I’m alive as if I’m riding Sparker— “Griff, I don’t . . . I never wanted it to be like that.” His eyes are so close, close as Julia’s used to be. Except his are so dark they’re almost black. “It wouldn’t,” I tell him. Our voices are soft, barely a whisper, as I lift my fingers to trace the back of his neck, to snag the curls at the nape. “Why wouldn’t it?” he asks. “Because I want it.”
