“I’m not giving you my number because I don’t want this to kill me,” he grinds out, his eyes darkening. I’m trying not to hate him right now, because I know everything he says is right and true. We can’t be together, and keeping in touch would leave both of us craving more. Mal jots the terms of the contract on the napkin. Then he signs it and slides it toward me. “Whenever you’re ready.” I read it first.
