“Are you usually snail-paced with girls?” I ask him. “Not usually, no,” Donnelly admits, trying to read my expression. “But I’ve gotta be with you, you know that…” I know. My gaze is downcast, mixed emotions torpedoing me. The only way for him to speed up is if I remember. He takes my hand in his and rubs his thumb over my mood ring. It’s grayer than purple today. Donnelly says, “I’d be frozen in a cryochamber pod with you, if that’s what it took.”
