“I’m sorry, Jay.” Winnie reaches out a hand, as if to take his. But then she stops halfway. Her fingers fall useless to the frozen roof. “Me too.” His gaze flicks to her hand. One heartbeat. Two. Wind whips against him, pulling up his hair. Until finally, he reaches out and takes her fingers in his own. Then he slowly levers himself back onto the shingles and stares up at the sky. His grip is cold and damp from the beer bottle. For some reason, it makes Winnie think of the forest when it rains.
