Page 87 of On His Mind

She looks at it, and then she moves back on the bed until she’s against the headboard. She pats the space beside her. “Read to me.”

I don’t move.

She’s got the book in her hand and bright brown eyes. I’m looking at her, and my throat’s gone tight. There’s a wall coming up in me fast and hard. She’s asking for the one thing I don’t give anyone. She has no idea what she’s asking of me. She’s sitting there waiting, open-faced, asking me knowing I’m going to give it to her.

I stand up and sit down against the headboard beside her, because it’s her, and because I’ve already decided tonight that I don’t care what it costs. I pick up the book, but my hand won’t open it.

“It’s in French,” I whisper.

“The girls said you speak it,” she says. “Is that true?”

I look at her.What girls?

She blinks back, waiting for my answer.

I clear my throat and nod.

“Really? Are you fluent?”

“Oui, c’est vrai.”

Her eyes smile before her mouth does. And now that I’m this close to her, I see a small dimple under her right eye. I accidentally look down at her parted lips for a second. Then I meet her eyes.

“Y’a pas de quoi être impressionné.”

“Huh,” she says softly. “So you’re quiet in two languages.”

It pulls something loose in my chest before I can stop it — not quite a laugh, but close, the first one all night. She’s smiling at me in the dark like she’s pleased with herself, and she should be. It’s a good line. She has no idea how close she just got to it. Being quiet is the only thing that ever kept me safe. But she’s smiling at me in the dark like it’s a cute thing, a quirk, and I let her keep thinking that.

“Where are you from? I thought you said Maine.”

“I am,” I say, turning to the book.

“Wait,” she says. “Don’t shut me out.”

My eyes flick back to her face.

Her smile is sad. “Please.”

Fuck.Her face guts me. She thinks I shut her out? I shut the world out, and it’s nothing personal.

“I’m from Maine, I swear.”

“So, you took French or something?”

I shake my head. “My dad is French Canadian.”

“Oh, did your parents divorce, and that’s why you don’t go back to Maine?”

I love the innocence in her question, but tonight’s not the night to talk about it.

“Do you––” I pause because I hate that I’m ignoring her question, but I also can’t answer it. “Do you want me to read to you in French or do you want me to translate?”

She looks at the book now, understanding that I don’t want to talk about it.

Her expression softens. “In French.”

I nod.