The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,13

our freezer, then closed it. He opened our fridge, chewed his lip while he considered a container of ricotta cheese (certainly not my purchase), then shut the fridge and suggested Jeni’s, an ice cream parlor down the block. I found it impossible to say no.

Inside Jeni’s, I was stunned by the exotic flavors: Thai Chili, Mango Lassi, Lime Cardamom. Bobby ordered Riesling Poached Pear sorbet. He said, “These are together,” to the girl behind the glass. I protested, but he took my hand, making me nearly swoon. “One scoop of ice cream. Just one,” he said. My mind whirled—had Olive talked to him about me? Did he know?

“What flavor?” the server asked.

I opened my mouth, heart racing, but had no idea what to say.

Bobby’s hand in the small of my back drew me toward the glass to look down at the tubs of ice cream. They were exquisite, but . . . my vision sparkled. I put out a hand to steady myself. I hadn’t meant to pick, but Bobby said, “Okay, Gravel Road it is.” The girl dipped the metal scoop in warm water and picked up a sugar cone, the scoop sliding into my not-choice.

I felt giddy. I’d handled a sedated tiger the previous week as part of my internship at the Columbus Zoo, but holding an ice cream cone felt more daring.

We sat outside on a bench. The dogwoods were bursting with pink and white bloom, reminding me, though I hated to admit it, of wedding cakes. The blossoms smelled like sex as the warm breeze scattered a confetti of petals upon us. Bobby had a white petal in his hair.

I kissed my ice cream cone. Sweet, cold caramel heaven on my lips. I touched it again with my tongue. Slivers of smoked almond. Grains of sea salt. Totally foreign. Forgotten.

I had only one thought: I want this. All of it. Sitting there with this man I’d been warned about who seemed to understand this bizarre, ugly thing about me and was patient and generous. I wanted his sudden smile, the way it lit up his face like a camera’s flash, the way his hair curled at the back of his neck, the way my lungs seemed to expand in his presence.

Bobby held eye contact until I blushed and dropped my gaze. I say blushed, but my “blush” is to break out in itchy red mottles like I’ve thrust my face into stinging nettles. I’ve had strangers ask me if I’m okay. Bobby didn’t seem to mind.

Back at the apartment, in my bedroom, when he undressed me, he looked away, and I knew it was because it hurt him to look. As he put his hands on my shoulders to guide me under the comforter, I mottled again, knowing exactly what my shoulders felt like under his fingers.

I covered myself, and Bobby crawled beside me, him on top of the covers, me beneath them. “You’re too skinny,” he whispered in a voice full of sorrow. Then he kissed me. Just one kiss, but it lasted. It didn’t get hurried or rushed on to other things. I savored it, the kiss and his words, like I’d savored the surprise of sea salt in the caramel. A magic combination.

We slept, that puffy yellow comforter between us, until late in the night, when knocking startled us awake. “Cam?” Olive opened my door, light from the hall spilling in. “Was Bobby here? His suitcase is in the—”

She blinked at her shirtless brother. “Oh,” she said. “Shit.” She slammed the door.

“Ollie?” Bobby called. “Wait.” He followed her.

Profanities flew, as they always did within his family. I put on a robe and joined them.

“Ice cream?” Olive raised her eyebrows at me. “Yeah, right.” I was certain Olive didn’t really believe me until she saw my changed appetite the next day. And I’m sure she didn’t believe me, then or now, that “nothing but a kiss” had happened on that visit.

Bobby stayed for three days. I went home to Dayton only for Mother’s Day instead of for the whole weekend, claiming I was swamped with homework. Bobby would begin each night on the couch while I lay awake until he crept to my room and curled up with me, warming my cold, no-body-fat self. He bought bag after bag of groceries, filling our pantry. He baked bread in our tiny kitchen. When the shiny, golden loaf came out of the oven, he pulled handfuls from it, like buttery cotton, which he fed to me,