himself. He’s my days of the week. The squares on my calendar.
“White, off-white stripes, cream, non-gender-specific yellow, disgusting mustard, baby-blue, robin’s-egg, dove-gray, navy, black.” I tick them off on my fingers.
Josh is alarmed. “You’re still delirious.”
“Nope. Those are the shirt colors you have. Hugo Boss. Haven’t you ever been to Target?”
“What the hell is the difference between white and off-white?”
“Ecru. Eggshell. They’re different. There was one single time you surprised me.”
“And when was that?” He asks the question as indulgently as a babysitter. I kick my heel in temper against the mattress.
Why aren’t I draped in a black negligee at least? I have never been this unattractive. I’m wearing SLEEPYSAURUS. I look down. I’m wearing a red tank top. Holy shit. He changed me.
“The elevator,” I blurt. I want to reroute this moment, back to a time I was halfway attractive. “You surprised me then.”
He looks at me carefully. “What did you think?”
“I thought you were trying to hurt me.”
“Oh, great.” He sits back, embarrassed. “Clearly my technique is a little rusty.”
I snatch his sleeve with superhuman strength and sit up a little. “But then I realized what you were doing. Kissing. Of course. I haven’t kissed in ages.”
He frowns. “Oh, really.” He stares down at me.
I elaborate so forcefully my voice shakes. “It was hot.”
“I never heard from HR or the cops, so . . .” He trails off, looking at my lips. I’m twisting my hands into his T-shirt. It stretches around my fists. It’s so soft, I want to wrap my entire body in it.
“Is my bed everything you imagined?”
“I wasn’t expecting so many books. And it’s a little bigger than I pictured.”
“What about my apartment?”
“It’s a tiny little pigsty.” He’s not being mean about it. It’s true.
“Do you think Mr. Bexley and Helene make out in the elevator?” As long as he keeps answering my questions, I’ll keep asking them.
“Guaranteed. I’m sure they have vicious hate-sex after each quarterly review.” His eyes are tipping into black and he unravels his T-shirt from my hands as I catch a glimpse of half an inch of stomach— hard and hair. Now I’m sweating more.
“I bet when you shower, water pools right up . . . here.” I put my finger into his collarbone. “I’m thirsty.
I’ll dehydrate.” He lets out a breath and it blows right through me.
“Let’s be just like them when we grow up, Josh. We could start a new game. Imagine. We could play
games forever.”
“Let’s talk about it when you’re not crazy with fever.”
“Yeah, right. When I’m not sick you’ll hate me again, but for now we’re good.” I take his hand and put it on my forehead to hide my sudden despair.
“I won’t,” he tells me. He smoothes his hand away, over my hair.
“You hate me so much, and I can’t take it much longer.” I’m pathetic. I hear it in my voice.
“Shortcake.”
“Stop calling me Shortcake.” I try to roll onto my side but he presses the heels of his palms lightly against my shoulders. I stop breathing.
“Watching you pretend to hate that nickname is the best part of my day.”
When I don’t reply, he almost smiles and releases me. “It’s time to tell me about the strawberry farm.”
It’s a sore point—and it’s also not the first time he’s asked. I might be about to give him fodder to tease me with for a long time.
“Why?”
“I’ve always wanted to know. Tell me everything about strawberries.” His soft, cajoling whisper will be the death of me.
In my mind I’m almost back there, under the big canvas umbrella with the torn corner, talking to tourists while their kids run on ahead, buckets clanking. The alien hum of cicadas fill the air. There’s never silence.
“Well. Alpines are also called ‘Mignonette,’ and they