“Sorry,” I mumble. But I’m not. I’m happy to see Ashton more relaxed.

“How was the rest of your volunteer session?”

“Hard. Sometimes I wonder if it will get easier. I love being around kids and I want to help them, but . . .” Tears trickle down my cheek. “I don’t know if I can handle wondering which ones I’m around are going to survive.” Ashton is silent as I brush my hand across my cheek and sniffle.

“I wondered about that, back when you told me what you wanted to be,” he says quietly. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to sit back and wait for someone to die, especially when you can’t stop it from happening.”

Is that what happened to you, Ashton? Did you have to watch your mother die? I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure that I’m that kind of person.” Pausing, I add, “Wow. I’ve never admitted that out loud before. To anyone.”

“Not even your doctor?”

“No! Especially not him. He thinks he has me all figured out,” I mutter.

“What do you mean?”

I shake my head. “No way, Ashton. You’ve already gotten enough out of me for one day.”

Strumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, he sighs. “Fine. How were the twins after I left?”

I smile. “They asked if you could come back,” I confirm with a chuckle.

A wide smile stretches across his face. “Yeah? They liked me that much?”

I roll my eyes. “I think they liked you more than they like me. Eric said that I must get really angry when I’m Irish if you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”

A deep, throaty laugh escapes Ashton’s lips and my body instantly warms. “What’d you say?”

“Oh, I assured him that I get plenty mad even when I’m not ‘Irish’ and you’re around.”

That earns another laugh. “I love it when you don’t censor yourself. When you just say what’s on your mind and don’t worry about it.”

“Then you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.

“That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”

My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”

I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.

“What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.

“I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”

With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”

Okay. “What about being a lawyer?”

“I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.

Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”

There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.

I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”

“Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.

Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times. “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.

We’re silent for a moment, but I need to know more about Ashton. Everything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “Why do you wear it?”

“Because I’m a fucking prisoner in my life, Irish!” As if that sudden outburst revealed more than he intended, his mouth clamps shut. He releases my hand.

I alternate between furtive glances at him and smoothing the pleats in my skirt, but I don’t say anything as he turns into the quiet parking lot. When he pulls into a corner spot, off to the end, I expect him to shut the ignition and jump out, anxious to be rid of me. But he doesn’t. He lets the car idle with the radio playing softly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.

“You probably think I’m exaggerating, aren’t you.” His tone is tempered again. I sit still and listen. “I’m living it up, right? This school, the money, the girlfriend . . . this fucking car.” He slams his fist on the dashboard angrily. “Poor fucking me, right?” His hands fold at the back of his neck as he leans back to close his eyes. “He’s controlling me, Irish. My life. And everything in it. I’m trapped.” There’s no mistaking the pain in his voice now. It’s raw and agonizing, and it squeezes my chest.

I don’t have to ask whom he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s the same person who gave Ashton his scars. I so badly want to ask how he’s trapped and why, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He might shut down. So instead I whisper, “How can I help?”

“Make me forget.” He looks at me. The sadness that I saw in his eyes a week ago is revealing itself again.

“I . . .” I falter. What is he asking me to do? He uses sex to forget, he already suggested that. But I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Panic is bubbling inside and it must be clear on my face.

“Not that, Irish,” he whispers. “I don’t want that from you. I won’t ever ask for that.” He releases his seat belt and then reaches over to undo mine. Taking my hand, he pulls it toward his chest. With no hesitation and enormous relief, I shift in my seat until I can rest it over his heart. It responds immediately, starting to beat faster and harder as his hand presses tightly over mine, warming it.

“Your hand like this? I can’t even describe how incredible it feels,” he whispers with a wistful smile. I bite my lip as a thrill rushes through my insides, knowing that I’m making him feel this good, that I feel so connected to him.

Resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes, he quietly asks, “Do you think about me, Irish?”

“Yes.” The answer comes out faster than I intended, and I feel the responding skip beneath my fingers.

“A lot?”

I hesitate on that one, trying to swallow my embarrassment.

Cracking one eye to look at me, he murmurs. “You’re supposed to just tell me.”

“Right.” I smile to myself. “Yes.” Another skip.

There’s a pause, and then he whispers, “I didn’t mean to make you cry over me, Irish. The bad stuff was a long time ago. He can’t hurt me like that anymore. He has other ways, but . . .”

With a ragged sigh, I offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. I cry a lot. My sister makes fun of me. And I think it was just an emotional day all round. Sometimes it’s hard to stop dwelling on the bad stuff.”

His lips part as if about to respond, but then he closes them. I wonder what he’s thinking but I don’t ask. I just watch a calm peace pass over his face while his heart still pounds. “Do you want me to help you forget for a while?”

“I . . .” My wide eyes flash to his mouth.

And suddenly he’s moving, twisting in his seat and pushing me back gently into mine, telling me to relax before I can even register that my entire body has tensed.

Ashton doesn’t hesitate, his mouth claiming mine, his tongue forcing its way in. My chest feels light yet at the same time heavy and my body feels like it’s on fire but icy cold. I quickly don’t care about anything or anyone else but myself and being with him.

I silently marvel at how his tongue is both delicate and forceful, skillfully sliding and curling around mine. His mouth is just as minty and heavenly and delicious as I remember it being. So delicious that I barely notice my chair reclining. He’s set it to a comfortable slant where I’m still sitting but am able to stretch out. Shifting his mouth to my ear to graze the lobe with his tongue, he says in a low, gravelly voice that vibrates through to my core, “I’m going to do something and you can tell me to stop.” I inhale sharply as a hand settles on my thigh and begins its ascent. “But I really hope you don’t.”