“No, no, of course not.” I slump into my seat. “I’m sure this will look striking above the bed.”

“I better get this priceless objet d’art out of the snow. Back in a sec.” Sabin swooshes from the street to the sidewalk on his boots like he’s skiing, and uses the backside of the painting as an umbrella.

I am alone with Chris, and it’s hard not to stare at him now that I’m given the opportunity. There is a strong family resemblance between Chris and Sabin, but Sabin is bigger and burlier, and generally more disheveled. Sabin reminds me of a big, messy kid, while Chris has a lean, groomed, and definitely grown-up allure. Chris is put together in a way Sabin isn’t. Even when Chris’s hair falls into his eyes, as it is doing now, it is perfect. And I know what is under his layers of clothing, how the muscles in his arms and chest are insanely cut and defined. I know how he breathes when he cups my ass in his hand … .

More than those things, I know how he sounds when he talks me down from pain.

I know too much not to be affected by his presence.

The windshield is nearly covered with snow. I squint my eyes. All the giant flakes cling to one another, and none are able to survive alone.

“Hey, Blythe, listen.” Chris leans into the cab of his truck and grabs my hand, but I refuse to look right at him. “About earlier … About that night?”

“What? What about it?” I focus on the snowy glass in front of me again. Those damn green eyes of his are too compelling, and I’m afraid they’ll make me all weak and pathetic. I have a right to show him how severely irritated I am. How confused I am.

“I’m sorry. That probably shouldn’t have happened. And I didn’t mean to just … to leave the way that I did. It wasn’t you. And I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t me?” I snap. “That’s got to be the goddamn dumbest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re way too smart to say something like that. Don’t be such an asshole.”

“Okay, yes. It was you.”

“Awesome. That’s great to hear.”

“No, I don’t mean like that. It was just too … I don’t know.”

I finally turn to see his face as he grasps for the right words. Chris looks lost, and I have a hard time not empathizing with that. More than lost, though, he looks scared. Something else that I understand.

Finally he continues. “It was too intense.”

Oh. He had felt that, too.

“It’s just that … I went too far with you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m not really boyfriend material.”

I glare at him. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. Who says I want a boyfriend? Or that I want you to be my boyfriend?”

This, I am somewhat surprised to discover, is true. While, yes, I have spent more than enough time fantasizing about Chris, and I can’t deny the fierce connection that I feel, I haven’t really considered the idea of having an actual relationship with him. I’ve imagined lots of nakedness and lust, yes, but commitment? No. Life is just starting to overwhelmingly and wonderfully creep back into my screwed-up soul, which means I am hardly equipped at the moment to sort out boyfriend stuff. It’s a relief to recognize this.

“Did you ever consider that maybe I’m not girlfriend material?”

Chris strokes his finger over the top of my hand. “Yes, you are. You’re outstanding girlfriend material. I’m the one who’s all kinds of fucked up. Trust me. You and I are better off as—”

“Don’t you dare say the F word, or I swear to God I’ll pass out.”

He says nothing. His eyes are gentle, sorrowful even, and I feel terrible.

“It’s fine,” I continue. “Things got a little out of hand. We’re back to normal now. Restaurant buddies, dorm mates.” I stare at the windshield again and try to appear fascinated by the snow, but I can feel him watching me. “Stop looking at me. It’s annoying.”

“I can’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Chris takes an eternity to respond. “I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Chris? I’ve hardly seen you at all.”

“I know. I’ve been trying to stay away from you. I don’t want to lose you, but I don’t know that I can get into a relationship with you, either—”

“Chris.” I stop him, unsure what I want to say. My hand is still in his. This—touching him, being with him—feels impossibly comfortable and right. I put my other hand on top of his and squeeze. Is his a perfect hand? To some, maybe not. Aside from looking a little rough and chapped from the winter cold, the shape of his hand makes me wonder if he broke it as a child and it wasn’t reset well. But I love this hand. Chris may be imperfect, and he makes mistakes, but I can feel his heart, and I know that he is mine. In what capacity, I don’t know, because what I feel for him is complex. It’s so easy to be with him and yet also too much. I think I’m starting to understand a little why he ran from me that night.

Still, I want to be with him, in whatever way either of us can tolerate. I don’t want to give him up.

“Don’t stay away,” I finally say calmly. “Don’t. We don’t have to be boyfriend and girlfriend. We don’t have to be defined. We don’t have to let anything happen on beds or up against doors. We can just be us. We can just be this,” I say as I squeeze his hand again.

Chris leans in through the window and holds his cheek to mine as he wraps an arm around my neck and holds me. There are a million things that I want to say to him, and an equal number of things I don’t, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he feels the same.

CHAPTER TWELVE Finding Solace

I glare at the fantastically ugly neon Jesus painting that is propped up on top of Estelle’s dresser and try to imagine what it’s like to believe that God is watching out for me, protecting me. It’s just not possible for me to believe that there are reasons for things. I once had faith and went to church with my family, but now I don’t know what to believe or how to believe. I imagine that anyone who goes through trauma like I have wonders the same things I do: how God can exist and allow such awful things to happen. There are no reasons for my parents’ death, and that’s that. There is nothing like trauma to make you see the world clearly, and now that I know there is no God, I cannot go back.

Maybe that’s part of why I am so uncomfortable with Estelle’s ridiculous Jesus painting. It’s a reminder of what I have lost and what she still has. Considering that Estelle spends significantly less time in our room than I do, it doesn’t seem fair that I am subjected to this piece of trash. Estelle describes the painting as the equivalent of fan fiction. “It’s an homage to his character,” she said once. “A fanciful play on ideology.”

Whatever the fuck it is, I don’t like it.

Aside from the unfortunate decoration, Estelle is a great roommate. I even wish she were around more, but she tends to come home late at night. I haven’t asked where she’s coming from, but it’s obvious she’s seeing someone. Well, or fucking someone. Since she’s made no mention of whoever this guy is, I assume that he is not going to pass the sibling-approval test Chris referred to.

I love how energetic, outspoken, and fun she is and how she routinely throws barely worn clothing in my direction, claiming the clothes aren’t her style. She brings home unusual food from the restaurant, so we always have something to pull from the mini fridge, and because of her relentless pestering, I now own more stylish running gear than I really need. If I’m not careful, I’m going to develop an addiction to online shopping, but Estelle makes browsing through Web sites fun. It seems that she has money to burn, and although living with her is getting expensive, investing a little in fashion and beauty after years of neglect feels right.

But the best thing about having her around is that I have a friend, and friends, I am learning, can change everything. For example, the fact that Thanksgiving is tomorrow and I am happy to be spending it here with the Shepherd siblings instead of going back to my aunt’s house.