CHAPTER 38.

When his limbs could hold him again, he moved off her, but not far, still wanting closeness, the aftershocks of their lovemaking still sending ripples across the network of his nervous system.

And then worry gripped him. What the hell had he done? This was exactly not the plan. Friendship. Hanging out. Not messing it up. What happened to those? What happened to using his head-the guy on the top floor, instead of the guy in the garden apartment?

He was afraid to look at her, but he had to look. Exactly how bad had he screwed up?

It was like glancing in a mirror. She had that same Holy shit, did that really happen, was it okay, are we okay? expression that he felt on his own face. She pressed her lips together, and he thought, Oh no, please don't do that. Please let it be okay. Her lips pressed tighter, almost disappearing. And then a snort came out of her nose-a laugh that exploded from the only available outlet. She was laughing!

"What?" he demanded to know.

"Oh, my God, Sean. That was . . . it was . . . unbelievable."

He smiled. How could he not?

"I mean . . ." She suddenly looked unsure. "It was, right?"

He gathered her up in his arms, kissing her temple, running his fingers up and down her back, thanking God she was happy. "It was," he murmured against her cheek. "Un. Believable."

She snuggled deeper into his embrace until every possible part of them that could be touching was. And he surrendered to that loose, weak feeling, with the astoundingly comforting knowledge that everything was okay. At least for now.

When he woke, it was dark, and he was freezing. He slowly released one arm from around her back and reached behind him to see if he could pull a corner of the cotton blanket over them. His back registered its extreme displeasure.

Rebecca stirred. "I'm hungry," she whispered.

They put on clothes and went up to the kitchen. Rebecca poured them each a heaping bowl of Raisin Bran. She'd put on her tank top and shorts, but her bra must have been left in the basement, wherever he'd flung it. Her breasts were loose against the fabric of her shirt. He dutifully ate his cereal, all the while wondering how soon he could get his hands on her again.

"How's your back?" she asked with a yawn.

He shrugged. It was killing him, but he didn't want her to know that. Suddenly back pain seemed synonymous with old and decrepit, and that was hardly the look he was going for.

"Are you tired?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess." She smiled wryly. "It's been an unusually busy

day."

"If you're too tired to drive me home . . . I could stay." As soon as he said it, he was sure it sounded desperate. But how did he know? Before now, he'd never really cared all that much whether he stayed or not. Which, of course, meant that he had never sounded desperate.

She crunched on her Raisin Bran for a few chews. "Do you want to stay?"

"Do you want me to?"

She studied him, thinking about this. Five seconds of torture. "Yes."

"Okay."

"That doesn't sound very enthusiastic."

How do guys do this? he wondered. How do I do this?

He stood, came around to her side of the table, took the spoon out of her hand, and slid it into the bowl. Then he gently pulled her up toward him, against him, wrapping his arms around her. "I am very enthusiastic."

"I can feel your enthusiasm," she giggled.

"My enthusiasm likes to make its presence known. And it wouldn't mind feeling a little of yours, in return."

They slept in the twin bed in her room, which was uncomfortable in a very appealing way. He couldn't get enough of feeling her body against his, even when he was spent, and sex wouldn't be happening again anytime soon. And since there was no way for a good portion of her not to be in contact with a good portion of him, he spent a very happy, if incommodious, night.

When he woke it was light out, and finding her gone was like getting pencils and Scotch tape in his stocking on Christmas morning. He heard a shower running, and it was tempting to go and join her. He was pretty sure his "enthusiasm" was in need of some time to recharge, but the thought of being naked with her under a stream of warm water was enticing all the same.

Just then the shower shut off. She probably had to get to work.

Work!

He was scheduled at the Confectionary and had forgotten entirely. He looked around for a clock. All the furniture was white with hearts carved into it; it was little girl furniture. The walls were painted blue. He finally spied the clock on the bookcase. It was 8:15.

He jumped out of bed and almost knocked her over as she came into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. That smell-really nice soap. He wanted to rip the towel off and smell every inch of her. But he was so late for work. He grabbed up his boxers. "I'm supposed to be at the Confectionary," he told her, "like two hours ago."

"You're going to shower first, though."

"No, I really gotta go."

"Sean, you have to shower," she said. "You smell like sex."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I would definitely not buy a cruller from you."

"No?" he said, dropping the boxers and putting his arms around her.

"Well . . ." She smiled up at him. "I guess I would. But trust me, every other person on the planet will find you offensive."

He called the Confectionary and told Cormac he'd overslept, which was certainly no lie. When they pulled into the Confectionary parking lot, he noticed that she didn't put the car in park, but let it idle in drive with her foot on the brake.

"So, um . . . are you around tonight?" he asked.

"I have plans," she said.

"Plans." One word. With the impact of a gut punch.

"Uh-huh. But let's get together tomorrow, okay? Are you open?"

"Yeah," he said, still slightly stunned. "I'm open."

"Great. Okay, so I'll see you then." She smiled at him, and he didn't see the joy in it. But maybe he was just comparing it to last night. Hard to compete with that kind of joy.

They leaned toward each other for what ended up being a goose-necked awkward kiss. He got out of the car, and she drove away. He felt a weird, gauzy kind of bereavement descend on him, in part because of being separated from her body. And in part, because of her plans.

"Is it possible you've had a minor stroke?" said Tree. "Because you have messed up like eighty percent of the orders since you got here."

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Huh," she snorted. "I'm a teenager. We're in a constant state of sleep deprivation, so you aren't scoring any sympathy points with that one."

Cormac came by and clapped a hand on Sean's shoulder. "Seriously," he murmured low enough so no one else could hear. "What the fuck?"

"Complications," muttered Sean.

"Yeah?"

"Like you read about."

"Wanna go for a beer tonight?"

"Yeah, but it's Thursday. Doesn't Barb have her class on Tuesdays?"

"That class ended last week. But, um . . . I'll check in and let you know."

"She could come if she wants," offered Sean. He had a new appreciation for Barb's powers of discernment since that "if you call yourself an old soul, you aren't one" comment. And a woman's perspective might come in especially handy with the Rebecca situation.

"Yeah . . ." said Cormac, scratching the back of his neck and leaving a powdery trail of flour. "She's hanging close to home these days."

"Everything okay?"

"She's on this new fertility drug. Makes her kind of . . . emotional." He gave a humorless chuckle. "Sort of like a weepy grizzly on crack."

Sean nodded sympathetically. "Good times."

"Like you read about."

CHAPTER 39.

When Sean got home, all he wanted to do was down a handful of ibuprofen and pass out for about six hours. But Aunt Vivvy was wandering around the house in a semivague state, George stalking by her side on high alert, and Sean was afraid to close his eyes until the two of them settled down some. Also, he remembered that he'd never checked that e-mail from Kevin's teacher, as he'd meant to do at Rebecca's house. Just the briefest thought of exactly how he'd gotten distracted made his nether region start to perk up a little.

He focused on locating Deirdre's laptop and found it in her bedroom under some clothes. He powered up right there in her room, found the e-mail, and skimmed to where it said, Kevin's a wonderful boy, a pleasure to have in class, but he does have his challenges. I'm concerned that middle school might be especially tough for him. Would it be possible for us to meet and discuss this? I feel strongly that it's in Kevin's best interest to get some supports in place under the circumstances.

Best, Claire Lindquist He replied that he was free to meet her anytime and thanked her for her concern.

There was another e-mail, this one from the middle school administration, notifying parents "and other guardians" that class schedules for the upcoming school year had been sent to the e-mail address specified. Copies were available in the main office.

He had promised Kevin two things: to walk the dog and pick up the schedule. Since he'd so far failed miserably at the former, he was especially anxious to fulfill the latter. He could walk over to the middle school and take George with him, killing two guilt birds with one stone.

A new e-mail dropped into his in-box. It was from Claire Lindquist, telling him that she would be prepping in her classroom all day tomorrow, and if that was convenient for him, he could come by. He wasn't scheduled to work for Cormac, so he replied that he'd be there at ten.

He got his aunt a cup of tea and some Fig Newtons, fanning them out on a china dessert plate the way she always did.

"How did you know I like these?" she asked.

Because you eat them every day. "Just a guess," he said.

She seemed calmer after that, and decided to go up to her room for a nap. George stood up to escort her. "Oh, no, you don't, beast," muttered Sean. "You're with me."

George allowed herself to be clipped to the leash, but stood immovable as a statue in the foyer until Aunt Vivvy's bedroom door clicked shut. If a canine could be said to feel conflicted, George was the poster dog. She clearly needed a walk, but she didn't want to leave the house.

A thought occurred to Sean as the two of them stepped down off the porch and out toward the street: he and George had the same problem. They both wanted desperately to get out into the world, and they both felt guilty about going.

He stopped for a moment and looked down at the dog. She looked up at him, waiting for his lead. The ibuprofen had kicked in, and Sean's back had downgraded from a high-pitched squeal to a dull roar. Carefully he squatted down and gave the dog's neck a good rough scratch.

"Listen," he told her. "Viv's the queen, and Kevin's the prime minister. But you and me, we're just rank and file. We're on the same team, so let's try to help each other out, okay?"

George turned her muzzle into Sean's hand and gave it a little lick.

When they got to the middle school to pick up Kevin's schedule, Sean looped George's leash through the bike rack and went into the main office. The exterior of the building looked the same as it had thirty years ago, but inside, things were different. The glass trophy case was crowded with art and music awards, in addition to sports trophies. He glanced into the library across the hall and saw that a third of the room was now filled with computer terminals.

In the main office, he told the secretary he was there for Kevin's schedule.

"Great, let me just get you to sign off on this form," she said. "You're his dad, right?"

"His uncle."

"Oh." This seemed to throw her off for a moment. "Um, his legal guardian?"