Chapter 6
Six
EMBER
I catch an odd look on Felix's face. It's a split-second thing, there and gone so fast I could have imagined it, but I know I saw it. It was…longing.
Raw, potent, fierce, and wild.
And it was leveled at me.
My heart pitter-patters in my chest at the fragmentary glimpse at his deepest emotions, at the knowledge that he was looking at me like that.
It's almost too much to handle, for so many reasons. Most of them are to do with Dutchie, and I shy away from even examining them in my own mind.
He jerks the shifter into gear, and the big diesel motor chugs and groans. Moments later, we're out of the YMCA parking lot and heading back toward town. Instead of downtown, though, he takes us into the industrial sector east of downtown. Crowe Construction and Demolition's headquarters is a half-acre lot, with three long, low equipment garages in a U-shape, the opening facing the road, with a small building front and center that used to be a vacation cottage some seventy years ago. The lot is all gravel, and there are vehicles and equipment of varying kinds and ages in the lot—a huge dump truck that has to be nearly fifty years old, a tiny backhoe-thing but with wheels instead of tracks, a massive yellow bulldozer, and several pickups with attached flatbed trailers.
I gesture at the cluster of vehicles. "Why is that stuff not parked in the garages?" I ask. "Wouldn't it be more secure?"
"That's overflow. My grandpa actually started the family business, Crowe Demolitions, more’n fifty years ago. He passed before I was born, and Dad transitioned the company to construction and renamed it Crowe Construction. Later on, Riley reopened Crowe Demolitions. Point is, a lot of that equipment there is old stuff we don’t use much. The dump truck is toast—needs a new tranny which would cost more than the thing is worth, the little backhoe I don't fuckin' know what's wrong with but it's fucked—something with the hydraulics, I think—and the dozer is legitimately from World War Two. It does run and work, but it's fiddly and difficult and requires constant maintenance. And those pickup trucks were the first company trucks Dad bought, so they all have like a half million miles on them."
"Oh. So the equipment and such that you actually use regularly does live in the garages."
He nods. "Yup."
He parks his big gold pickup in front of the little house and shuts it off. "C'mon, gotta grab the keys and sign out the flatbed.”
The little house is the actual HQ office—a tiny space in desperate need of renovation. The gray carpet is dingy, thin, and worn to fraying threads in the high-traffic spots, the walls are cheap wainscoting beneath dirty, cigarette smoke-yellowed plaster, and all the furniture is construction site specials—battered metal desks and filing cabinets, with buzzing, flickering fluorescent bulbs overhead. A thin-bladed fan stirs the air half-heartedly.. The smell of old, burned coffee and decades-old cigarette smoke is nearly overpowering.
A woman sits at one of the gigantic, olive-drab metal battleship-desks, three computer screens in front of her, a phone clamped between her ear and shoulder while a waist-height industrial printer noisily spits out pages rapid-fire. She's tall and slender with glossy, wavy brown hair laced with expensive blond highlights; she's remarkably beautiful, in a Skipper Barbie way. She has cat's eye blue-blocker glasses perched on her nose and she's ummm-humm ing and scribbling notes frantically. A moment after we enter, she thanks the person on the other end and hangs up, her eyes going to Felix.
"Fee! Just the man I needed to see." Her voice is sing-songy and chipper, her eyes drinking in Felix with obvious thirst.
"Hey, Jess," Felix says, his voice carefully neutral. "What's up?"
"The lumber order got all goofed up, somehow. They caught it before they shipped it, but it's gonna take a week or two before they can rectify it and send the correct order."
"Well fuck," Felix growls. "I need that lumber last fuckin' week. Who do I need to fire?"
"Not me!" She chirps, tapping her notepad with her pen. "They're sending us some pre-built framing at cost, and they're discounting the order by ten percent. I got it up to ten, actually—they were originally only offering five."
Felix shakes his head. “That's the third time they've fucked up an order in the last quarter, Jess. I'm losing patience with them." He scratches his jaw. "Get some other quotes for me, will ya? I'm thinking it's time to get a new lumber supplier."
She jots a note, nodding. "Will do. But Mason won't be happy. They've been our supplier since your dad's time."
"I don't care about Mason Carter’s feelings, Jess," Felix growls. "We've stuck with them because they've had good prices and they've been reliable up until recently. But they've jacked up their prices several times over the last couple years, and now they're fucking up orders. Find me a new supplier ASAP, please."
She tosses a snappy little two-finger salute. “Yes sir, will do." She shoots me a friendly smile. 'Hey, I'm Jess!"
"Ember," I say. "Nice to meet you."
Felix goes to a metal box on the wall by the side door, unlocks it with a key from his keyring, and finds the set he needs. There's a clipboard hanging on a nail beside the lockbox, and he scribbles some info on it—the vehicle, today’s date, and his name, I would assume.
He comes back to me and takes my hand—it's a casual, familiar gesture, a clasp of palms rather than the more intimate entwined fingers, but it's still an unexpected gesture. "Let's go."
Jess's eyes zero in on our joined hands, and the friendly smile melts faster than an ice cube in boiling water.
Uh-oh. I sense jealousy.
I let Felix lead me through the side door and out to the yard, but I can't resist a backward glance at Jess. I know it's petty and probably a dumb move, but I shoot her a smirk. Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I see the unrequited longing on her face clear as day. Then the side door slams closed on its hydraulic arm, and Felix is dragging me across the gravel yard.
"Hey," I say, tugging at his hand. "Slow down, would ya? Not all of us are six feet tall and all leg.”
He glances at me, frowning. "Oh, sorry." He immediately slows his pace to something I can match without trotting.
We cross the yard to one of the garages, and he enters a door around the side. The interior is pitch black and smells of grease and rust and age. He flicks a switch just inside the door, and massive fluorescent lights click on with a noisy buzz, illuminating a small fleet of large trucks. There are newer dump trucks, a wrecker, a big flatbed with stake-sides that has shovels, rakes, sledgehammers, and pickaxes strapped to the sides and several wheelbarrows strapped handles-up to the side-stakes.
He leads the way to a truck in the back, a big brown cab with a long, low flatbed, the kind of thing used for hauling bulldozers and backhoes. Felix hops up onto the bed and rattles a heavy chain the size of my arm, checking that it's secured, and then opens a big metal box at the front of the bed at the base of the cab's rear wall, sorting through rolled-up yellow straps and metal hooks with handles. Once he's satisfied, he steps from the bed to the cab's step, opens the door, and starts the motor. It catches with a deafening rattle and then settles to a low, grumbling idle.
He jerks his head at the cab. "Climb on in."
I go around the passenger side and climb awkwardly up, open the door, toss my things in, and then scramble up onto the brown, plasticky leather bench seat. He stabs a garage door clicker clipped to the sun visor and the massive rolling door squeals open, emitting bright sunlight in a widening crack.
He carefully navigates out of the garage, closes the garage door with another stab of his finger, and then we're out on the road, bouncing and jouncing at each bump and shift of the manual gears. The ride is so jouncy my tits are threatening to smack me in the face and knock me out.
I catch Felix watching the show out of the corner of his eye more than once, and eventually, I have to just laugh. "You picked this one on purpose, didn't you?"
"I have no idea what you mean," he mumbles.
"You picked the truck with the bounciest ride," I explain, gesturing at my chest as a divot in the road sends me flying to the ceiling, my boobs going momentarily weightless before crashing painfully back down. "Because of that."
"I picked the truck that's rated to haul other vehicles that has the necessary equipment to keep it strapped down so your home doesn’t go flying off into a ditch." A brief pause. “The show is just an incidental bonus."
I cross my arms over my chest. "Well, show's over. Sorry."
He grins at me. "I'm teasin' Ember. I didn't even consider that aspect."
I roll my eyes. "Sure you didn't."
"It's true! It's not something I go around thinking about, you know. Like, hmm, how can I get Ember's boobs to bounce the most?"
"You know, we talk about my boobs a lot. Have you noticed that?"
He glances at me. "You brought it up. I'm just driving."
“I mean in general."
"In general, they're fucking spectacular, and worth talking about." He shakes his head, huffing a laugh. "You haven't exactly gotten the best impression of me, I'm afraid. I'm usually more of a gentleman. There's just something about you. I dunno."
“Something about me turns you into a caveman?" I say, snickering. "Not sure whether to be insulted or flattered."
"Go with flattered?" he says, his tone making it a question.
"That would be convenient for you, wouldn't it?"
His answer is a shit-eating grin. "I mean, it'd let me off the hook, yeah." The grin, and the humor in general, fade. "Listen, Ember, I am sorry if—"
I cut him off. "Stop. Please, it's fine. Really."
"I'm not that guy, though. I'm really not."
I arch an eyebrow at him. "It really is just something about me in particular?" I suppress a laugh. "Or maybe two things in particular?"
"Now you're just being mean," he mutters. "I'm not that shallow, I swear."
"Uh-huh," I tease. "Su-u-u-ure." I draw the word out into several syllables.
"I'm not!"
I burst into laughter. "Omygod, Relax. I'm just fucking with you. You're good. It's totally fine. I'm not that easily offended. And if I'm being honest, the attention doesn't suck. I haven't felt attractive in a long time." I slap my hand over my mouth. "I did not mean to say that out loud."
Felix is quiet for a while, and I catch him shooting pondering looks at me. Finally, as we roll up to a stoplight, he allows himself a long, lingering look into my eyes. "I'd like to know what that means, but I don't want to push you to talk about something if you're not ready."
"I…" I sigh, shaking my head. "It's all tangled up, Felix. All the shit that's wrong with me is one big jumbled up mess of baggage."
"You can talk to me, you know. I won't judge. I won't push. I know I can't fix anything. But I can listen." The light turns green, and he returns his focus to the road, but I feel his attention on me even when he's not looking at me.
“That's very sweet, Felix. I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. I'm just…I don't know if I'm ready to talk about it. Not just with you, but anyone. Even Faye, I've only sort of touched on some things. She's a wise old bird, though, so she sorta gets the stuff I'm not saying."
He nods. "I get it. It's fine. But just consider it a standing, open-ended offer. Any time day or night, if you wanna talk, I wanna listen."
My heart melts a little more because it's obvious he means it. And part of me wants to open up to him. Part of me wants to let him in, to share my painful history with him. But something still stops me. Fear? A reticence to open up those wounds that haven’t even really scabbed over yet?
"What about you?" I ask. "What's your story, morning glory?"
He shrugs. "Not much of one."
"Oh, come on. Give me something."
He tips his head to one side. "I have a brother, Riley. He runs the demo side of the company."
"Are you close with him?” I ask.
He nods. "Yeah, we are close. We weren't always, though. We fought a lot as boys, especially in high school. He's younger by a couple years, so he was always tagging along and annoying the shit outta me and my friends. And then he sorta got into some trouble and did some time. When he was released, he struggled to find his place again, not just in society but the community as a whole, and our family. He struggled to find a job…it was a rough time for him. That's when we bonded. I had a demo crew that was short-staffed at the time so I put him with them, and he just…took off. He loved it. Eventually, he developed a program to help other convicts with the things he struggled with."
"What's the program?" I ask.
"Oh, it's a work-release thing. He works directly with Holbrook Correctional facility. They put him in touch with inmates that have clean inmate records—meaning, model prisoners, no fights, no demerits, none of that shit. He interviews them and if he accepts them into his program, they work for him on one of his demo crews. They get bussed here to the yard, put in a full day's paid work, and then get bussed back to the prison. There's a deputy from the prison on site at all times. They put in five years on the crew, and if they're well reviewed by Riley, they're eligible for early parole. Once paroled, they keep working for him, which sort of functions as an additional aspect of their parole. They still have to check in with their parole officer, but not as frequently as long as Riley delivers good regular reports of their behavior."
"That's pretty cool, actually,” I say.
"Well, that's not the cool part. There are work release programs everywhere. What sets his apart is that their wages, instead of just being paid directly to them, go into an escrow account, part of which goes to pay off their financial obligation to the prison, and the rest goes into savings so they have money to live off of when they get out."
"Wait, what? Financial obligation to the prison?"
He nods. "Jail ain't free, sweetheart. Prisons are privately owned. It’s a multi-billion-dollar industry. So yeah, a lot of guys come out of prison heavily in debt, can’t get a job, and often have nowhere to go and no car. It's punishment on top of punishment. Riley will be the first to say that he fucked up, and he deserved the sentence he got. But the rest of what he went through was wholly unnecessary and unjust, so he set out trying to fix it, at least as far as he could. When his guys get released, he personally picks them up from Holbrook, sets them up with a debit card so they have access to their money, and he has a deal with one of the apartment complexes in town—they always have a unit open so when his guys get out, they have a place to stay and enough money saved up to afford it. He picks them up and drives them to and from work until they can get their own car."
“That's really, really, amazing," I say. "He sounds like a great guy."
He grins. "I dunno about that. He's still a hothead and a hound dog, but yeah, he's got a great heart under all that. I'm proud of him. He's made some good out of his experiences."
I smile at him. "It has not escaped my notice, you know."
"What hasn't?" he asks, sounding perplexed.
“Your little redirection," I say. "I asked you about you, and you talked about your brother."
He shrugs. "He's my brother. He's a big feature in my life." He grins at me. "I said I won't push, and I won't, but I ain't gonna be the only one to get into my deep shit."
I nod. "That's fair."
We arrive at the Y right then, and I let him focus on getting the huge flatbed positioned where he wants it.
"Grab whatever you need right now and I'll get 'er hooked up," he says.
I shove my clothes into my suitcases, my toiletries, my everyday jewelry, my phone charger, laptop, chargers, and my small white Yeti cooler of perishable items. The cab isn't very big, however, so Felix straps it all down on the flatbed, and then hooks the big chain up to the front of my bus and goes through the process of securing my bus onto the flatbed.
"Alright," he announces, after triple-checking all the chains and straps until he's satisfied. "We're good. Off to see Mr. Nyx."
"So his name is Nicks, like N-I-C-K-S?"
"No," he says, chuckling. "N-Y-X. It's his last name. Cody Nyx. But literally no one but his mother calls him Cody, and only then when she's pissed at him."
"I don't know how to thank you, Felix," I say, my voice soft.
"Nah," he grunts. "All good."
I reach out and put my hand on his. "No, Felix. It's not nothing. Thank you."
He looks at me for a long moment, his gaze serious. "You're welcome."
I leave my hand on his, although I'm not sure why. It just…feels nice, I guess. I haven't had contact like this with another human since Dutchie died. It's innocent. It's not even handholding, it's just…contact. Human touch.
I don't want him to say anything about it. Don't make a big deal. I'm not ready.
He doesn't. He doesn't even look at our hands. But he does flip his hand palm up; for a moment, then, my little hand is nestled in his much larger one. His hand is fascinating—I feel every point of contact. His hand is as rough as sandpaper and thick with strength. He curls his hand around mine, like a nut within a shell. He squeezes ever so gently, and I get an immediate sense of the massive power in his hands. His hand engulfs mine, swallows it.
Instead of instilling a sense of smallness or vulnerability, I feel…a little safer. A little more secure. As if, because he's holding my hand, everything will be okay.
This freaks me the fuck out.
Panic sears through me, a boa constrictor coiling around my chest, preventing me from drawing breath, making my heart pound and my head throb. I fight it tooth and nail, trying desperately to draw a full breath, to slow my ragged, gasping, panting sense of all-pervading guilt and fear.
I have tunnel vision, barely able to see the road ahead of me; a roaring fills my ears as if a 777 is howling five hundred miles per hour past my head.
Can't think. Can't see. Can't breathe. Can't move.
Trapped.
It's wrong—all wrong.
The world halts. I hear a muffled sound—a thunk. Another. A voice, distorted as if we're underwater.
Movement. Sunlight. Warmth.
A face fills my narrowed field of vision—Felix. He's worried, scared, speaking, but all I can hear is the roaring in my ears, the fury of my all-consuming panic.
He crouches in front of me, slips my baby blue Tieks off my feet, sets them aside. Cool green grass tickles my soles. He guides my hands into the grass, cool verdant blades bending, pricking, tickling, fingers digging into the soil, earth caking under my nails.
He tips my head up, chin pointing at the sun—its rays bathe my face in warmth and light. The sky is blue—the color of my Tieks.
His hand splays on my chest above my cleavage, on the V of skin exposed by the neckline of my T-shirt—his hand is warm and callused, hard and heavy.
"…In, Ember. Breathe in." The roaring dulls a touch, so I can sort of make out his words—most of them. "Feel the grass…sky. Feel my hand…"
I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on his words. His voice. His hand pressing against my skin, fingers dimpling flesh over my heartbeat.
"Focus on what's real." He's behind me, now, big, hard, powerful body framing and surrounding me. Arms around my shaking body, sheltering, protecting. Voice a whisper in my ear. “Take a breath, Ember. One big breath. Focus on the grass. Focus on the sky and the sun."
I focus on him. His voice. His arms. His hands.
"What do you see, Ember? Tell me three things you see."
“B-b-bl—blue s-s-ky," I stammer, barely able to even whisper.
"Great, honey. What else? Two more things you see."
"Grass. Green."
"Yes, perfect. One more thing you see."
"H-h-hands. Your hands." I grab one of his hands and put it in my line of sight. Trace a thin white line creasing the webbing on the back between finger and thumb. "Scars." I flip his hand, touch the hard knot of callus at the base of his middle finger. "Calluses."
“Good, honey, very good." He lets me hold his hand, touch his calluses, count his scars. "Four things you hear."
"Your—your voice." The shaking is less violent, now. "Cars. A—a bird singing. A man laughing."
"Good job, Ember. Good. Now take five deep breaths. I'll count with you, okay? Ready?" I nod. "One."
The first breath is more of a shudder, but my lungs fill.
"Hold it—one…two…three…four…five. Now let it out. One…two…three…four…five."
Without any sense of hurry, he guides me through four more repetitions—inhale as fully as I can, hold it for five and exhale for five.
By the time I've done it five times, I can see, hear, and breathe. But I also feel a full-on ugly cry breakdown building within me, and I know I can't hold it off for long.
I grip his thick forearm, nails digging in. "Take me somewhere, please." My voice is a hiss. "I can't—I can't do it here, Felix. I can't. I can't."
"Can't do what here?"
I swallow hard. "Cry."
"Okay, I got you. I got you." He stands up, effortlessly lifting me with him. His chest is a broad, firm expanse against my cheek, and I feel his heartbeat under my ear— thudthud — thudthud — thudthud .
Up, and plasticky fake leather greets the backs of my thighs. A seatbelt clicks into place across my chest. He goes to step down, and the thought of not having physical contact with him makes me panic all over again.
"Don't!" I squeak, shrill and wild. "Don't let go. Don't let go. Please don’t let go, Felix."
"Okay, no problem. I've got you. I won't let go, I promise." His voice is calm and soothing. He slides and twists past me to sit on the bench beside me without letting go of my hand, takes his seat behind the wheel; transfers his grip on my hand to his right hand and buckles up and starts the engine with his left. "I've got you, Ember. I won't let go."
He shifts with his left hand and braces the wheel with his knee.
"Close your eyes and count your breaths. Just count them. See how high you can go before you lose count."
Once again, my hand is cradled in his, nestled like a baby bird. I open my hand, thread my fingers through his. Close my eyes and count my breaths. One…two…three…I get to fifty, and then sixty. The brakes squeal and hiss, and I have to start over.
I lose track of how many times I have to start over, but holding his hand and counting my breaths keeps me grounded, helps me fend off the impending breakdown.
The one I've been denying and avoiding for six fucking months.
It's happening, and I can’t stop it, and Felix Crowe, a man I just met and barely know, to whom I am attracted to a silly degree, is about to witness it.
Brakes squeal again, and the truck halts. The motor goes silent. Felix slides toward me, scoops me onto his lap. Shimmies sideways and shoves open the door, descends with me in his arms. I catch the corner of the truck's door as we go down and slam it closed.
Tears are welling, eyes burning, salt haze blurring my vision. I cling to his neck, bury my face in his thick, hard shoulder.
"Felix Crowe, you can't park that big thing on this little street," an old, shaky female voice says.
"With all due respect, Mrs. McCready," Felix growls, "fuck off and mind your own goddamn business."
There's an indignant huff and a slammed door.
I catch glimpses of grass, blue shutters against white vertical board-and-batten. A storm door creaks open—I hold it with my elbow while he wrenches at the door.
"Locked," he snarls. "Goddammit."
He rears back and plants a boot into the door beside the knob—there's a sickening crack of wood and the door shudders open.
"Y-you c-could have…uh-uh-unl-l-locked it," I stammer.
"Keys are in the truck. I can fix it. Don't fuckin' care."
White walls. Black and white photographs—beaches, dunes, trees, snowy fields, a horned owl staring down the camera lens. Dark wood floors. A door toed open. Bright sunlight bathing a bedroom—sheer curtains billow in the gentle breeze. A king-sized bed, white duvet, and a colorful handmade quilt folded across the lower third.
Felix kicks the door shut, shoves the duvet aside. Lowers himself to the bed with me in his arms, on his lap. "Tell me what you need, Ember. You want to be alone? A cup of tea? Shot of whiskey?"
"J-just h-hold m-me."
“Okay. I got you."
His hard, mammoth arms wrap around me, tightening, and his chest is a cliff-face against my cheek, and he's a cocoon surrounding me with safety.
The stinging blur of tears wells, surges, and then a tear trickles down my cheek. Another.
A sob wrenches through me, a keening cough of agony.
I turn my face into the soft cotton of his shirt, which absorbs my tears. They're flowing now, and I'm shaking, my shoulders heaving as sobs so violent they're soundless wrack me as if I'm being shaken by giant hands.
There are no thoughts, no emotions, just the savage catharsis of weeping. Felix doesn't shush me, doesn't tell me it's gonna be okay, doesn't ask questions. He just holds me silently, tightly, his lips against the crown of my head, breath hot on my scalp.
It's a brutal breakdown. Ugly crying isn't anywhere close to accurate. My lungs ache and scream as sobs clutch my chest and prevent breathing—and then I manage to suck in a wailing, shuddering breath, and now I'm screaming, screaming.
"Let it out," he whispers. "Gimme all you got, Ember. Hit me. Scream. Kick. Whatever you got, I can take it."
I can't help but take him at his word. A wave of fury at the unfairness of life overwhelms me and my scream becomes one of rage, and I let it rip out of me and my hands curl into fists and I bash at his chest with all my might, and yet all he does is smooth back my hair and rub soft slow circles on my back.
Rage becomes sorrow so profound it cuts through my soul like a razor blade, and I see my precious Dutchie across the years I was privileged to spend with him.
Surfing in San Diego. Disneyland with ice cream cones. Smoking pot in Portland with the whacko kind of people my mother would have loved. Over-roasted coffee from the original Starbucks in Seattle. Hiking the mountains in Idaho. Trail rides on a thousand-acre ranch in Montana. Yelling incoherently at the Grand Canyon and laughing about the wonder of a good barbaric yawp. Making love in the bus with the sliding door open, the breathtaking wonder of the Rockies spread out before us.
The camera—always the camera going, recording everything. Dutchie driving. Me sleeping. Gas stations on Route 66. Ruler-straight highways across the Nevada desert. The iconic red rock plateaus and the sweeping vistas of New Mexico through my passenger window. Dutchie laughing, drunk, as he dances around the campfire. A riverboat paddling down the mighty Mississippi past Mark Twain’s hometown.
Reading comments together. Laughing at the haters. Arguments at highway junctions about which way to go, and miles of angry silence that slowly fade as we forget what we were even fighting about, and then pulling over to have quick but passionate makeup sex. The excitement of our first sponsor. Disbelief as our audience passes a hundred thousand, and then half a million. Our first million-like vlog post. Our first five-figure sponsorship.
Dutchie waking up in the middle of the night, coughing blood so dark it's nearly black. The fear in his eyes. A cold, sterile hospital room in Lima, Ohio. X-rays on a light board. A nameless doctor giving the worst possible news: weeks to live at most.
Dutchie, thin and frail, eyes sunken, cheeks hollow, in the back of the bus as I drive us north, passing through Kalamazoo, Pentwater, Ludington, Manistee, Frankfort, Glen Arbor, Traverse City…
Dutchie asking me to help him to the overlook so he can see the Sleeping Bear Dunes.
His last breath at sunrise, sitting with me on a bench, his head on my shoulder, the Mackinac Bridge soaring over our heads—the bridge we'll never cross together.
He was so emaciated at the end that I could easily carry him back to the bus. Surrendering him to a hospital. Receiving a jar of his ashes a few days later.
Scattering them on a long, dry wind across Lake Michigan as the sun rises—Dutchie loved sunrises best of all.
All of this ravages me, a flash flood of memories that gut me, savage me, shred me.
Felix just holds me through it.
How long it lasts, I couldn't say—hours? Minutes? An eternity?
The sobs slow not because I run out of tears, but because sheer exhaustion pulls me under.
I fall asleep with my head on his lap, his hands trailing through my hair.