Page 92 of Carrie Soto Is Back

“You wrote these down? So you could say them to me?”

“Yes.”

“If I kiss you, will it hurt?” I ask, moving closer to him.

“What?”

“Your ribs. If I kiss you, will I hurt you?”

“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”

I put both of my hands on his face and kiss him. He reaches his good arm across my lower back and pulls me toward him.

I’ve kissed him before, years ago. But this feels both familiar and brand-new, like a good stretch, like a deep breath.

“I don’t know what this is,” I say. “I don’t know if it’s the real thing or not.”

“I don’t care,” he says, kissing me again. He grabs at the hem of my T-shirt and the buttons on my jeans.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care about that either,” he says, kissing me again.

“You have to be careful,” I say. “Of your ribs.”

“Carrie, please,” he says, kissing my neck. “Stop worrying.”

And so I do.

—

Later, as the sunlight begins to filter through the window of my hotel room in the early hours of the morning, I wake up to see Bowe asleep next to me.

His hair is sticking up straight in the back, a cowlick let loose at some point in the night. His face, up close, is weathered. There are fine wrinkles around his eyes. I turn away and look out the window, overcome with this awful, sinking feeling. As happy as you are when it starts, you always end up that same amount of sad when it’s over.

He begins to stir, his eyes opening slowly and reluctantly. He looks at me and smiles.

He says, “Should we order breakfast?”

“You’re going to stay?” I ask.

He sits up, fully awake all of a sudden. “You want me to go?”

“Do you want to go? You can go if you want.”

“I don’t want to go. I told you that last night. In Spanish.”

“Okay,” I say.

“So I’m staying?” he says.

“If you want to.”

Bowe rolls his eyes and growls. He puts a pillow over his head, but I can still hear him bitching. “You are so annoying,” he says. “Just say you like me, for fuck’s sake!”

I pull the pillow off his head. I want to say it. I try to make myself.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I say. “I’ll call down.”

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