“Cece, I can’t read anything that’s one millimeter from my nose.”

The first was Greg’s birthday dinner, when Jack and I shook hands and he nodded back at me tightly, when he spent the night giving me long, searching glances, when I overheard him ask Greg, “Where did you meet her?” and “How long has it been?” and “How serious is this?” with an inquisitive, deceptively casual tone that sent an odd shiver down my

“I . . .” I swallow. Buck up. Take a deep breath. “I missed you.” I rub my forehead. “God, I’m such a weirdo.” He nods slowly, as though mulling it over. Then offers, “I went to campus today to get work done. Instead I kept wondering how buck wild it would be if I asked you to move in.” I let out a surprised laugh. “You’re a weirdo, too.”

“Are you turning yourself into what I want? Is that why whenever I’m with you, I . . .” His voice trails off, or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve just reached critical mass.

I’m positive that a mallard must have flown in and eaten Cece’s brain.

I wonder what would happen if I kicked him under the table.

“I just look. Try to pay attention to what people want.” “That’s what I do. Except that I don’t care much about most people, but I can’t stop paying attention to you.” He shrugs. There is something so utterly, disarmingly honest about him. “So I look.”

He starts the engine. “Look at you.” “Look at me?” He puts his hand on the headrest of the seat to back out of the spot. His fingers brush against my hair, soft, distracted. “Yeah. Look at you, telling the truth.”

He turns to reach for something to wear in Greg’s dresser, and whatever’s happening between his shoulder blades looks like a religious experience.