I head for the porch but Luke has other
plans. He meets me in the kitchen doorway and, taking my hand,
leads me back down the hall. Through Kent’s closed door I can hear
his rumbling snores, like thunder in the night. Then we’re in my
own room, and Luke shuts the door behind us, throws the lock, the
sound is loud in the darkness.
Gently he guides me to the bed, clicks on the
lamp by his flower, which is open like a heart in bloom—diffused
light pushes back the shadows, rims the petals with golden dust. I
sit on the edge of the bed and stare at that flower, those petals,
red as blood. “I have to tell him,” I whisper. I feel Luke’s hand
on my face and I lean into his touch, so warm, so alive. Squeezing
my eyes shut, I press my lips into his palm. “God, I’m sorry,” I
sigh. “I’m j
