fact, I lower it. Bringing my forehead to the cold glass, I whisper, “Ramie. Ramie.”
She steps forward and turns her ear to the window.
“That’s my girl,” I whisper. “Now just another step.”
She faces me again, her forehead crinkled sternly. I wipe the steam from the window and stare at her. Her eyes search my face, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Then she opens the window just a crack.
I don’t move. And I don’t speak. Ramie sighs, then lifts the window a tiny bit higher. Our eyes lock through the warped glass as I reach both hands under the window and yank it upward. She presses her hands to the frame as if threatening to lower it. But she doesn’t. I shove both hands through the crack and wait for her to crush them.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she steps away from the window.
Taking that as my cue, I open the window all the way and pull my limbs into the warm yellow glow of her bedroom.
She stands only a few feet away, watching me. Not stopping
me. I close the window.
“You have to be quiet,” she says.
Her wild black hair is still damp from the shower and, even from a few feet away, smells of coconut shampoo.
She was expecting me.
“Hi,” I say.
She holds my gaze for a second, then looks down. Behind her, the trench coats hang like a row of sentries.
“I, um, I guess you’re prepared for rain,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says. “My mom used to collect them.” She backs up and fingers the hem of a black coat. “She was going to toss them, but I think I can do something with them, maybe. I’m kind of into fashion.”
“Cool,” I say.
I take a tiny step toward her and her muscles tense. Her eyes shift to the door, which is cracked open to the dark hallway. Her parents sleep downstairs all the way on the other side of the house, but they’d hear her scream. She’s planned this geography carefully.
“Ramie,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of time. I can’t come back tomorrow.”
“Why?” she says. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
I take another step toward her and her body stiffens. I’m closer to her than she is to the door. But she’s not running.
As she stands still with the limp trench coats behind her, I realize the next step is mine to make. All she can do, all she
will
do, is react. Scream, run, or succumb. But she won’t do anything until I do something first.
I reach for her hand. She stiffens at first, then lets me interlace my fingers with hers.
“Who
are
you?” she whispers.
Dazed by the shock of actual physical contact, I stare dumbly for a second, then mutter, “Does it matter?”
She stares back, then shakes her head, releasing more of the lush coconut scent of her hair. Her dark eyes are hungry but passive until something like impatience flickers across them.
Kiss me, asshole,
she’s thinking.
That’s when I realize she has orchestrated everything tonight. But furtively. She knew I’d come to the window and she knew she’d let me in, but she had to make me beg first. She had to make it seem like she had no choice.
Damn it, why do I know these things? I want to lunge at her and wrap her long limbs around me. I want to thrust my tongue down her throat. But I don’t move. I
can’t
move. Something vague and half buried stops me.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“What?”
Her fingers slide from mine, leaving the slick chill of palm sweat. She brushes past me to the little table by the side of her bed. “Do you want to see some of my looks?”
“Your what?”
“Looks,” she says. “It’s what we call an outfit. In the fashion industry.”
I know this, of course, but she doesn’t have to know that I know it. “Sure,” I say.
She picks up her laptop and sits cross-legged on the bed, leaving a vast empty space the size of Montana next to her.
Phase Two. That’s what’s happening here. Ramie is evolving the proceedings to the next level without ever showing her hand.
But I shouldn’t know this.
She steps forward and turns her ear to the window.
“That’s my girl,” I whisper. “Now just another step.”
She faces me again, her forehead crinkled sternly. I wipe the steam from the window and stare at her. Her eyes search my face, my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Then she opens the window just a crack.
I don’t move. And I don’t speak. Ramie sighs, then lifts the window a tiny bit higher. Our eyes lock through the warped glass as I reach both hands under the window and yank it upward. She presses her hands to the frame as if threatening to lower it. But she doesn’t. I shove both hands through the crack and wait for her to crush them.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she steps away from the window.
Taking that as my cue, I open the window all the way and pull my limbs into the warm yellow glow of her bedroom.
She stands only a few feet away, watching me. Not stopping
me. I close the window.
“You have to be quiet,” she says.
Her wild black hair is still damp from the shower and, even from a few feet away, smells of coconut shampoo.
She was expecting me.
“Hi,” I say.
She holds my gaze for a second, then looks down. Behind her, the trench coats hang like a row of sentries.
“I, um, I guess you’re prepared for rain,” I say.
She glances over her shoulder. “Yeah,” she says. “My mom used to collect them.” She backs up and fingers the hem of a black coat. “She was going to toss them, but I think I can do something with them, maybe. I’m kind of into fashion.”
“Cool,” I say.
I take a tiny step toward her and her muscles tense. Her eyes shift to the door, which is cracked open to the dark hallway. Her parents sleep downstairs all the way on the other side of the house, but they’d hear her scream. She’s planned this geography carefully.
“Ramie,” I say. “I don’t have a lot of time. I can’t come back tomorrow.”
“Why?” she says. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
I take another step toward her and her body stiffens. I’m closer to her than she is to the door. But she’s not running.
As she stands still with the limp trench coats behind her, I realize the next step is mine to make. All she can do, all she
will
do, is react. Scream, run, or succumb. But she won’t do anything until I do something first.
I reach for her hand. She stiffens at first, then lets me interlace my fingers with hers.
“Who
are
you?” she whispers.
Dazed by the shock of actual physical contact, I stare dumbly for a second, then mutter, “Does it matter?”
She stares back, then shakes her head, releasing more of the lush coconut scent of her hair. Her dark eyes are hungry but passive until something like impatience flickers across them.
Kiss me, asshole,
she’s thinking.
That’s when I realize she has orchestrated everything tonight. But furtively. She knew I’d come to the window and she knew she’d let me in, but she had to make me beg first. She had to make it seem like she had no choice.
Damn it, why do I know these things? I want to lunge at her and wrap her long limbs around me. I want to thrust my tongue down her throat. But I don’t move. I
can’t
move. Something vague and half buried stops me.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“What?”
Her fingers slide from mine, leaving the slick chill of palm sweat. She brushes past me to the little table by the side of her bed. “Do you want to see some of my looks?”
“Your what?”
“Looks,” she says. “It’s what we call an outfit. In the fashion industry.”
I know this, of course, but she doesn’t have to know that I know it. “Sure,” I say.
She picks up her laptop and sits cross-legged on the bed, leaving a vast empty space the size of Montana next to her.
Phase Two. That’s what’s happening here. Ramie is evolving the proceedings to the next level without ever showing her hand.
But I shouldn’t know this.
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