Chapter 18

“Micah,” he said, facing me on the bed and breathing on my lips.

“What?”

“Is it too early to feel this crazy about you?”

“It depends exactly how crazy you are for me.”

“Words can’t describe the emotions.”

“That’s why you’re a pianist and not a writer.”

We kissed; I tasted sweat on his lips and that tiny area of bare skin above his chin.

Once the kiss ended, I replied to his question with, “It’s not too early. Liking or loving happens when we least expect it. It’s like the bumblebee: pestering, beautiful, enjoyable, and relentless.”

“It is,” he agreed, pleased with our brief conversation.

I don’t know exactly when he closed his eyes and fell asleep next to me. Before I realized it, he was lightly snoring, buzzing dreamy trees down with an electric chainsaw, clinging to me. He whispered something in his sleep; conjunctions and grunts that were unclear, but spoken; endearing and innocent sounds that I couldn’t comprehend, but considered expressive and kind.