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I’m not doing the right thing.
I thought I was, but now I’m sitting in a car wending its way through the forested hills of the Ardennes in Belgium on our way from the airport and how can I be doing the right thing right now? Every time I shift in the back seat of the tiny car, my knee brushes against Elijah’s. Every time we speak—short, polite small talk—the air feels like it’s about to pop with electric discharge.
And he and I have only been together for the last hour, since we flew separately, and met outside customs to wait for the car from Semois Abbey. It’d been less than three weeks since I’d seen him last, but the sight of him leaning against a pillar and typing on his phone still threatened to crumple me.
No one kisses like you.
But he seemed unaffected by the sight of m
