The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(29)

He didn’t come. I waited until midnight and finally wrapped myself in one of the blankets I’d spread over the straw, blankets I told myself we could sit on while we talked. And I fell asleep alone in the barn.

I awoke to the sound of rain against the tin roof, warm, comforted by the stirring of the horses and the smell of the clean straw beneath the blanket that had come loose while I slept. It wasn’t especially cold. The barn was cozy and sturdily built, and I’d flipped on the space heater before I’d succumbed to sleep. The light above the door was just a bare bulb, and it threw a mellow light across the floor as I opened my heavy lids and considered staggering to the house and crawling in bed or just staying put. I’d slept in the barn before, many times. But those other times I’d brought a pillow and I wasn’t wearing a lace bra that cut into my sides and jeans that were a little too tight to substitute for pajama bottoms.

It was when I sat up, shaking straw from my hair, that I saw Moses, just sitting in the far corner on a low stool my dad used for shoeing the horses. He was as far away from the horses as he could get, and thankfully, none of them seemed especially alarmed by his presence. But I was, just for a moment, and I let out a startled squawk.

He didn’t apologize or laugh or even make small talk. He just eyed me warily, as if watching me sleep was what I had summoned him for.

“What time is it?” I whispered, my voice scratchy and my heart heavy. He just made me feel so damn heavy.

“Two.”

“You just got home?”

“No. I went home. Showered. Went to bed.”

“You’re sleep walking, then?” I kept my voice light, soft.

“What do you want, Georgia? I kind of thought you were done with me.” Ah. There it was. A flash of anger. Quiet, brief. But there. And I reveled in it. My mom always said negative attention is better than no attention at all. She was usually talking about foster kids who acted out. But apparently it also applied to seventeen-year-old girls who were in love with boys who didn’t love them back. That thought made me angry.

“Do you love me, Moses?”

“No.” His response was immediate. Defiant. But he stood and walked toward me anyway. And I watched him come, my eyes roving over him hungrily, my heart a huge, needy knot in my chest.

I didn’t argue with him because I knew that’s what he was going to say. And I had already decided that I wouldn’t believe him.

He squatted down beside the square bales I’d turned into a love nest. But he said he didn’t love me, so maybe my bed needed a different name. I laid back down and pulled the blanket around my shoulders, suddenly chilled and incredibly tired. But he followed me, hovering above me, his arms braced on either side of my head as he watched me watch him. And then he closed the distance and kissed my mouth chastely. Once, twice. And then again, not so chastely, with more pressure and more intent.

I breathed deeply and wrapped my hands around his neck, bringing him into me. I soaked in his scent, the sharp tang of paint mixed with soap and the red striped, candy mints his grandma kept in a bowl on the kitchen table. And something else too. Something I had no name for, and it was that unknown part of him that I wanted most of all. I kissed him until I could taste it in my mouth and when that wasn’t enough, I pulled it through the palms of my hands and the brush of my skin against his as he moved his mouth to my neck and whispered in my ear.

“I’m not sure what you want from me, Georgia. But if this is it, I’m willing.”





Georgia



WHEN THE SUN STARTED to push pink fingers against the little barn window that faced east, Moses rolled away from me and started pulling on his clothes, his eyes on the window and the dawn. It was November, and the sun rose sluggishly. It had to be after six. Time to go. My parents would be up and about soon, Mom probably already was. Thanksgiving dinner was a big job. Moses and I hadn’t spoken much in the hours he’d stayed with me. I’d been surprised that he’d stayed at all, even sleeping for several hours before waking me again with kisses and warm hands, convincing me there was no way I could ever live without him. He had stayed silent throughout, and his silence now was almost more than I could take. I wondered how he’d learned to push the words away, to drown them, to not feel them pounding against his head and his heart, begging to be spoken. I told myself I could do it now. I could be as quiet as he was. At least until he left the barn. But as he walked toward the door, the words broke free.

“I think you do love me, Moses. And I love you back, though it would be easier not to,” I said in a rush.

“Why would it be easier not to?” he shot back quietly, as if he hadn’t told me he didn’t love me without hesitation. He could say he didn’t love me, but he didn’t especially like being told he was unlovable.

“Because you think you don’t love me. That’s why.”

“That’s one of my laws, Georgia. Thou shall not love.”

“That’s not a law in Georgia.”

“Not this again,” he sighed.

“What would make you love me, Moses? What would make you move to Georgia?” I waggled my eyebrows as if it was all just a big, funny joke. “I’ve told you I would go red. I told you I would let you in my head. And I’ve given you everything else I have.” I felt my voice catch all of a sudden and a flood of tears rushed toward my eyes like a dam had burst with those words. I turned away immediately and busied myself with folding the blanket that now smelled like him. I folded and straightened and then pulled on my boots while Moses stood frozen, six feet away. At least he hadn’t left, though part of me wished he would.