The almost-touch is worse than actual touch would be. It’s Schrödinger’s intimacy: both happening and not-happening simultaneously. My face tilts toward his palm without permission from my brain. A stupid evolutionary response to warmth and nearness.
Big man touch face. Me let big man.
Then his hand drops. It falls like a stone back to his lap, and the loss of contact I never actually stings like a motherfucker.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” I finally say.
He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize for her choices.”
“She’s my mother. I can’t just—” I stop, realizing I’m about to defend the indefensible. Again.
He nods. “How much does she need this time?”
“Twelve hundred. For rent and ‘utilities.’ Though I’m sure at least half of it will go to wine and whatever new Derek she meets next
