“Eli, you have never made a dress like this in your life.”
“No, ma’am. I haven’t.”
“Then how—”
“I just need you to say yes.”
I almost said no. I had every reason. But there was something in his eyes that did not belong to a seventeen-year-old. Something steadier than I had felt in a year.
“Yes,” I whispered.
That night, I stood at my kitchen window and watched the light in Eli’s bedroom burn long past three in the morning, and I wondered what on earth I had just agreed to.
The light in Eli’s bedroom window became my new clock.
Past midnight, past two, past three. Some nights I stood at my kitchen sink and watched it burn while the rest of the street slept.
His mother called me on day three.
“Mave, his fingers are sore,” she said. “I wrapped them in cold bandages, and he unwrapped them. He missed a chemistry test.”
