The rest of the days in the week go by in a bit of a haze. When I’m not working at Billy’s, I’m sneaking over to the auto shop. We spend a little time cleaning up, and the rest of the time making love, getting closer and closer. I even wind up missing a Friday at the Roll-a-Rama to help Silas clean up the garage office, which is why, when I show up for work for Saturday lunch, Abby eyes me suspiciously.

“What?” I say to her innocently, as I collect my tip from a table of construction workers.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” she says, still studying me like she’s trying to uncover my deepest secrets. “First, you actually smiled at those customers. And then you missed your normal drunken Friday routine.”

I shrug.

“Oh, wait!” she holds up a hand. “Let me guess. Is he a six feet tall wall of muscle with adorable dimples?”

When I don’t say anything, she sighs.

“Billy told me he’s in town, fixing up his father’s shop,” she says, handing Billy her drink order. “So he’s not going back?”

“It looks like he’s not. His injury is more serious than he thought,” I say.

Billy overhears our conversation behind the tap. He finishes topping off a mug and says, “Damn shame.”

“God, that was his life,” Abby says, shaking her head. “He must be devastated.”

One would have thought, I think. But remarkably, he hadn’t spoken about football at all. He’d thrown himself right into fixing up the auto shop, almost as if the part of his life that had consumed him for so long never existed at all. It’s enough to make me think that maybe he was serious when he said that if he had me, football didn’t matter. “He’s okay.”

Abby raises an eyebrow. “And so are you two together?”

I swallow. In high school, we’d made out in his car and behind the bleachers for months and months before we’d come out as a couple. Mostly because we were both young, and cautious, and afraid to admit to anyone else that we cared about each other. That’s why it probably feels easier for me to keep it on the down low. I feel like admitting it will be jinxing the whole thing. “We’re just friends,” I say.

God, I do sound so high school.

“So you’re not tapping that again?” Her eyebrows do a suggestive wiggle. “What the hell is wrong with you, girl?”

As close to me as Abby is, I’ve never told her about my virginal status. Abby just assumed Silas and I were physical. It seemed like something she wouldn’t understand, since she’s been having sex since at least her sophomore year of high school. I’ve always had to listen to her talk about things I couldn’t understand, nodding dumbly at all the right times. Now, I want to tell her about Silas, about all the sex we’ve been having, but it feels like betraying him.

And we’ve been having a lot of sex. Making up for lost time, I guess. But god, I’m sore in places I didn’t know existed. Whenever I try to talk about the future, though, Silas just corners me, putting his mouth on mine, making me forget my own name.

“No,” I say, and repeat, for emphasis, “Just friends.”

She shakes her head. “That is an awful waste of a perfectly god-like man.”

After the lunch rush, as I stop over at the auto shop on my way home. Truthfully, for the past week, I’ve only planned on a pit stop but end up staying there all night, then only going back to my apartment in the morning for a fresh change of clothes. Silas always jumped into things without looking, and sometimes, it got him burned, but this time, he’s taking his time with fixing up the place. When I look around, the house is a sty, and he hasn’t even really gotten to the auto shop yet.

He’s not there when I arrive. There’s a note on the door. “Went to the hardware store. Be back soon.”

That’s good. There’s a busted window in the living room he’s been saying he’d fix. I take the note off and push open the door. Bradys Bend has always been a place you can live without worrying about locking up, and it seems Silas hasn’t forgotten that.

The kitchen is much cleaner now, and with my help, I’ve added some homey touches. I put a lot of my parents’ things in storage, so a couple days ago, we’d gone through it and taken what he needed, replacing the old kitchenette set with our nice pine table and chairs. Silas felt bad about taking too much, even though I told him he could have it all. The cabinets are still in bad shape, the linoleum still crusted with dirt from years of use, but it’s starting to look like a home.

There is an envelope on top of the table. It has one word on the front: Genevieve, written in Silas’s sloppy block print.

I open the flap and pull a yellow post-it note out first. It says, I know you wouldn’t do this on your own, so I sent some of your articles in to the editor of the Brady Times.

My jaw drops. My face starts to heat.

I read further:

Your first column is due Monday. You’re welcome. - S

I stand there, frozen, for what seems like forever. Then I reach into the envelope and pull out a piece of paper, folded in thirds. It’s written on the Brady Times’ stationery, and says:

Dear Ms. Wilson:

We very much enjoyed the pieces you sent over. You have a good sense of humor and we enjoyed your perspective of life in the Bend very much. Would you be willing to write a weekly column for us of 3,000 words? If so, we can pay you $200 each.

My eyes scan down to the signature at the bottom: Edward Morton, Editor.

Oh, my god. I think, over and over again. Silas had shown my work to someone. I don’t even know what pieces, but it must have been some of the articles I’d written at UPenn, the ones my journalism professor had hated. That should have mortified me, but . . . this person, this Edward Morton, liked it. Someone actually liked what I wrote.

I clutch the paper to my chest, planning to frame it. Then I look at it again. And again. No matter how many times I read it, I can’t believe it. I don’t know how long it is before Silas’s truck pulls up behind my car, and I hear him climbing the steps.

I explode out of the screen door and launch myself into his arms, kissing him hard. “Whoa, tiger,” he says, catching me. “Or should I say, esteemed columnist of the Brady Times?”

When I back up, I punch him, hard, in the massive muscle of his bicep. I think it hurts my knuckles more than it does him. “That’s for taking my articles without my permission.”

He shrugs. “Well, you’re so fucking stubborn.”

I go back into the kitchen and study the letter again. “And you know that paper’s a rag.”

“You’ll make it Pulitzer worthy, I’m sure.” He leans against the wall and studies me. “So you’re not pissed at me?”

“No. I owe you one.”

He rubs his stubble-covered chin. “I can think of ways you can pay me back.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Not that.”

Ever since our first time, it’s been a constant back and forth. Him wanting to go down on me, me making up excuses why he can’t. And yes, I’m afraid of all the other women he’s been with. Sex is one thing, but that seems all the more personal. As much as he begs me, I can’t possibly understand how he could enjoy it. I can’t imagine that he would get anything out of it.

He pulls me to him, kissing me lightly. “You’re so fucking hot, and sexy, and I want to be with you completely.”

“One day,” I tell him. “If you play your cards right, I promise, one day, you will.”

I kiss him again, long, slow, sucking his lower lip into my mouth, teasing him with my tongue. Meanwhile, I can’t stop thinking of it: Someone likes something I wrote. One of his hands roves under my sweatshirt, to my bra clasp, and as usual, he’s able to squeeze it and release it with one-handed, in one try, a far cry from the way he’d spent most of our Saturday nights trying to work out its mysteries when we were in high school. I groan as his warm hand moves to my front, finding my tit, the sensitive nub of my nipple, and then . . .

I freeze. “Oh, my god.”

He stops kissing me and looks into my eyes, which are now wide with terror. “What?”

I push him away and look at the letter. Sure enough, it’s there, in black and white. “My first article of three-thousand words is due Monday. Monday.”

He’s still staring at me, breathing hard. “So?”

“That’s the day after tomorrow!” I shout at him, waving the paper in his face. “How am I supposed to write three-thousand words of an article in less than two days?”

“Your big brain will figure it out.” He reaches for me. “You have all day tomorrow.”

I skirt out of his way, starting to hyperventilate. “No. I have to work all day tomorrow! Oh, god, I don’t even know what to write about.”

“Calm down,” he says, as I finally let him pull me into a hug. I need the support because my knees might give out if I don’t. “We’ll figure something out.”

I shake my head, then shake him free. “What I really need to do is go home. Now. And start writing.”

“Okay. Wait. Calm down. I have the solution,” he says. He takes my hand, leading me to the kitchen chair. He sits me down, even though every pore in my body wants me to rush home and fire up my laptop. Actually, right now, I think I might want to just climb under my bed and hide. How can I do this?

“What?” I ask him, hoping he has the magic answer.

“I’ll cover your shift for you,” he says.

I start to stand. That won’t work on so many levels.

“No, listen. I can handle it,” he says, nudging me back into the chair. “Billy knows me. He’ll let me do it. It’ll be fine.”

“Sunday lunch is the busiest, though. Have you ever waited tables?”

He shrugs. “How hard could it be?”

I point at his boot. “But you . . . how . . .”

“Aw, fuck that. I can do anything in this. You've seen me.” He winks.

I don’t have much of a choice. And Silas is almost inhuman in his precision, and doesn’t do much wrong. Billy loves him like a son. Yes, this could work. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, girl. Don’t sweat it.”

I pop out of the chair and dodge his reaching arms, heading for the door.

He lets out a long, low breath, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Let me guess. You need to get started right away?”

I nod. Then, feeling guilty, since he’s given me so much, I rush up to him, kissing him. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, girl,” he says, as I hurry out the door.