Beating Heart by A. M. Jenkins Read Free Book Online

intense that he rouses almost to wakefulness, but not quite. Enough to know it’s not real, andto be frustrated. Not enough to touch himself, to finish the job.
    When a deeper sleep finally overtakes him, he dreams he’s lying there and she’s nestled next to him, tucked into the curve of his arm, one finger tracing designs on his bare chest. It’s quiet, familiar, even though the hair spilling over his arm isn’t brown like Carrie’s, it’s pale and fine and long, still partly in a braid, a mussed-up braid that’s come almost undone.
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    moonlight washes him in silver
    arm flung wide in sleep
    careless
    his breath draws soft and deep
    slow, untroubled sighs

 
    A nd then, in the dream, in the quiet, he hears something ; he’s alert with fear, listening: someone is coming and he’s about to be caught, caught with this girl and he’s perfectly, utterly still, straining to listen into the silence.
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    I like it when
    his breath
    becomes
    uneven
    like a sob
    when he grows cold
    pulls the covers
    up to his neck

 
    I n the morning, Evan wakes to a slight uneasiness , a sense of dread that doesn’t fade when he opens his eyes. He can’t remember why he feels this way. All he remembers is the sex.
    He rolls over to sit up on the edge of the bed. The box is exactly where he left it last night. The lid is still shut. He doesn’t know why he can’t shake the feeling that the girl in the box—the girl he’s never seen before—is the one in his dreams.
    What a creepy idea, considering she probably got old and wrinkled and spotty and became somebody’s grandma. And there’s no reason to think that the girl in the letter is the one in the picture. And why does he think she’s hot anyway, in that dress with the collar up to her chin?
    It’s sick, that’s what it is.
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    It’s a few days later when Carrie comes to see the house for the first time. Evan has not invited her before because, quite simply, it did not occur to him. He would not have thought to do it now, a month after moving in, if she had not asked.
    When the doorbell rings after dinner, Libby, excited to have company, appears at Evan’s side.
    He ignores her—Libby is one reason it never occurs to him to have Carrie over; Mom is another—and opens the door.
    Sometimes, like today, it hits Evan all at once how lucky he is to have Carrie. She’s totally hot, with a great body; Evan is the only one who knows exactly how great it is. Her makeup is subtle and perfect. Her brown hair is freshly brushed and shining. Any guy would be lucky to have her.
    But not just any guy does. He does.
    â€œHi,” he says to her. “Come on in.”
    Carrie comes in and cranes her neck, looking all around at the airy hall, the ornate stairs leading to the landing. The stained glass makes it look like an altar.
    â€œWow,” she says, impressed.
    â€œYour hair looks like Winnebago’s,” Libby tells her solemnly.
    â€œWinnebagos,” Carrie repeats. Evan can’t tell what she’s thinking. Sometimes Carrie is easily hurt; sometimes she takes things in stride.
    â€œIt’s supposed to be a compliment,” he informs her. “Just take my word for it.”
    â€œOkay.” Today must be a taking-in-stride day, because Carrie turns to Libby and gives her a smile. “Thanks, I guess.”
    Evan is relieved. “Are you ready for the tour?” he asks.
    â€œYes.”
    Libby bounces along behind as Evan leads Carrie through the downstairs. “This used to be a parlor,” he says, showing her an empty room off the hall. “Mom says someday she’s going to get a piano and put it in there.”
    They move from room to room: the TV room, the dining room, the kitchen. Outside his mother’s office, he whispers to Carrie, “Don’t ask her when she’s going to finish unpacking,