“Maybe,” he says, trying to shut down the chain reaction of thought that idea sets off: maybe on the weekends, except he might not get weekends anymore, so maybe at night, except he might not even have nights anymore, so maybe he just won’t sleep and he and Lee can be up all night, and then all his work will turn into shit and the new company will either collapse or replace him, and then maybe they will go to the Village so they can bum a room from some of Lee’s friends.
That shit is not what he came out here to think about.
Michael focuses instead on Lee, on her body, her weight more squarely on top of him now. It keeps him quiet, keeps his pulse down. He doesn’t mind that it hurts, that his shoulder grows almost unbearably hot where she touches him; at the moment, it’s a good distraction. He turns his face toward hers, kisses her on the forehead, then on the mouth.
“I don’t want anyone else,” he says, even though Lee probably knows. “That’s not why I was thinking that stuff. I don’t know why I think it, but it’s not that. I promise. Okay?”