Hurling the box released some of his anger. It felt good so he swept his arm across the top of his dresser, knocking his pitiful possessions onto the floor, the ridiculous little carved animals, pathetic toiletries and useless old catalog he could never afford to order
from. These paltry items were the sum of his entire dismal life.
He kicked the frame of his bed, hurting his foot and knocking the light cot away
from the wall. Heedless of Rasmussen hearing the noise, he cried out his rage and frustration, tore the covers off the bed, picked up the pillow and punched it. He hurled it across the room. Dragging the thin mattress from the metal mesh of the cot, he tossed it
on the floor and looked around, but there was nothing else to tear apart since he owned so little. Laughing at the irony, he sank onto the mattress on the floor, his legs drawn to his
chest, forehead bowed to his knees, and his hands cradling the back of his neck.
Caught between harsh laughter and sobs, he breathed in hitching bursts.
He had no future, definitely no girl, and soon, no home. What the hell was he going to do?

Jim had spent most of his life alone. The solitary nature of his disability and the constant moving had made it difficult for him to make friends. With his mother’s death,
his last connection to a person was severed. He existed in Broughton like a ghost, doing his odd jobs, too silent for anyone to notice.

There were many things he had to tell her, but what he really needed to say was simple. “I’ve missed you so much and ache to see you again. Every moment of the day no matter what else I’m doing you’re in my thoughts. I want to … need to see you again.
Please come to me.”
Pressing pencil to paper, he wrote. “See me. 7. Jim.” He thought a moment and added “Livery Stable” just as it was printed on the sign above the door of the building.
Folding the paper, he wrote “Miss Johnson” on the outside.

When he finally broke off the kiss and moved his lips to her neck, then her breast again, sucking her nipples back to hard peaks, Catherine broke from her trance.
“No. I really must go. We haven’t time to do this again.” She pushed against his
restraining hands and wiggled beneath his body. “Let me up now.”
He pulled away from her neck and looked up, his eyes as poignant as a spoken plea.
Her heart wrenched and she wished she could spend the rest of the day with him, making love in their secret nest in the loft.
She sighed. “Don’t give me puppy dog eyes. I’ve got to go.

She gazed back at him, her mouth open, gasping for air. Her white blouse rose and fell with each panting breath. She shook her head. “No. We can’t. I’m sorry.”
His gut twisted. He wanted to shout, “Why? Why can I never have what I want—just once?

But, after one quick trace of his tongue between her lips, he abruptly pulled away and stepped back from her. She was leaning into him so hard he had to put his hands on her shoulders to steady her.
Catherine’s eyes flew open. Releasing her shoulders, he pointed past her to the books he’d set on the desk.
She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it again. As she followed Jim, she caught a glimpse of his profile when he picked up the books and slate. There was a smug grin on his face. He was toying with her, teaching her a lesson—that two could play at heating things up and abruptly cooling them down.
Indignation and amusement competed in her as she took her seat beside him and he handed her the paper he’d written. She hadn’t set him any homework. He’d done it on his own, printed a brief description of their picnic in short sentences or single words. It was
almost like a poem without rhyme. “Fish swim water. Sky. Trees. Leaves. Eat food. Drink.”
She smiled at him. “Very good.”
He touched his lips, puckering them in
a kiss, and tapped the signing book.
“Kiss,” she said and looked up the sign for it. “Fingers touching thumbs as both
hands come together,” the text said. Her cheeks flushed as she read, “trembling slightly to indicate the degree of passion.”
Catherine made the movement as she repeated the word aloud. “Kiss.”
Jim copied the movement, shaping his lips like hers. He pointed to the slate and offered her the chalk so she could spell the word. He studied each letter as she wrote it, before printing them himself: K-i-s-s.
Catherine’s cheeks flamed even hotter from seeing it written in glaring white against the black slate. Kiss. Kiss. Somehow there seemed to be no denying or hiding it now that it was written down. She glanced at Jim’s lips and her nipples tightened at the memory of
his mouth sucking them.