Another flash of memory: me, kneeling on the ground, atop the comforter Wyn’s dragged to the floor. Arms up, baby, he says gently. He peels the ruined white T-shirt over my head, runs a cool washcloth over my collarbones, collecting what’s left of my mess. I can barely keep my eyes open. Did you get me the shirt about the rodeos? The I’ve been to so many fucking rodeos shirt?
I got it, he says. Arms back up. I must not lift them high enough, because his rough palms catch the undersides of my biceps and ease them over my head. Then the butter-soft fabric is being tugged down around me, pooling against the tops of my thighs.
I love this shirt, I grumble.
I know, he says, sliding my hair out from under the collar. That’s why I brought it. Now go to sleep.