Home is where the heart is.

On the drive home—and there you notice again that you’re thinking of it as home. You don’t live there, and you never will; even Amber won’t be living there much longer—but it doesn’t matter. It feels like you’re going home, because Amber’s there.

When you stop to think about it, it makes sense. Amber has been part of your home for the last four years, even if she’s been living at school for much of the last two and a half. Where Amber has been has been home, and you’ve loved her very much. Now that she’s suddenly gone from friend to lover, it only strengthens that attachment; and you can relax into it because you feel safe with her. You can trust her not to hurt you behind your back.

That thought sends your mind back to Gene’s conversation. You can only shake your head; there were depths to April you hadn’t known were there, and not the right kind of depths. You’re still shaking your head when you open the door of Amber’s house. You set your stuff down by the door—plenty of time to deal with that later—and walk into the kitchen area. You see Amber bent forward over the kitchen counter, looking out the window with an unfocused gaze. Apparently, when she lay down for a nap, she decided she didn’t want to sleep in the shorts she’d just put on, because now she’s wearing a jean skirt. A very—short—jean skirt which, when she’s bending over, doesn’t cover her panties.

Which means it doesn’t disguise the fact that the panties she’s wearing are wet. Quite wet, in fact. Which presents you with an interesting question.