All she could think about was Jordan. His hands seemed to have seared Megan’s flesh everywhere he had touched—her waist, her arms, the back of her neck. Her lips still burned.“I think I really connected with Jordan tonight,” Anna said from across the room.Megan’s fingers tightened on her book. “Hmm?” She peeked over the edge of the pages.Anna was sitting on her bed, one leg drawn up under her chin as she carefully painted her toenails teal. Anna dipped the brush into the little bottle. “Well, for one thing, did you see him holding my hand?”Megan thought of Anna caressing Jordan’s fingers. “Sort of . . . ,” she said slowly. She turned a page, keeping her face hidden, thinking of the Kafka story she’d read where the prisoner is punished by having a machine write the name of his crime on his skin, over and over again. She shuddered and resisted the urge to twist to look at Jordan in the farmhand photo, which she’d pinned over her bed.“It was so good,” Anna went on.
