Peter McVries had taught him more about love than just about anyone he knew. More than his mother, with her stories of her and his father, before Ray was born of course. More than his eighth grade sex ed teacher, with his human body book dating from about thirty years previous.
McVries had taught him more about love than Jan had, with her pretty face and bright eyes. Love was more than just gentle hands and soft lips and smooth blond hair through his fingertips. Not just sweaters and knitting needles and mistletoe and crunchy snow beneath boots. Not just tears and begging him to stay, please stay.
Ray was occasionally almost glad he hadn't listened to her. Because then he met Peter McVries, and he learned that love could stretch beyond Jan, beyond his small town and his cookie cutter life. Because love was slashing rain and white, jutting scars and sitting down and unshaven faces and bleary eyes and we live to fight another day. It was anger and mood swings and raw hamburger and strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him back, keeping him from doing something stupid. It was slanting smiles- seeming much less infuriating now- and dark hair and moons and stars and a piercing, empty, aching sadness and walking, walking, walking.
And it was blood-encrusted paper numbers clenched between white fists and a slanted, mocking 61.