They cut through the green mountains, where the ghosts of the Huron pique her interest and more souvenirs are bought, added to the rather ridiculous pile already littering the backseat. There are various plastic coffee mugs from different locales, a cardboard Washington monument, a confederate flag, a pair of cowboy boots, t-shirts with various slogans, a chunk of cedar wood, take out containers and take out menus, a few empty bottles of liquor, and now a dreamcatcher takes the honor spot on the top of the pile.

"See, it catches the bad ones and lets the good ones through the middle," she explains, turning the thing around, shaking the plastic beads.

"How old were you before you stopped believing in Santa Claus?" Jess says, shaking his head. Her eyes grow wide, and she puts her head down between her knees. Her voice wobbles.

"Santa Claus doesn´t exist?"

"Shut up."

She grins, tickling his neck with a feather from the dreamcatcher.

"I believe in everything, just in case, because what if something did exist and then it took revenge on me because I didn´t believe in it?"

"You wouldn´t make a good atheist."

"Either that or I¨ve read The Life of Pi too many times," she says lightly.

"By the way, that´s mine, in case you´ve decided to sleep with it for the rest of your life, just know that I come with it."

A blush sweeps her cheeks.

"Ok, it was late at night and it made a nice pillow. Softbacks do that."

"Unless it´s a Russian. Those are always bricks."

"Or an Ayn Rand."

"Or an Oxford Unabridged."

"Yeah, but who reads a dictionary?"

A pause.

"Rory, Rory."

"It has a lot of interesting things in it, ok?!"

"I bet that´s where you learned all your dirty words," he grins, knowing he´s egging her on.

"Ok, so now you belong to the Paris school of thought that claims little birds dress me in the morning? In case you never heard of the great Sidewalk Chalk contest debate that took place between Luke and Taylor when I was four……"

"Ouch. Scarred for life," he exaggerates, fiddling with the radio.

"Mock me if you will. I was never the same. My mother tried to make up different meanings for everything, like shit means fluffy bunnies right? I got sent home from school for that, messing up the otherwise perfect attendance record I´ve had since day one."

"I can´t believe Yale still took you," he says, in an exaggerated tone of disbelief.

"Ugh, there´s no talking to you today. I´ll talk to the dashboard instead."

"Animist. I think you´re taking the Life of Pi thing too far."

She turns up the radio, drowning his chuckle out, and starts singing along, while the air from the open window rushes in, lifting her hair like spinning helicopter propellers around her head, like a golden brown halo.

The road drops away behind them like a silky black ribbon, full of August heat mirages, shimmering disappearing lakes………..

They head north, where the forests get cooler as they drive winding roads through the end of the Appalachians. They pass through a leafy, sunlight dappled Vermont, make time through New Hampshire, head to rocky Massachusetts. She drags him through revolutionary war tours, buys a colonial bonnet and a fake copy of the Declaration of Independence, and buys coffee in gallon size proportions from 7-11 each day.

"Mmmm……….."

"You´re in Boston. For history´s sake, you should give tea a go."

She shakes her head, mouth resolute.

"Are you kidding? No wonder they threw that crap in the harbour. I would´ve too."

"Didn´t that have to do more with political rebellion?" he grins, bemused.

"Well, if they were making me drink tea and pay for it, I would rebel too."

He watches her drink, the way her eyelids close halfway each time she takes a sip, the content little half smile.

They are sitting on the hood of the car, parked hear a harbour. A few boats list gently in the breeze, painted against the vivid blue of the sky.

A dime for your thoughts, she thinks sometimes, looking at him. I'd pay extra just to know what's taking place behind your eyes.

She lays down on the hood, the morning sunlight gleaming on her damp, warm skin, her face glowing a pale bronze. He likes the translucent pink of her lips, the little shadow that falls between them, hiding something alluring. He lays down next to her, studying the little freckles on her cheeks.

He whispers things to her in the morning sunlight, things she's been thinking about. He flies through her, pulling with him everything she's always known, tangling it up like fine strings……….his words reach something in her, tap into her mind, turning her secrets out in the blinding sunlight.

She finds it scary and exhilerating, talking to this boy who knows so much, who can spark something inside her like a dizzy lightbulb, rasping, glimmering twice, then springing to full light, blazing in it's neon intensity. It's his words that touch her in the place she always tried to hide, that wake something up inside her that makes her want more. It's the way he can always teach her something, something no one else can give.

She thinks of a line by Janet Fitch-a girl who describes a man……..as having a voice "like a hand between my legs." Her legs coil up slowly to her chest.

She likes it when he talks like that to her, in that low, concentrated voice, words each burning with meaning begging to be refuted, identified, dissected. She likes that tone of voice. It makes her think of things she is ashamed of.

"I want to know what you're thinking about when you smile with your eyes closed like that," he breaks in suddenly, and she catches herself, embarrassed.

When she opens her eyes, they gleam unearthly colors in the morning sunlight. Her shy smile reveals everything to him.

"Tell me your secrets," she says simply, and he shakes his head, grinning.

"I'll tell you one."

He delicately raises his head, bending close to her ear.

"I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees."

She lets her hair fall to hide her flushed face.

"Pablo Neruda," he hears her whisper, and a smile plays on his lips at her tone.

"Another one."

He cannot see her eyes or cheeks, but he sees her damp lips mouth a consent.

"I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more."

He sees the corners of her mouth turn up a little.

"e. e. cummings."

He nods.

"Stop playing the Dick to my Dottie," she whispers, and he smiles, feeling the sensuousness of the sound.

"McCarthy."

Then, "I didn't mean….."

She cuts him off.

"I liked it."

He can't help but feel a current at this quick, stifled admission, her face hidden in her hair, her cheeks flushed, her breathing erratic, her eyelashes cast downwards.

He lays back on the hood next to her, feeling something strange, almost akin to what someone else might mistake for love, stirring inside him. It's just this warm, gentle feeling he can't place, a desire to bring her the world and set it at her feet.

He's rather surprised and contemplative.

Her hand knots itself in his shirt. He encircles her wrist with his fingers, turning it with wonder, feeling the slender bones.

The morning sky shines bright and burning.

"Her limbs are as delicate as an eyelid, love has blinded him with tears," he whispers to her.

"Yeats."

He smiles sweetly and kisses her like a child, a nervous, damp flower touch of a kiss.

Her eyes are wide and blue.

"Come with me. Let's go somewhere quiet. I just want to be alone with you."

She pauses, and looks at him puzzled.

"I don't know that one. Who said it?"

He laughs.

"Me, just now."

She grins, then becomes solemn.

"Ok."

The road is racing past. Fast, grey, thin, furious……….the cement curves and stretches out behind them at a blinding speed. She feels the iron taste of fear, anticipation, and pleasure in her mouth.

Her hands clench. She watches him drive, out of the corner of her eye, the way his hands move fluidly, the way she can anticipate the shifts in speed by his face, his careful analysis and split second decision, the hard line of his jaw, his almost imperceptible smile. She knows what he's thinking about. It almost scares her. He doesn't seem to want to talk, almost as if he's too preoccupied fighting some thought.

Her heart is beating hard and erratic, fluttering against her ribcage, it's wings tearing.

His is too, but his face never shows it.

At the hotel room, things go almost the way she pictured it.

He doesn't exactly know what to do with her. Hiding behind the pretence of carelessness, he examines her head to toe as she sits on the side of the bed, somewhat flushed, head bowed.

He's shirtless, smoking a cigarette. The hotel room is old, but clean, with soft white carpet worn in places, clean, lacy curtains, dark woodwork, and gold painted fixtures on the white tub. It was a quaint little place they saw off the highway.

In the semi-dark of the room, beams of sunlight creep in through the crack between the shut drapes. He turns on a lamp, bathing the room in a hazy, dark glow.

Carefully, he takes off her shirt, then lays it across the chair, and stares at it for a moment, as if it's alien. She remains with her arms in the air, obediently, like a child, before they slowly fall to her sides.

He stands there, face bathed in dark shadows, eyes huge and dark, the color of coffee, she thinks. Here and there, the light strikes. The curve of a cheekbone. The shadow between his lips. The cut of muscle and bone, in two lines on his abdomen that disappear downwards, making her throat dry.

He fingers the little eyelet lace strap on her champagne colored satin bra. She jumps a little at the touch. Thoughtfully, he puts out his cigarette, and takes a deep breath.

"You have to help me," he tells her, and she nods, as though she is a pupil in class, paying careful attention. "Tell me things. Ok?"

His tone is almost gentle. She shivers. He's doing this for her; it must be hard, this new selflessness, this unusual generosity. She feels a little flattered.

Almost absently, he plays with her hair, standing above her, letting the strands fall through his fingers. She seizes his wrist, holding it hard; he is surprised at the strength of her touch, almost hurting him. It conveys to him a desire that emanates wordlessly from her, and suddenly he doesn't see her as so helpless, so little. His licks his dry lips.

He unbuttons the raggedy shorts falling low on her hips, sliding them down her legs.

With a heartbreaking naiveté, her hands slowly rise to his belt, undoing the heavy buckle, pulling it through. The jeans are next, left crumpled on the floor.

He lights another cigarette nervously, but with a quick movement that catches him by surprise, she takes it from his fingertips and curves her lips around it as if she were sipping from a candy striped straw. She swirls her fingers in the patterns of smoke that drift from her mouth with the wonder a little child, and smiles at him.

He understands this, her admission to meet him halfway.

His fingers touch her so carefully, then hungry, then restrained. She uses herself entirely, as well as she knows how, learning, exploring, watching him with an air of wonder, pleased at the small things she can do for him, pleased when he likes something in particular.

He softly walks her through it, losing his head at times, but fighting back, before surrendering to her gentle touch that needs no training to convey the emotion it holds.

They tangle in the sheets, and her hand reaches languidly in the air, and turns off the light, letting him attack ferociously.