“I need a man who will kiss me like he’s about to be sent to the firing squad,” Shelby declared between drags of a half-smoked cigarette. “What kind of man are you looking for, Julia?”
“Dunno,” I said, picking at my scabs. “Somebody nice, I guess.”
We’d been sitting on the football bleachers, watching the junior boys on their warm-up run. They were a small army made up of sharp elbows and concave chests, rosy cheeks marred by freckles and acne. Shelby insisted they were handsome.