I couldn’t even remember what we’d talked about for the rest of the day or how we’d even managed to make it through lunch. I could have sat there with a giant leaf of spinach wedged in my teeth, rambling on about interoffice nonsense, and I would have never known.

Because my boss had said he was into me.

Or had he?

He hadn’t directly said it, but he had mentioned my ass. And I did have the memory of him that night in the club—his voyeuristic eyes roaming my body as drunken words had tumbled out of his mouth in an ill attempt to take me home. I thought his fixation with me had only lasted the few seconds it took for his head to hit the floor, but seeing the way his eyes had darkened as he spoke today had me wondering just what I’d missed over the last couple of weeks.

Melissa had always said I was a little absentminded when it came to the opposite sex. It was why I was always so thankful for Tyler.

Tyler.

He’d be home any minute, and here I was, sitting on the sofa, in the apartment we shared, thinking about my boss.

In a very unprofessional way.

This was not how I pictured myself adjusting to New York life.

Getting up, I began fluffing the pillows. Then, I folded the blankets and stacked the magazines on the coffee table. I spent nearly ten minutes in this mindless cleaning mode before I even realized what I had been doing.

“Mom, what are you doing?” I asked, watching her buzz around the living room, picking up my shoes and backpack mere seconds after I’d dropped them by the couch.

Our house was always well kept. It had that dated ’90s look to it—worn oak cabinets, flower wallpaper that peeled at the seams, and weird knickknacks that collected dust but reminded us of all the places we’d visited or would like to someday.

My mom hated dust. Some days it seemed like it was her life mission to get rid of it. I’d always come home to find her in the middle of polishing or dusting one thing or another.

But today was different.

Today, she seemed almost manic, as if the Devil himself were tailing behind her.

“Cleaning, dear. The same thing I do every day,” she answered, seeming to find my question comical.

“I see that, but what’s the rush? Did you accidentally mistake one of my Adderall for a vitamin again?”

She rolled her eyes, still darting between the kitchen and the living room, rearranging pillows and scrubbing counters like the pastor was about to show up for Sunday night supper.

“No, and that’s not funny. You don’t take Adderall.”

“I know, but I got you to slow down for half a second. Seriously, what is up?”