“Ruby moved to London, England,” she says more slowly. “And yeah, I know. Her roommate was London; she moved to London. The jokes were endless. It was like Abbott and Costello up in here.” Pushing off the wall, she takes a couple of steps closer to me and looks out the window at the water. “They’re looking for a new roommate so if you know anyone who wants to flee the oppressive regime in Canada...”

“You won’t move in?” I ask.

“I like my space. I like living alone.”

I nod. I like living alone, too. My hometown is small enough as it is; sometimes it’s nice to imagine I can close my door and get some distance.

Not that even at a thousand miles away I can really distance my thoughts from all the bullshit going on at home. My phone feels like a lead weight in my pocket, and I slip it out, putting it on the flat top of a cardboard box. Harlow watches me do it, and then does the same, pulling her phone from the pocket of her frayed-hem denim skirt and laying it facedown beside mine.

I step forward and she turns her face up to me, closing her eyes when I slide my hand along her neck and into her hair. “You smell like a fucking dream.”

“Yeah?”

I nod, but she misses it, eyes still closed. “Give me your underwear.”

No pretense, no warm-up, and she doesn’t even startle. My worries are safely placed on top of a cardboard box four feet away, and what I have in front of me is a soft, warm girl to make everything else evaporate. With a little glance up at my face, she reaches under her skirt and shimmies out of her panties, giving me the tiny blue handful of lace. I slide them into my pocket, and then bend, kissing her.

This, too, is new. It’s sweeter, more honest than the wild, biting, savage kisses we knew before. I kiss her once, just a touch, and then again, groaning as her hands slide up my chest and around my neck. Her lips fall into an easy rhythm against mine—there’s no physical negotiation or uncertainty, only Harlow offering me her full bottom lip, little strokes of her tongue, and her eager little gasps. I can taste a hint of cherry lip gloss, the shots we did together in the kitchen. She’s not sloppy drunk, but her cheeks are warm from the alcohol, her body pliable and relaxed. I’m sure I could bend her however I want. I could spread her out on the floor, put her legs over my shoulders, and fuck her so hard that people out in the living room would hear the slap of my skin against hers.