“No.” My eyes fly open and, needing something to focus on, find a glass milk bottle stuffed with a single zinnia. “I’m not going to fail,” I whisper to the bright yellow bud.

Newly resolved, I pack up my stuff and head back inside to grab an iced latte for the road.

ME: I’m grabbing coffee and then heading back to the house. Want anything?

ME: If you’re home, I mean. If not, kindly ignore this text.

ME: Actually don’t ignore it because I’m standing here in the middle of the café waiting for your response and I look like a dweeb so let me know either way.

JACK: An iced coffee would be great. Thanks.

ME: You got it. See you in a few!

“Honey, I’m home!” I call out when I push through the front door, a coffee in each hand.

Jack is perched at the peninsula, reading a comic book and eating a piece of toast. “Do you plan to announce it like that every time you come in?”

“Um, yes.” I hand him his coffee and dump my bag on the stool next to him.

He clears his throat. “How was your first morning of funemployment?”

“I’m sorry, did you mean, how was the first morning of the rest of your life?” I think that makes five times I’ve thought that phrase. Maybe six.

“Sure, that too.” He stands and crosses to the fridge, taking out the milk and adding some to his coffee. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I’m making note of how you take your coffee, like a good roommate.” I hoist myself onto his vacated stool. “I like vanilla lattes, by the way. Iced in summer, hot in the winter.”

“Good to know.”

“So, Jack—is that your full name or a nickname? If it’s your full name I’m probably going to have to think of something else to call you, because while Jack is very much in line with what I know of your personality so far, it doesn’t have quite enough oomph there for me. I need some more syllables.” I pause for a second to sip my latte. “Anyway, it occurred to me this morning as I was putting together the plans to shape the rest of my life into something meaningful and not soul-sucking, I have no idea what you do for a living.”

“Hmm.” He reaches for his toast, which is now in front of me since I stole his seat.

I push the plate across the counter at the same time he grabs for it, and our hands brush up against each other. And I can’t help but notice what nice hands he has. His fingers are long, his skin soft. They look like the kind of hands a doctor might have, or maybe a sculptor. Strong but gentle, purposeful but kind.

But yeah. Anyway.