Neither of them responds, and no little typing bubbles pop up. Which leads me to believe they’ve now rejoined forces in their living room and are plotting against me. Bitches.

HARLEY: You should talk to him. I feel like there’s a pretty good chance he feels the same way.

GEMMA: Yeah. This.

ME: I don’t know that he does.

ME: And that isn’t a self-deprecating thing. It’s a legit I don’t know if he likes me thing.

ME: God. I made it to 28 without ever having to have this feeling.

ME: Is this what it’s like being a teenage girl? No wonder they’re awful.

GEMMA: Welcome to my world.

HARLEY: Give it time. You don’t have to do anything right now.

GEMMA: Other than live with the hot-ass man who you are falling in luuurrrrvvvvee with.

ME: And on that note, I’m off to the beach.

GEMMA: I can’t believe we had to get our asses up at the crack of dawn this morning so you can spend the day on the beach.

I send them a blowing-kisses GIF and finish the last sip of my latte. Tossing my cup in the recycle bin, I venture out of the kitchen in search of a bathroom on this level to save me from having to walk back up the stairs. The hallway behind the kitchen is long and peppered with closed doors. I’m tempted to peek, but even I know that’s crossing a major line. So I show a huge amount of restraint and don’t open any, until I reach one whose door is already partially ajar.

Assuming it’s the restroom, I push in and immediately stop in my tracks. This is definitely not a bathroom. The room is large and paneled in dark wood. There’s a whole wall of built-in bookshelves, and a massive desk dominates the center of the space. It’s a very manly-man study, and very not Jack. Obviously the room belonged to one of his parents, probably his dad if we’re being stereotypical about it, and it feels wrong to be in here.

I’m spinning on my heel to hightail it out of there when something catches my eye. Other than the painting hanging above my bed, what I’ve seen of the house is completely devoid of photos or artwork. But hanging on the wall to my right is another masterpiece, and it’s a familiar subject. Taking a few steps closer, I let my eyes absorb all the details, everything from the iron gate to the bright red front door. It’s a perfect reflection of the brownstone. Jack’s brownstone.

Our home.

I stare at it for what feels like an hour but is probably only a few minutes. When I tear myself away, I duck out of the study, leaving the door in the exact position I found it in.