When he turns the key in his apartment door, we barely get two steps inside; I lean against the door and pull him close to me. I nuzzle a trail of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his collarbone. In response, his hands roam my body, slipping up underneath my shirt and running over my chest.

“Come with me,” I say.

I straighten up and begin to saunter to his bedroom, undoing the buttons of my shirt as I go. He follows, but not as fast as he usually does.

“Blake?” I ask.

He’s stopped walking and is leaning against the wall, shaking his head appreciatively. “I was just looking, that’s all. You’re crazy hot—you know that, right?”

I have to laugh. I move toward him, grab his collar, and kiss him again. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I say, clasping his hand in mine and pulling him toward the bedroom.

Sex with Blake is always satisfying. He’s good, sometimes even great: he’s attentive, unselfish, and mercifully acquainted with the female anatomy. When I’m in bed with him, I can’t help but slow down to admire the gently sculpted muscles along his arms and torso and the look of pure appreciation on his face. But today, there’s something new. He moves more intensely than he typically does, as if he can’t get enough of cupping my curves or can’t bring us close enough.

“Say that you’re mine,” he says breathlessly.

I don’t think twice. I do.

When it’s over, he lies flat on his back with the duvet thrown toward our feet and ushers me close to his side. I rest my head on his chest.

“I love you,” I say. “I really do.”

I test how the words make me feel. They’re growing on me.

• Chapter 15 •

In my nine years of friendship with Carmen, I can count the number of times we’ve skipped our weekly Thursday happy hours on maybe two hands: a few vacations for each of us, a funeral out of town, the time I had the flu. That’s it. The week that Hurricane Sandy devastated New York and we evacuated our dorm to sleep on cots pushed together in NYU’s student center, we still found time to meet and drink Diet Cokes from the vending machine. We’ve gathered during blizzards and breakups, too. So when Carmen texted on Thursday afternoon, “SOS, work stuff is cray, let’s do a quick coffee tonight?” I knew her situation must be dire.