Jess’s house is nothing like the Lily Pad. She lives with her mom, who drives trucks for a living and spends most of her time away, working. When she is at home, there’s TV to watch and beer to drink. She’s not mean, Jess says, just not around much. There are three cats, with personalities that remind me of Goldilocks: one friendly, one who wants to be seen but not touched, and one who spends the whole time hiding.

Her house feels spare and utilitarian, though her room is cozy and sunny: a twin bed, a bookshelf filled with books, classics like Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, a set of weights in the corner. Above their desk, she’d taped up inspirational quotes: “You are STRONG,” “I am the storm,” and “Stay positive!” Several succulents from the plant store line her windowsill; from one, she’s coaxed a flower, coral blossoms like little bells against gray-green leaves. Even though the room is small, there’s space for things to grow.

On her twin bed, she has a lavender crocheted bedspread that I sink into.

“What’s up?” says Jess.

“I’m just sad Celia left,” I say. “I wanted you to get to know her.”

“There’ll be other times,” Jess says. “I liked Touchstone.”

“He’s a good egg,” I say.

We sit in silence, which isn’t unusual. We don’t do a whole lot of talking. There’s other stuff to get to, stuff that feels like the most beautiful blooms at the plant store. I pluck at the chain that Jess now wears around her neck.

“I liked your friends,” Jess says. “But I like you best.”

“Same,” I say.

“You can stay the night,” Jess says. “My mom doesn’t care.”

So I text the Triumvirate: staying at Jess’s.

Touch texts back a thumbs-up; Celia says, See you tomorrow! As though everything’s fine. As though she didn’t leave us in the lurch. As though she hasn’t been smothering me since we’ve been here, acting like she knows what’s best for me; as though she hasn’t tried to talk me out of Jess Orlando, the best thing that’s happened to me in recent memory.

See you tomorrow! she says, and, as if I want to prove her wrong, one night turns into two. Then three. Then the whole week.

Staying with Jess feels like living in the Fernery.

And no, there isn’t a whole lot of talking.

What there is instead:

a mouth on a hip bone

a tongue on an elbow

slow kisses and fast fingers

tangled legs

questions of whose body and breath were whose