“What am I doing?” My teeth dig into my lower lip, suppressing the grin wanting to crawl up my face. He’s leaving. I’m staying. We are toxic together. Nothing good can come from going to his place. Ironing his jeans. Sharing a meal. We can’t be in the same room without wanting to kill each other or rip each other’s clothes off.

Jake: I’m here. If you want to iron my jeans … I’m here until Saturday.

Four hours later, I stare at the backstairs to his loft. He has a motorcycle parked next to his truck. I fidget with the long cuffs to my white boyfriend shirt. Then I tuck in just the front before smoothing my hands over my worn denim capris. Still … all these weeks later, I attempt to run my fingers through my hair running down my shoulders onto my chest, but it stops just below my chin. It’s like I’ve lost a limb, and I’m feeling the weight of phantom hair draped down my chest and back.

My feet wobble in my black heels as I take the stairs in slow motion. Why am I so nervous about seeing a man I spent weeks with in a tent and traveled miles with him in his pickup truck? My shaky fist knocks twice on the metal door.

“Hey!” He opens the door, grinning while attempting to tug on a T-shirt over his wet head.

Freshly showered Jake with a naked chest, ripped jeans, and bare feet. This was a really bad idea.

“Nice shirt.” I roll my eyes.

Jake looks down like he has no idea what it says. There’s a hand flipping a coin.

Heads I get tail. Tails I get head.

“It’s just a shirt, not an agenda.”

I nod once, eyeing him with caution as I step inside and slip off my impractical yet highly stylish heels. He shuts the door.

“Something smells good.” I wring my hands together. Gah! I’m so nervous.

“It’s a curry dish. I think it’s actually the rice cooking that you smell. I love the smell of rice cooking.”

I smile and nod. Bobbing my head is all I can do since my voice wants to shake as much as the rest of my body. We stand nearly toe to toe. I think it’s out of habit. When you spend weeks with someone in such close quarters, the boundaries of personal space get skewed. It also happens when your favorite place to be with that person is as close as your bodies can get, touching at all points.

“Can I get you something to drink before you start ironing?”

I laugh. “Do you even own an iron?”

Jake smirks as his hands work a large knife, chopping red bell peppers. “No. There’s a dry cleaner across the street. If I need something pressed, I let Saul do it.”