Because everyone I know has someone. Someone to go home to, someone to call, someone to talk to, someone to be there.

Tears stream down my face as I look at my phone in my hand. I don’t want to be here for a single second more, so I toss my phone in my purse and start the car.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Nick lives right above the coffee shop, but I’ve never been up there. The door beside the shop’s door opens to a staircase that, presumably, leads to Nick’s apartment. I stand outside it on the dark sidewalk and ring the doorbell once, and then again, and then again. I should’ve pulled a coat on over this revealing dress, or I should’ve picked a less revealing dress, but in my defense, I was trying to make my boobs look good, not protect myself from the elements. I look at my reflection in the window of the shop—between the crying and the rain, I look like a Muppet that’s been put through the washing machine.

Another thing I should’ve done? Called Nick first, like a normal person, instead of showing up at his door. He probably isn’t even here. He’s probably hanging out with D-Money and the Shivanenator, or on a date with a cute girl from a dating app. I wrap my arms around myself and shiver as the darkened window of the coffee shop stares back at me.

I hear the thump of boots on stairs, and then his feet come into view through the window in the door. And then there he is, opening the door and stepping out onto the sidewalk, pulling me into his arms in one fluid gesture.

“What’s wrong, honey?” he asks into my ear, and that’s what does it, that little term of endearment that no one besides a TJ Maxx fitting room employee has ever, ever used to refer to me. My cries turn from regular-crying into outright sobs, and this is no Five-Minute Cry. This is a real cry, the kind that isn’t going to stop after five minutes, or possibly ever. Nick’s arms wrap around me and warm me more than any coat or blanket ever could, and he smells like Nick, like that old-person aftershave, and I want to stay here forever.

“Let’s get you inside,” Nick says, and I remember that, oh yeah, it’s raining. I nod without saying anything and Nick guides me through the door, a hand on my lower back. I walk up the steep stairs, so tired that I can barely even think about how my ass is eye level with Nick’s face.

“Oh,” I say as we reach the top of the stairs and I walk through the open door into Nick’s apartment. I don’t know what I expected—I guess I imagined that Nick lived in a room full of flannel. Something about him made me assume there were, like, animal heads mounted on his wall, which doesn’t really make sense considering that Nick doesn’t hunt, but I always thought it would be uber-manly. And it’s certainly not feminine—there are no dishes of potpourri or vases full of flowers or wooden signs that say LIVE LAUGH LOVE or anything. It’s sparsely decorated, but everything looks clean and comfortable, the complete opposite of Mikey Danger’s place. There’s a huge, soft-looking gray sofa (not a futon!), and a real kitchen table unencumbered with piles of junk mail.