“Wow,” I say, kissing his hand. “I can’t believe we’ve been arguing and avoiding making out for so long when we could’ve been . . . you know, doing this.”

Nick pulls me even closer, kissing my neck. “We can do this for the rest of our lives, Chloe. You just say the word.”

My breath stops as my heart speeds up. The. Rest. Of. My. Life.

I try, as hard as I can, to imagine myself here for the rest of my life. At the coffee shop. In Columbus. In Nick’s apartment. And no matter what I do, no matter how hard I squeeze my eyes shut, I can’t see that vision. Eventually, my dad won’t be here anymore, and even though I can’t think that far ahead, I don’t see myself staying here. I see myself somewhere else, somewhere far away starting a new life all by myself. Not caring for anyone else, or about anyone else. Being in charge of my feelings and my life only.

I lift Nick’s arm and roll out of bed, pulling his flannel shirt over me quickly. He’s so tall that it covers all the necessary parts; yes, he saw me naked in great detail last night, but it feels different now.

“Where are you going?” he asks, reaching for me. “I don’t have to get up for . . .” He looks at his bedside clock with one eye closed. “Five entire minutes. We could do a lot in five minutes.”

“That we could,” I say. “But I’m going to hop in the shower. I stink, and people don’t like to buy coffee from baristas who smell bad.”

“I like your stink,” Nick mutters into his pillow, but I head to the bathroom. I take the world’s quickest shower, careful not to use all of his hot water. He has a fully stocked bathroom; he’s not one of those men who uses a combination body wash/shampoo/conditioner on every part of his body. I shake my head, letting the water run over my face. Whatever. So he has body wash. As Nick often says, I have extremely low standards. So what if he has an array of hygiene products, a spotless-yet-comfortable apartment, and a talent for oral? So do lots of people. Probably. That doesn’t mean I need to attach myself to him like a barnacle.

I dry off on what is hopefully a clean towel and use the emergency makeup I keep in my purse (because I may never know what the night will bring, but I do know I’ll want lipstick and eyeliner in the morning).

I need to get out of here and into work, but the problem is that Nick will be at work, being all . . . Nick, and now that I know exactly what he can do with those hands, I won’t be able to think about anything else. What a waste that he makes lattes all day when his talents lie elsewhere.

And I need to think about other things, unfortunately—the wedding my best friend is planning, the fight my best friend and I are in, the way my mom is apparently around, the fact that my dad is in the hospital, and, oh yeah, the unfortunate truth that I can’t count on anyone but myself to do anything.