She grabbed the towel from the floor and dried herself quickly. “I can hear you out there,” she said.

“You didn’t say how far away.”

She reached for the sweatshirt, and a pair of boxers fell to the floor.

“I’m not wearing your boxers,” she said.

“Suit yourself.”

“Don’t you have any sweatpants?”

“No.”

It was quiet, and she held up the blue plaid boxer shorts.

“I wasn’t expecting a wet little girl, you know.”

She blushed, then banged her palm against the door.

“All right, all right, I’ll make some tea.”

She heard him walk down the hallway, and she put his clothes on and slowly opened the door.

“Sit down,” he called from the kitchen. “I’ll be right there.”

She made her way to the living room and sat on the oversized couch. Next to her, on an end table, was a pile of books, a dusty lamp, and a black sketchbook. She pulled the sketchbook to her lap and opened it. On the first page was an inked circle enclosing a number of smooth lines that intersected to make dozens of triangles pointing up and down and across each other. It was precisely drawn, and the whirling smoothness of it all made her feel as if it were somehow moving, rolling toward the center, and then out again from it.

“You like that?” He walked to her and took the book. “You should ask permission before you look at people’s things,” he said.

She could tell he was both teasing and serious, and it made her feel young and uncomfortable.

He handed her a cup of tea and stood in front of her. “Drink.”

She held the mug in both hands, wanting to both drink and not drink. Her heart beat faster with his proximity, and she thought she might scream if her brain didn’t stop all this flip-flopping. She forced herself to take a tiny sip. It was hot and milky and sweet, and she wanted to take another mouthful, but she set her jaw and looked at him.

He sighed, and then took the mug and placed it on the floor. “You are a handful,” he said.

Her chest ached, and she felt the sting of tears threatening behind her eyes. “You’re supposed to see Mary today,” she blurted.

He looked at her. “Yes?”

She didn’t know what to say next. The tears were in her eyes now, and she looked down at her hands. There was a long silence, and she could hear the tick of a clock coming from another room.

Finally he spoke. “Ohh,” he said.

She didn’t say anything, just stared at her hands.

“Mary told me she wanted some help with an NIH grant. Is that what she thought? That it was a date?”

She recoiled at the word, then shrugged.

“Oh, Josie.” He bent down and took her hands in his. “It is not a date.” He laughed.