“No. It wasn’t a joy ride, but I never had anyone put out lit cigarettes on my arms, if that’s what you’re asking.” I think about the years I spent bouncing between the houses of strangers, some well-intentioned, some not. “I was luckier than some kids, I guess. Most of the people I stayed with were decent enough. They just didn’t love me. In their defense, I was kind of a little prick. If my own mother couldn’t love me, why should some foster mom?” There’s too much pain in my voice to pull off my sarcastic joke.

Sack up, Jacobs! You’re whining about ancient fucking history.

“I think my parents loved me. I just don’t think they liked me. I was a mistake.” Her voice is soft behind me. She’s talking to herself more than anything.

“You mean an accident?”

“No, I mean a mistake. I don’t think people as controlled as my parents ever do anything by accident. They had a kid because that’s what people do, but I think they regretted it. I was more a life accessory than their child.”

Her confession seems as painful as mine. She’s hunched forward, her shoulders slouched as she curls into herself. My fingers itch to touch her. Shoving down the urge to wrap her in my arms and hold her until that tension releases from her body, I take a deep breath and focus on our food.

I finish putting together all the toppings of our tacos and spread them out in a mini assembly line on the kitchen island. I don’t go to sit next to her. I stand in the kitchen, needing the distance. We eat in companionable silence, each lost in our own memories. We clean up the kitchen, working together without words. She doesn’t even bother hiding her body as we do. Being naked together doesn’t seem as big a deal anymore.

I’m able to admire all of her in a new light. Don’t get me wrong, in both my shirt and her red lingerie, she’s dead sexy. But simply naked, she’s something different. Something more. Her luscious curves are sensuous rather than sexual. She has an intangible quality to her, something natural and pure that’s captivating. We finish cleaning and she catches me staring at her. I don’t look away or try to hide it.

“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, because she needs to hear it. And she is, inside and out.

She blushes from head to toe, flustered.

“Movie?” she asks.

“Movie,” I answer.

She fusses with the TV and I get comfortable lying across the entire couch. When she turns around and sees me, she crosses her arms and taps her foot like an impatient child.

“And where exactly am I supposed to sit?”

I tap the sliver of couch next to me and tell her, “Right here.”