I open a bottle of Gamay, pouring a few ounces into a glass I’ve decided is one of my favorites, having a sudden wave of certainty that I pilfered it and its matching partner from a hotel where Cillian and I once stayed. Was it the place in Dingle, maybe? As usual, it isn’t quite a memory.

The first song on the album is the ever-melodramatic, blindingly Norwegian, delightfully overwrought cover of “Crying in the Rain.” I blast it loud and get into the steaming hot shower. I take my time, indulging in the water and not bothering to worry about the next thing I need to do. Halfway through the shower, I traipse out, cold and naked, to gingerly flip the record.

It’s an everything shower. I shave my legs and underarms in that slow, careful way rarely afforded to women in a hurry. I let a goopy hair mask sit on my hair. I sing along to the music at the top of my lungs—something I weirdly have not done in years, since I’m never really alone.

When I finally get out, my skin is warm and plump. I wrap my hair in a towel and look at my reflection.

I feel a real sense of fondness for the girl in the mirror. She didn’t deserve to be changed. She didn’t deserve to be whittled into something more palatable for social media. She’s a good person who deserves carbs and sugar and whatever else makes her happy.

I retrieve a bar of chocolate from the kitchen and take a big piece, tossing a sweet potato dog treat to Maureen, then relighting the cabinet candle from last night.

I build a fire in the living room hearth, and then decide to go crazy and build one in the bedroom fireplace too. It’s a particularly chilly night, especially in this old house.

The fires warm the place up so much that by midnight, I’m comfortable in a big, hideous, gloriously soft T-shirt that says Avalon School of the Arts on it, no bra, and my ratty old sweatpants, my hair brushed back into a ponytail. Maureen jumps up suddenly and runs to the door, tail wagging, nose at the base of the doorjamb.

I have a feeling I know why.

I go over and open the door, hanging on to Maureen’s collar. I didn’t mind being wet earlier, during my coming-of-age movie moment of reconnecting with nature, but we’re both clean and dry now and I’d actually like to stay that way.

I see Cillian running through the dark rain, and something deep inside me shudders. He’s in a white T-shirt and jeans. No jacket. Eat your heart out, Mr. Darcy.

The light catches him as he gets closer. He gives a cheeky grin, and my heart soars.

“What dog?” I call out innocently.