He sent me a gift. I know what it sounds like—woohoo he sent me a gift. But it is more than that. He sent me Jane Austen books. The same books I spent five years reading weekly. It’s the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten, but how did he know?

It’s been seven days since I last saw him, and it feels like just yesterday. I don’t understand what this is or how to make it stop. How long can this go on?

I don’t know why I’m so happy, but the next one kills me.

.How can he think I would be in a relationship? How did he not know that I don’t do relationships, and in this day and age, how can one refuse to have sex with a woman who is willing and able? I’m a serial dater, for fuck’s sake.

I’m about to read the next one when my phone rings with FaceTime, and I see it’s Vivienne.

“Hello,” I say when it finally connects, and her face comes into view. She has her hair piled on her head, and she’s wearing the same shirt she wore home, which is mine.

“Hey,” she says, smiling. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” I tell her. “Just reading something I found online. What are you doing?”

“I am just going to order myself something to eat, and I thought I would check in,” she says softly. “When are you coming back?”

“We leave here tomorrow night after the game, so probably around two or three in the morning,” I tell her. “Where are you going to be?”

“Probably here.” She looks at the camera. “Do you want to come here?”

“I can,” I tell her, and we talk for an hour, even after she gets her food, and the next night when I get to her apartment, I’m shocked to find her waiting for me at the door. “Hey,” I say, grabbing her around her waist and carrying her to her bedroom. After dumping my bag on the floor, it takes her five seconds to get naked and a second more for me to plant myself inside her. She is fast asleep when I come back from my shower, and I collect her in my arms and pull her close to me.

“Good morning,” she tells me the next morning when I walk into the kitchen while she is making eggs. I walk to her and wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her neck.

“Is that my shirt?” I ask of the dress shirt she’s wearing.

“It smells like you,” she says, smiling, looking at me from the side. “Go make coffee. It’s almost done.”