After finishing the magazine, I returned it to the rack and wandered the aisles of the store. I loved reading, but I hadn’t been doing much of it lately. A display in the center of the main aisle held a number of books that looked good, and I made a note of some of the titles for later.

My stomach rumbled audibly; apparently it was time for dinner. I made my way back to my car, pulling my coat tighter against the bitter wind. I hated winter. I’d grown up here in Chicago and endured nearly twenty-five bitterly cold seasons, and every year I wondered how much longer I could put up with window scraping and ginger walks over icy sidewalks.

On the way home I swung by the library and ran in to check out a couple of the books I’d seen at the bookstore. As I drove home I mentally planned the evening: make a quick dinner, then change into my pajamas and curl up on the couch with a book and another hot chocolate. Then I pulled into my space in the parking lot and saw Dylan’s truck. It was the first time in weeks he’d been home early. It made my stomach drop.

This knee-jerk reaction angered me. How dare he cause me to feel like this? He was supposed to love me, or at least act like he liked me. Even if we knew things weren’t really going anywhere, that wasn’t an excuse to act like a jerk. If he wanted to break up with me, then fine, do it, but don’t put me through this emotional turmoil. This was my place, it was my furniture inside—I was letting him live there because we were committed to each other, but if he wasn’t going to act committed, then he could just pack up and get out. In a sudden and uncharacteristic fit of assertiveness, I decided to tell him as much.