Are you real?” Stupid. Of course he’s real.
“Yes, Julie. I’m not the mystical man from your dreams.

What does a freelance researcher do?”
“Researches things.” He winks at me and helps lift my bike onto a cobblestone walkway. “It’s not an interesting or particularly sexy job. Nobody wants to date a perpetual studier, but I bet there’s an army of guys crawling over each other to get to you.”
More like crawling away. “You’re ridiculous. Who’d ever want to date me?”
“Someone like you? There’d be a line at your door as soon as work got out.”
“Oh, would you be in the line?” Sarcasm. Not a real question. I don’t care if he responds—heat burns my toes, ears, and everything in-between—well, maybe I care a little.
Jack pauses and gazes into me. “Yeah … I’m in the line … and I’m better than all the other guys so you should really pick me. I’m funny. I’m strong, like, I could sweep you off your feet and run without breaking a sweat. I can also blow milk through my nose, but only if I’m drunk and the milk is warm.

There comes a moment when we must choose how we’re going to love someone. Some forms of love leave a sweet memory once they’re gone, others leave scars. But there are forms that when stolen, destroy part of who we are—love that transforms us.

Love is bread and water to the soul. My relationships are quite soggy.


Every moment of contact between us seems important—every glance, every touch, every word. I don’t understand him, but I know him, and he knows me. It’s this strange connection we share. No matter how often we fight, lie, make mistakes, I choose him and deep down, I think he chooses me, too.

You know on TV when there’s one of those awkward, shocking moments and all you hear are the crickets in the background?

Well chirp fucking chirp...this is one of those moments.