Page 109 of Can't Always Get What You Want

Not in an obvious, someone-will-ask-you-if-you-borrowed-their-cologne kind of way. It's more subtle than that. It's the scent of soap I don’t own and laundry detergent I’ve never bought, clinging to my skin and the inside of my hoodie.

His number clings to my back and I feel it like a brand.

I haven’t taken it off since I got home.

Kicking off my shoes by the door, the sound echoes louder than I expect. The apartment is too quiet, like always—just me and the hum of the furnace and the soft, unmistakable ache of being alone again.

I miss him.

Nothing feels normal now.

Not when my skin still remembers the warmth of his hands.

Not when his hoodie still smells like him and not when this place—my place—feels a little emptier than it did before.

I walk into the kitchen and yank open the fridge, staring at the barren shelves as if something might’ve magically appeared in the hours I was gone.

I’m not even hungry.

I just need todosomething.

Keep busy.

I eyeball the carrots. Yogurt.

Condiments.

A container of pesto.

The containers of lemon chicken from the other night.

Blah!

I stare blankly at the shelves, replaying the evening before on a loop in my head: the game. Nugget. His house, the bath. The quiet way he kissed my forehead when he thought I was sleeping and the way he curled around me, a la Big Spoon.

It didn’t feel like a first sleepover.

It felt like the seventeenth. Or the seventy-seventh.

It felt easy.

I close the fridge and lean against the counter, arms crossed over my chest, sleeves tugged down to my knuckles. The cotton is soft. Worn. Familiar.

And it makes me ache.

I didn’t expect that.

My phone buzzes on the counter behind me, slicing through the memory like a butter knife through birthday cake.

I don’t look right away. Let it vibrate once. Twice.

Then I turn.

Gio is FaceTiming me.

Of course he is.

I groan quietly and answer, already bracing myself for the sibling version of an interrogation disguised as casual concern.

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