“Oh, but come on, Cass…” Nate starts. “You know you want a shirt that says something like ‘I’m with Teddy Bear man’…”

“Or ‘My boyfriend wears tutus,’” I pipe in, barely able to finish my words I’m laughing so hard. Cass, on the other hand, has her arms crossed while she stands at the door looking at the two of us, cracking ourselves up.

“Are you done yet?” she says, her lips pulled up to the side, and her face irritated. This only makes us laugh harder, and Cass rolls her eyes and holds up her hand. “Good night, children!”

It takes us almost fifteen minutes to settle down enough to actually open up books on my bed and dig in for some studying. We both have big final exams the week we get back from Thanksgiving break, and I have an essay project due for my art history class. I really want to finish it early so I won’t have to focus on any homework while I’m with Nate.

At first, I was a little anxious about going to his parents’ house for the holiday—worried that I was intruding, and maybe missing, just a little bit, the traditional thing I always did with my parents. But the closer we got to break, the more excitement bloomed in my belly. This—and just being close to Nate, period—was making it extremely hard to study tonight.

Somehow, I’m able to read two chapters, and my brain seems to retain most of what I read. Nate is sitting on the opposite end of the bed from me, his legs stretched out next to mine, and every so often he nudges me with his toes.

“Keep your stinky feet to yourself,” I say, pushing his socked foot to the side, which of course only makes him drop it completely on my lap and kick it around under my nose.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I…in your space?” he teases. I pick up my heaviest book and open it, resting it on his ankle, pretty much trapping his leg in my lap. He chuckles, and folds his book closed, laying back a little and resting his chin in his palm, his elbow holding up his weight. I can feel him staring at me for several minutes, and I’m no longer even coming close to paying attention to the words on my pages. I close my book and turn to the side, my face flat against it like a pillow—and we lay still like this, quietly studying one another, for several minutes before either of us talks.

“Do you still think about him a lot?” I’m not surprised by Nate’s question, but it causes my pulse to race, and my stomach to twist tightly, nevertheless. He’s chewing on the cap to his pen, his face so kind and regarding. It’s not a jealous question—not like how he is when we joke about Tucker. No, this question is one of genuine interest, of wanting to know me that much deeper, know how my insides work, and how my head routes the thoughts of everything that happened.

“Yes.” I can see a hint of sadness color his features when I admit this. “But not as much as I used to. It’s a little less…everyday.”

More silence settles in, but it’s comfortable. We’re still for several minutes, and then Nate reaches his hand for my foot, and he pulls it into both hands in front of him, digging his thumbs into the bottom for a massage.

“Is it bad that I don’t think about him as much as I used to?” I ask, and Nate’s hands pause. He takes a slow deep breath without looking at me, and I can tell he’s really thinking about my question, putting himself in my shoes.

“Honestly? I think it’s human,” he says, his thumbs circling my foot again. “Either way…I think it’s okay.”

We don’t talk about it anymore, and after a few minutes, Nate picks up his books and hauls them back to his room. He has early workouts in the morning, and we’re leaving for his parents’ house later in the day, so he said he wanted to let me really focus to finish up my paper. And in my gut, I felt a little pang over him leaving, like there was something else, something unspoken. He didn’t want to be here. But I also didn’t fight to make him stay. That small conversation put something in both of our heads. And I was thinking about Josh tonight…more than I wanted to.

Plane rides were definitely better with Nate. It took about three hours to get to New Orleans, and another hour or so to get from the airport to Nate’s parents’ home in Baton Rouge. Their house isn’t large, but it’s old. The grass out front seems to stretch forever until you get to a porch flanked by white posts and stretching the entire expanse of the home. It’s yellow, like sunshine, and with the sun setting behind it, I swear I’ve stepped into a postcard.

“I love your home,” I say, and I realize it comes out kind of corny, like the thing you’re supposed to say to be polite. But I mean it—I really love his home. It feels like I fit here. I keep that part to myself, though, because that sounds crazy.