Now, faced with the reality of Martin’s apartment, I was beginning to question my judgment. I wondered if I should add a new life rule: never stay at an ex-boyfriend’s place.

Mae unfastened the lock and opened the door, practically pushing me inside when I loitered a little too long at the entrance. However, she did not enter the apartment. I took a few stumbling steps into the space and greedily absorbed the surroundings.

The first thing I noticed was that Martin’s apartment was not ostentatious, at all. Other than its size, the impressive view of Central Park, and the fact he had an actual patio with chairs and a table—currently covered in snow—everything else was rather modest. And cozy. And homey.

The visible walls were plain white, but mostly the room was lined with honey-colored wooden bookshelves, all of which were full of books. He had a worn-looking, dark brown leather sofa in the center of the living room, two matching club chairs in the same leather, a Shaker-style coffee table, and an antique looking drafting table in the corner; it was covered in papers with sketches tacked to a corkboard to one side.

He also had a stone fireplace; the hearth was free of decoration, but a large painting of an eight-person crew boat done in a Norman Rockwell style hung above the mantel. It was the only art or picture I could see. The living room looked like a comfy library.

“Okey dokey. You’re all set.” Peripherally I heard Mae call to me just before the apartment door clicked shut. I turned around and found that she’d gone, leaving me alone in Martin’s home.

My back twinged and I was reminded of the heavy backpack I’d been carrying for the last few hours. Sighing, I placed my sleeping bag on the couch and relieved myself of my luggage, letting it fall to the sofa as well. Then I realized I needed to relieve myself of…other things.

I decided I wasn’t going to feel weird about invading Martin’s space since I’d been invited, and set off to find the bathroom. The first door I opened was to a very tidy, very large bedroom. The walls were white and within was a bed with no headboard or footboard. The comforter was sky blue. The side table and dresser were a distressed, Shaker style. If I didn’t recognize the craftsmanship of the woodwork, I would’ve assumed they’d been purchased at a garage sale. Both were completely bare of stuff. This was obviously a guest bedroom.

The next door was to a closet with sheets, blankets, pillows, and towels, or as I would call them later in order to tease Martin, linens. I checked to see if his towels were monogrammed. They were. I smirked.

The next door was to a bathroom. I flipped on the light and sucked in a surprised and delighted breath. The bathroom was very vintage and very cool. The tilework was checked black and white, a pedestal sink stood to one side, and the nobs appeared to be antique porcelain.

The shower was a stall with a glass door and the toilet looked old and new at the same time. Perhaps it was a reproduction of antique-style toilets. I had to pull a chain hanging from a ceramic box in order to flush it, which I honestly thought was exciting.

I would have to make a special effort to keep from flushing the toilet for no reason.

But like the bedroom, it was entirely free of clutter. The only items in the bathroom other than the fixtures were two white towels, toilet paper, a soap dispenser, and an empty trashcan.

I walked back to the living room and decided to send him a text, let him know I made it.

Kaitlyn: I am texting from inside your apartment.

Martin: Are you going through my things?

Kaitlyn: Yes. And I’ve soiled all your linens.

Martin: Just stay away from my fancy watches.

His last message made me laugh, and then I caught myself. Texting back and forth with Martin was fun. It made me remember conversations we’d had during spring break, the quick exchanges, the teasing. The messages reminded me of how easy and right it had felt between us.

My phone vibrated again and I had to blink several times to bring the screen into focus.

Martin: I’m almost home and I have pizza. Your room is the first left down the hall. Get comfortable.

My heart sped at the thought of seeing him so soon and I told it to calm the frack down.

We were friends now. If I was going to be seeing him I was going to have to learn to control my body’s reaction. I was going to have to learn how to become indifferent. That meant no more celebratory jigs and no more heart races.

Lugging my backpack from the couch to the sparsely decorated room I’d spied earlier, I unpacked. While hanging my tuxedo in the empty closet—which was strange to see, who has empty closets?—I walked by a mirror and caught my reflection. My hair was in two thick, long braids on either side of my head. I was wearing an extra-large men’s concert T-shirt, a very baggy pair of cargo pants, and Converse. This outfit was great for travel because it was comfortable and I didn’t care if it became dirty.

But it was undoubtedly frumpy. I did not like how I looked in it.

I decided to change into one of the outfits I’d bought earlier: a dark pair of (women’s) jeans, a fitted long-sleeved, red and white rugby-style shirt with Avogadro's number on the back. I thought this was hilarious.

The lady at the store didn’t know what Avogadro's number was, but she told me I wasn’t supposed to button the placket at the collar because it was meant to be a deep V-neck; she said that leaving it open would highlight my cleavage, that it was sexy.

I glanced down at my chest, saw that just the edge of my black bra was visible. I decided leaving it unbuttoned was, indeed, sexy. However, I also decided that buttoning just one button would make me more comfortable, so I did. Glancing in the mirror I assessed myself. I was comfortable, but I was not frumpy; I also felt good about how I looked instead of merely ambivalent. I liked that I could incorporate my inherent nerdiness into my new style. I liked it all.

I’d just started pulling my hair out of the braids when I heard the front door open.

My heart wanted to race like a contestant at the Kentucky Derby, but I yanked it back, taking several deep breaths. All of the floors in the apartment were wood and creaked, so I could hear Martin’s steps as he moved through the apartment. Satisfied I wasn’t going to act like a spazz, I walked calmly into the living room while I pulled my fingers through my hair.

“Hey,” I called, searching for him, “what kind of pizza did you get?”

“Who are you?”

I turned toward the sound of the voice—a British female voice—and found a beautiful woman dressed in an expensive black skirt suit, black high-heeled boots, and long wheat-colored hair, glowering at me.

“Oh, hi. I’m Kaitlyn. You must be Emma. We spoke on the phone earlier.” I reached my hand out to shake hers.

She glanced at my fingers like she was a vegan and they were greasy pork sausages. She didn’t shake my hand.

“How did you get in here?” Her irritation was obvious, and not just because she wouldn’t shake my hand. It dripped off her…she was leaking ire.

I let my hand drop and shrugged. “Through the front door.”

She gnashed her teeth. “Who let you in? Why are you here?” She was practically snarling.

“Whoa, just, calm down for a moment. There’s no reason to be upset.”

“I’m not upset!” She yelled this.

I widened my eyes and took a step back, holding my hands up between us. “Okay, my bad. You’re not upset. You always walk into other people’s apartments and yell at their guests. This must be a normal Tuesday for you.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled into something like a snarl. “You are a dimwitted—”

And, thankfully, Martin chose that moment to walk in the door. “Emma? What the hell?”

We both turned our faces to him as he swept into the living room and deposited a large pizza box and a plastic bag on a table behind the sofa, then quickly crossed to stand next to me.

As usual, he was more than just a tall good-looking guy. He was a presence. A swirling, atmosphere changing force, a magnetized center of attention—or at least he was to me. I felt my heart do a few jumping jacks and I told it to sit still.

Emma took a step back as he approached. She swallowed, looking just a tad worried, and crossed her arms over her chest. I noted she was good at masking her nerves as she lifted her chin in a stubborn tilt.

“Really, Martin? Really? You think this is a good idea?”

“Emma.” He shook his head, his jaw set, and his eyes flashed a warning. “It’s none of your business.”

“Your business is my business, and she is bad for my business.” Emma indicated to me with a furious wave of her hand.

Well, this was awkward. I thought about slowly backing away. To that end, I furtively glanced behind me to see how successful I might be sneaking out of the room without either of them noticing.

“You’re going, now. And leave the key.” Martin’s tone was low, monotone. Yes, he appeared to be angry; more than that he appeared to be disappointed.

“If I don’t have a key, how am I supposed to pick up your planning documents for the foundation? How about your sketches?”

She said sketches like most people say poop. I surmised she was not a fan of his sketches.

“We’re not talking about this now because you’re leaving.”

Her brow pulled low and she hesitated for a bit, searching his face before asking, “Does she even know what you did for her? What you gave up? Did you tell her? Is that why she’s here?”