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Liz’s place is nice and tidy, if a little Spartan. She’s got a couple of scuffed wooden bar stools by the kitchen island, but no table in the dining area. In the living room, a fabric-covered couch, a small coffee table, and an old TV. There are no plants or personal touches.

“This is a nice place,” I say. “A little more sparse than I would expect.”

“None of the furniture is mine,” she says. “It belongs to the woman I’m subletting from.”

“Ah, yes. Your alter ego, Melanie.”

Liz smiles. “The one and only.”

“So what would you do differently if it were yours?”

“Oh, plenty. I mean, I’d buy different furniture, obviously. She doesn’t seem to care about form, only function. But I love color. There would be pastel leather armchairs, and decorative pillows, and art on the walls. Flowers on the kitchen island. Bowls of potpourri on the coffee table.”

“Is that how your old place looked? The one where you lived with Jake?” I am getting unreasonably annoyed at the thought. Everything about that guy makes me want to punch something.

Liz’s face pinches. “No. It wasn’t our place. It was his place. He didn’t like my”—she makes quotation marks with her fingers— “‘girly stuff.’”

That fucking guy. He really needs to have his nose bashed in. I’ve never been a violent guy, so this righteous anger churning in my gut is brand new and all Liz-related.

“You know, you could already do a lot of the stuff you just mentioned,” I say. “Throw pillows and flowers and potpourri. Maybe even some art on the walls. None of it is expensive or hard to remove once you decide to leave.”

She looks up at me and several moments pass before she speaks. “You’re right. I really should do that.”

She’s very close and almost sways toward me. I reach out and cup her cheek. She leans into it, but neither of us goes further.

Then Liz takes a step back. “Have you eaten?”

“Nope. I was going to make something when you texted.”

“I’m pretty hungry, too. Let’s eat. I’ve got tons of leftovers.”

She brings out lasagna and some chicken parm and something that looks like jambalaya.

I’m more than a little impressed. “Did you cook all this?” I ask.

“Yeah. I love to cook. I make a bunch over the weekend and usually have leftovers, especially if Bobby doesn’t eat anything.”

I help out with plating and microwaving, and soon we’re eating at the kitchen island.

“This is all amazing,” I say. “You’re a really good cook.”

She seems pleased, but then her face falls. “Today was my last day at Qpik,” she says. “The woman I used to substitute for should be coming back on Monday.”

I look down at my food. “I really liked being able to see you first thing in the morning,” I say. “I will miss that.”

“Me, too,” she says, sounding a little choked up. “Me, too.”

Our eyes meet. We both seem to be holding our breaths, as the tension between us mounts. Neither of us moves a muscle.

I clear my throat. “So, what’s next? Back to job hunting?”

“Yeah.”

“But you’re definitely staying here? In Madison?”

“Yeah, I think I am,” she says. “I really like the city, and now I’ve got friends, and my cousin.” She lowers her head, like she’s shy. “And you’re here, too...”