Slowly, I turn back. He stands inside my room looking too good to be real. Mostly I’ve seen him in workout clothes, shorts, sweats, T-shirts, that kind of thing, occasionally a pair of jeans that I’m pretty sure he had when we were together four years ago, but tonight he’s wearing a cream sweater that stretches over his broad chest and a pair of black jeans that hug his muscular legs. His bare feet move a step closer. “Do I look ridiculous?” “No.” The word comes out raspy. I find myself reaching out to smooth my hand down his bicep. It’s something I did a million times when we were together,
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