I roll off my bed, crawl toward my dingy closet, and fish out the cardboard box tucked in the back. I’m like a dragon appreciating its hoard, little scraps of Whaley I’ve managed to sneak away laid out in front of me. It’s not creepy, it’s sweet, and I don’t care if people say otherwise. I start with his comb that he left in his office one day, rubbing it against my cheek, wanting to feel my fingers threading through his hair. “He loves me.” I toss the comb behind me and grab his underwear next. I had to do some sneaky shit to get these, but I swear to God they still smell like him. “He loves
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