Not that it surprises me. I fall more in love with Charlie with every joke, every laugh, every evening he leaves me alone to go to choir practice with Nan, every morning he struts around the apartment with his shirt off, every kiss I press to the scar that runs down the center of his chest. I moved into his place—our place—in the spring just as he gave his notice. Charlie took the summer off to decide what he wanted to do next and to work on John’s cottage. We still call it that, though it’s ours now.
