“Why should I be jealous?” I ask. He shrugs. “Because I’m your Jake,” he says, “and you’re my Kayla.” He smiles, fishing in his pocket for the piece of paper. Once we’re in the room, he throws it in the trash. He’s my Jake. And I’m his Kayla. I like it. I more-than-a-lot like it—so much more-than-a-lot.
