“Here,” Winnie says once she finds the first flannel he lent her two weeks ago, the navy tartan recently washed and smelling like dryer sheets. “Oh.” Jay takes it. “Thanks.” He drops it onto the bed, and before Winnie can process what is happening in front of her, much less intervene, he removes his wet T-shirt. “Oh my god.” She claps her hands over her glasses and frantically flings herself toward her bedroom door. But it’s too late. She has now seen exactly what she felt on the motorcycle ride with Jay two weeks ago, and there is no erasing it from her brain. It’s like staring into the sun:
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