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why I was just about to take a hot shower. Thought I could use some help.”
    “Did you?” Jack and I rarely shower together. It’s nice in theory, but someone is always left out of the water stream, standing like a wet dog in the freezing air. But I quickly dismiss the downside of the practice because Jack looks so devilishly cute. “You must be really dirty,” I say, playing into his charade.
    His smile spreads wider. “You have no idea.” He casually crosses his arms, and in the process sloshes hot coffee onto his bare stomach. I swear I can hear it sizzle when it touches his flesh, but he doesn’t flinch.
    I suppress a laugh. “That really hurt, didn’t it?”
    “Immensely,” he says, still not giving in to the pain.
    I stand up and walk toward him, holding his gaze. When we’re parallel, I reach my hand out to the now-red skin on his stomach and gently wipe the dripping mocha liquid off his abdomen. Then I lean close to his face, so close that I can see the soft downy fuzz on his cheeks, and whisper in one quick burst, “First one to the bathroom gets to stand under the showerhead.” I take off like a shot and can hear Jack lumbering behind me. Just as I get to the bathroom door, his arm encircles my waist, throwing me off balance, and I shriek. We stumble to the ground, both laughing, Jack’s naked hindquarters landing with a smack against the hardwood floor. Out of breath and still laughing, he leans over to kiss me. My T-shirt disappears over my head and Jack cups my left breast with his hand. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the small scar.
    And though I don’t believe in ESP, I know we’re both thinking the same thought: Somewhere in there is another tumor. Olly olly oxen free. Come out, come out wherever you are.
    Then Jack’s thumb moves slowly to my nipple and I sharply inhale, grateful for the distraction.
    Later, when I’m in the bathroom alone, pulling my hair up into a ponytail elastic to create a messy bun, I hear Jack in our bedroom next door, cursing. “Have you seen my jeans?” He owns three pairs, but I know he’s referring to the only ones he wears in public, a dark blue wash from American Eagle. A purchase he made when I finally dragged him to the mall after trying to explain to him for months that holey, ripped-up jeans might have been a good look in high school when he was listening to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” on cassette single, but now it just makes him look homeless.
    “In the dryer,” I call back. I cringe thinking of the drawers that I’m sure he’s rifled through and left looking like a half-off bin at Ross. It amazes me that as smart as Jack is, it never occurs to him to check various places in the house when he’s searching for something. Isn’t laundry the next logical step if you can’t find an article of clothing in the dresser?
    Jack passes the bathroom in his boxers and thunders down the rickety wooden steps to our dungeon of a basement in search of his pants. I take one last glance in the mirror and then walk into our room to start refolding all the clothing that’s askew. A few minutes later, Jack returns wearing his freshly laundered jeans. “Babe, stop it,” he says when he sees me. “I’ll do that. You go relax.” He takes the T-shirt out of my hands, and I have to physically stop myself from snatching it back from him. Jack doesn’t fold shirts. He kind of rolls them up like individual sleeping bags and stuffs them haphazardly into the dresser.
    I turn and perch myself on our king bed, trying to ignore Jack’s imprecise method. “Did you pack your razor?” I ask.
    “Yep.”
    “Boxers?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “What about your—”
    “Daisy,” he cuts me off. “I got everything. You worry too much.”
    After he pulls his socks on and stuffs his feet into a pair of scuffed brown boots that he’s owned for as long as I’ve known him, he leans over to kiss my cheek.
    “I’m gonna take our stuff to the car,” he says. “You ready to