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up and folded and tucked into their proper places, including the last purse I used. I open it and look inside. There’s a name and number written on a torn piece of paper in blue ink. The name Zane has written on the paper is: John Cruze.
    I can’t help the smile that pushes up the corners of my mouth. Zane might’ve been a perverse son of a bitch, but he really did care, in his own fucked up way.
    I take the piece of paper from the purse and dial the number.
    “John Cruze,” he answers professionally.
    “Hi,” I say, realizing in that instant I don’t get to choose between the two John’s. Zane has chosen for me, and he’s given me permission to be with John Cruze.