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When I come to, it’s not like every other time the jacket has sucked me someplace else and then thrust me back to reality.

I’m not dumped back onto a street corner or into a thrift store changing room. I’m lying down, and my body feels heavy, and I’m not quite sure where I am because everything around me is pitch-dark.

“Hey,” says a voice. “I didn’t mean to wake you up. You just looked cold.”

But I’m not cold. I’m covered in a blanket. So warm. So cozy.

“Go back to sleep,” the voice says. I feel a hand brush my bangs from my forehead, and I swear I can smell…Iced Lightning.

“Mackenzie?” Somehow, it occurs to me that I’m on my living room couch. I’m aware of the familiar corduroy fabric against my skin and the way the cushions dip a little right where my butt sits. I want to open my eyes and verify all of this, but my eyelids are so heavy.

“Hi.”

I feel fingers stroke the side of my cheek. I lean into them as a happy sigh escapes my mouth.

Just before I slip away completely, I swear I hear his laugh.

• • •

I awaken with a kinked neck to the sound of an angry car honking somewhere down the street. I am cozy and warm under my Hudson’s Bay blanket, and Mackenzie’s jacket is folded on the coffee table beside me.

I roll off the couch and stumble into my room, where I shed my clothes in the hamper, wrap myself in a towel, and head to the bathroom.

There, I run a very hot shower and let the water massage away my non-ergonomic sleeping choices.

My mango-scented body wash wakes me up just enough to process last night’s events.

I still don’t know if these visions I get are dreams or memories or something else entirely. I think that all along, I’ve known deep down that they are my brain’s way of dealing with everything that has happened—looking for deeper meaning in events that had very simple explanations: My mom was in the wrong intersection, my uncle’s body couldn’t fight the cancer cells, I was on the unfortunate end of two sets of improbable odds. But there are too many connections for it all to be coincidence.

Which means it’s not just coincidence. It’s something else.

I emerge from the bathroom in a cloud of mango-scented steam and then stop dead at the sight of a man in my apartment. He’s sitting on my couch with a cookie in his hand halfway on the route to his mouth.

I once read a study that said our first emotional response to a new stimulus reflects our unfiltered, true reaction.

My reaction to seeing Mackenzie sitting on my couch is immediate.

I run—straight into his arms.

“You’re back!”

He envelops me in a hug, pulling me tight to his chest. Exactly as I imagined it.

“When did you get home? Did you just get in?”

I try to pull away, but his arms tighten, so I stay.

“I got in last night, actually.” His voice is gravelly as if he hasn’t slept. “Ben’s girlfriend came down for the show but decided to head home after the party. I caught a ride back with her late.”

I pull away again, and this time, he releases his arms.

The loss of body heat causes goose bumps to prickle across my exposed skin, reminding me that I walked straight out of the bathroom.

“I am wearing a towel.” I state the obvious and watch as his eyes dip from my face to my collarbone, then back up again. “Yes, you are.”

“I think I better put on some clothes.”

He opens his mouth but then closes it without saying anything. Still, I can feel his eyes on me as I turn and head toward my bedroom. Just before I reach the door, I hear him clear his throat.