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I put the guitar down before I follow that thought any further than I want to.

I check my phone. Nothing. I didn't expect anything. I check it anyway then decide I might as well go to bed.

The next morning, I wake up to an empty apartment. Pickles is in the same spot on the rug. Same tragic pose, same absolutely committed performance of abandonment.

I grab my phone off the nightstand, already composing the message in my head before I'm even sitting up straight.

The hoodie. That's what I need to focus on. The fact that she left wearing it, that it was tied around her when she walked out the door like it belonged there, like she'd been wearing my clothes for years instead of just a few days. I spent ten minutes this morning tearing through the closet looking for it before my brain caught up and reminded me where it went.

I'm not ready to examine why I want it back. Or why I'm lying to myself about wanting it back.

Me:

Pretty sure you committed a felony.

Quinn:

I don't know what you're talking about.

Me:

My hoodie. It didn't walk out of my apartment on its own.

Quinn:

Sounds like a you problem.

Me:

It's my favorite one.

Quinn:

Should've thought of that before you let me leave with it.

Me:

So you admit it!

Quinn:

Finders keepers, Wyatt.

Damn that woman.

Me:

Fine. But I might need it back soon, and when I do, I’m coming to collect it in person. I know where you live.

There's a pause after that, longer than the others, long enough for me to check the screen to make sure it sent. Long enough for me to realize I probably sound like a stalker again.

I start to panic, but a few seconds later, her reply comes through, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

Quinn:

Bold of you to assume I'd give it back that easily.

I attach the photo from last night—Pickles on his side, paws out, the picture of canine devastation.