“I Drove My Drunk Office Enemy Home. Her Roommate Opened the Door and Said: ‘Oh — so YOU’RE the one she saves emails from.’ The folder was called ‘Mason Being Infuriating.’ There were 47 emails in it.”

Not my arm. My tie.

Which brought her face approximately four inches from mine.

Her breath: mint and Bulleit. Her hand: flat on my sternum, fingers spread. Her expression: the look of someone who has surprised herself more than the other person in the room.

“Your heart is racing,” she said quietly.

“It’s trying to escape this conversation.”