Atticus   

The clock struck 10, and I was on the phone with Thad. “Tonight I’m sleeping in my bed again,” I said.

“As opposed to not sleeping in it?” he asked. “I don’t understand—where have you been sleeping?”

“On the mattress cover on the guest bed, with a quilt from the hall closet pulled over me,” I admitted.

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s something I figured out last night that I do when I’m—wow, I hate this word—heartbroken.”

“Steve, that’s crazy.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I had stripped the bed in the guest bedroom about three or four weeks ago, right at the same time I figured all of this out. The next thing I knew, I was sleeping on it.

“Love makes you do crazy things, Thad. I slept on my couch for about a month after Joe broke up with me.”

“I can say I’ve never heard of anything like this,” he said. “Very odd.”

“Well, tonight I’m finally going back to my own bed.”

Five hours later, something woke me. I was on the couch. I rolled over.