It occurs to me on Friday night that the attraction has little to do with him being tall or handsome, and everything to do with how perceptive he is.
Jack sees me—a puppet who maybe, just maybe, is a real girl after all.
And because he sees me, I cannot interact with him safely. And that’s why I’m not willing to think about the things he said to me. The way he looked. The dimple. His hand sliding up the inside of my thigh, warm, inexorable.