Namely: She hated it when I called her that. She tolerated it from her father, but not from anyone else, especially not me (or Josh, who loved to tease her mercilessly like the older brother she didn't have). And when I would call her that, she'd get mad at me.

Which is what I wanted.

What I was saying was hard enough, I sure as hell didn't want her looking up at me with those sad, dark, questioning eyes that blinked back tears. I would much rather she be furious at me.

That would make it easier to walk away.

Which was another piece of strategy on my part - I was at her apartment. I didn't want her trying to drive home from mine with tears in her eyes. She'd probably crash into something. And I didn't want that.

But no matter how strategic my words were, no matter how much I tried to control my tone of voice, she still ended up looking up at me with those sad, dark, questioning eyes that blinked back tears. And then I walked out.

I was doing the right thing, I tried to convince myself. I was too much like her father, she was too much like her mother (at least, according to Leo - all I knew of Jenny was when I hit on her by accident)...and we'd both seen how that had played out. And neither of us wanted that. She was tired of two-week flings with random men, and I was tired of falling into bed with dangerous women. We were both tired of giving our hearts up, only to have them broken quickly and painfully.

So I tried to convince myself it was really for the best, that we'd both be better off, that we'd both move on and be happier.

That was all I wanted for her...I wanted her to be happy. Really, I did. Really, I **do**. And she'll be happier without me, I...I know it.

Even if she doesn't yet.

But if all that's true...

Why am I standing here, amid lawn chairs and a leaf-covered pool, staring up four stories and trying to pick out her window?