I can't believe he's here. Standing outside my apartment, holding my hand. Telling me he came to take me home.

"This is home," I drop his hand and look around my home town.

I don't know what he's thinking? Does he really think I can just climb into the truck with him and Ninja and go back to Oregon with him?

"Stryker--" What he's suggesting sounds nice, it really does, but we're back to reality now. This is my life. "I have a ton of shit to get done," I explain, "I have to get out of the apartment by the end of the week and I need to find someone who can help me haul stuff to storage and then I have a pile that needs to go to the donation center and another pile that needs to go to the dump."

"Jo--"

I cut him off with a shake of my head, "No, you don't understand, I still don't know where I'm going to live, I have to look for a job, I--"

"Jo!" Stryker catches me by the shoulder as I start back into the apartment and spins me around to face him, "Really, Jordan?" He looks frustrated now, more like that first day when we couldn't quite seem to get on the same page.

Stryker frowns and then turns me around to face the inside of my apartment, "Really Jordan? This is home? Cuz it sure as hell doesn't look like anyone's home to me."

He's right, the apartment is nearly empty, cold, and it feels lonely. There's no furniture left, there are no pictures on the walls, there's no coffee maker on the kitchen counter. There are just piles of boxes stacked along one wall of the living room, neatly separated into groups based on their ultimate fate: storage, donation, trash.

"Jordan," Stryker moves to the center of the empty room, looks around and then back at me, "What makes this place home?"

I open my mouth to say something and then realize the answer to his question isn't as simple as I thought it would be.

"Exactly, Jo," the hard look on his face softens with the tone of his voice, "Where are your parents?"

"Back east," I confess, "they do the RV thing full time now, I told you that."

Stryker nods like he's making a point, "Where's your sister?"

"Her husband got a new job and they moved to Florida last year," I remind him.

"And your best friend?"

"She's lived in Iowa since she graduated college." OK, maybe he is making a point.

"Where do you work?" Styker closes the gap between us and rests his hands on my shoulders again, this time so softly I can't help but take a step closer in hopes that he'll pull me into his arms.

"Stryke, you know I just lost my job."

I lay into the sarcasm in an attempt to cover up the quiver in my voice. And then he does it-- his hands slide off my shoulders around to my back and then my cheek is pressed against the cotton t-shirt that's still damp from perspiration. My lungs are filled with the smell of him and my ear is full of his heartbeat.

"Exactly Jordan," he murmurs against the top of my head, "this place isn't home for you anymore."

All I want to do is cling to him as his words sink in. He's right, this place isn't home anymore. Sure, it's where I grew up. My high school is here, the little burger joint where I had my first job is here, but it's not like any of that is the reason I've stayed.

I had a job and an apartment and, for a few years, I had a boyfriend who never wanted to leave this town.

That part of my life is gone forever and when I really think about it now, I realize this place never felt like home. Not really.

Home is supposed to be where your heart is, a place that makes you feel safe and happy. Where you always feel comfortable and welcome.

This town was never any of those things to me. It was just where my job was. Where my stuff was. Where I lived.

I rode through a lot of towns on my motorcycle trip this summer. I saw a lot of places that felt so much more like home when all I did was see them from 25 miles an hour as I rode by front porches and diners and parks.

But the only place that ever felt like home was...

Ninja's sharp bark echoes off the apartment complex walls and interrupts my thoughts.

"I need to go check on her," Stryker says, pulling back slightly to look down at me.

I nod in understanding, "You should bring her up," I say, stepping out of his arms and immediately feeling the loss, "it's too hot out there for her to be in the car."

And I miss her, I don't add as Stryker heads down to get Ninja.

While he's gone, I scan the apartment again.

I've been looking at it all week, the empty space growing until it engulfed each room and finally took over.

Until now, every time I've looked at a bare wall, I've seen the places that used to have picture frames hung there, or that painting I got at a yard sale that I really liked even though no one's sure what it's of.

The empty space in front of the gas fireplace was a rug, and next to the sliding door used to be the love seat.

Every inch of the apartment was the place where someone lived.

Now all I see is white walls, nearly white carpet, light gray counter tops, white appliances. It's sterile and cold and empty and it doesn't look like home to me at all anymore.

Styrker's place is warm and cozy, even with barely any furniture in it. Something about the way his place is put together says it was built for a family that still spends time together, not sequestered from one another. Even if his place does need a massive makeover, it felt like...

Ninja barrels through the open door and all 35 pounds of wiggling body and black fur hit my legs with enough force to buckle my knees and send me to the floor.

...home. It's like my brain refuses to not finish the thought. I sit in the empty space that used to be where I lived and try to hold on to the excited pup while she licks my face and I know that I was never home here like I was when I was with Stryker and Ninja.

"I hope you haven't already packed your vacuum." Stryker laughs from the doorway as he watches me go over backwards and give in to his dog's greeting.

Ninja's rolling on the floor and I see what Stryke means as I notice the black fur she leaves behind on the pale beige carpet.

"Fuck it," I giggle under Ninja, "the lease is still in Bryan's name."