Those Three Little Words

“What do you think?” Eli says, holding his arms out as he shows off his apartment.

While we were in Banff, he had movers pack up my place and move me into his apartment.

Normally, such a grand gesture of not having to move would be applauded, but as I stare at his apartment, where my décor and personal items have been expertly placed and used as decorations to make his apartment mine as well, all I feel is irritation.

Intense irritation.

An irritation so consuming that I can actually taste it on my tongue.

Why would he do this?

I’m not his girlfriend.

I thought that we were having a good time, you know? Enjoying each other.

He doesn’t love me.

He’s the baby’s dad.

“It’s . . . uh . . . it’s done,” I say as I walk around the apartment. I run my fingers over the back of his long gray couch draped with one of my throw blankets. Behind the couch is the console table from my apartment, decorated with some of my favorite books and picture frames. It seamlessly goes together, which irritates me even more. The curtains in his apartment have been switched out to ones that are similar to mine, and the art above the mantelpiece is colorful, pulling the many hues from my apartment together.

“It’s done?” He chuckles, not sensing my mood. “Babe, it’s more than done. It’s us.”

Us.

Well, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate word since I’m not even considered his girlfriend in his mind. But we’re an us. Isn’t that swell?

“And look, the kitchen is a perfect combination of your things and my things, and of course, I had them use your dining room table because frankly, I liked it better.”

Yup. It is better. And the wood grain softens the room surprisingly, making it feel less modern and more homey.

The bowl of lemons on the table, and the rug under it that’s mine, pulls it all together.

Who has a bowl of lemons anyway? Are those fake?

They can’t be real.

What a waste.

When I pick one up, it’s light and plastic-like in my hand. Huh, fake. He must have a good designer to find such a lifelike fruit.

“And come with me,” he says, taking my hand and walking me toward the hallway. My eyes land on the fireplace, the space in front of it where this started. The French silk pie, the flirting, the way he looked in his suit, the need to be with this man.

If only I knew it would end up like this, me walking around with this belly full of baby, attempting to enjoy a surprise that my non-boyfriend created for me. And uncomfortably at that.

In what felt like seconds, I went from feeling sexy and amazing to uncomfortable in my own skin, where everything seems to irritate me.

Everything.

He walks me past a few doors and into his bedroom—well, I guess our bedroom. A bedroom for two people not in love but living together and sharing a baby together, a bedroom where there will be sex because, even though just looking at him makes me want to roundhouse kick his crotch off, I still want my mouth on his cock.

The hospital actually kept me for a total of three days. Eli stayed by my side the whole time, and every kind gesture, every kiss, every hold of my hand, made me so angry.

Very angry.

Irrationally angry.

Because it’s confusing. I feel like he’s playing with my heart, and I don’t know how to handle it. And the more upset I get, the more I want to cry. The more I want to cry, the more he wants to hold me and be affectionate. It’s a vicious circle, and for the life of me, even though I know he doesn’t love me, I keep holding his hand, I keep snuggling into him. Because, despite him not loving me, I still very much love him and I can’t stop my heart from seeking him out.

That’s why I’m here, in his apartment, not running away.

He opens the door and smiles as he walks me in. The center of the room is his enormous bed, but with matching bedding as I had in my apartment. The nightstands have been switched out to reflect mine, and the rug on the carpet is new, but again, it ties everything together. The art on the wall above the bed is from my bedroom, and on the nightstands—each of them—is a sonogram picture framed. It’s a sweet gesture that once again irritates me.

What if I wanted a different picture there?

What if I don’t want our baby staring at us when he’s plowing into me from behind?

What if I didn’t want that freaking swirly art above the bed, but rather a mirror, so I could see myself while I deal with the irritating fact that I still want this man inside me, all the time? Even though . . .

He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my stomach as he places a kiss on my neck. “What do you think, babe?”

I think it was a huge invasion of my privacy to have some stranger move all of my things, but I can’t look like an ungrateful wench because frankly, I’ve inserted myself into this situation, so I say, “It’s nice.”

It’s all I can muster.

It’s all my heart can take.

“Nice?” He laughs. “Just nice? Man, I thought there’d be a bigger reaction than that. Do I need to show you the closet space you have to warrant a ‘really nice’?”

“Just soaking it all in,” I say.

“Well, I have one more thing to show you.” He takes my hand and brings me to the door on the left just outside our bedroom. He opens it up, and low and behold, it’s a white room with beautiful hardwood flooring, the same as the entire apartment, with large windows and a single white crib constructed in the very middle. “It’s for our little guy.”

Okay . . . listen up, ladies. This right here, this gesture is cracking my shell of indifference. The irritation is melting into a puddle at my feet, and in its place, an emotion so intense, so palpable starts to take over.

Happiness?

Joy?

Anticipation?

He didn’t decorate this room. He’s done absolutely nothing but leave it as a blank canvas, something for both of us to do together. That was sweet. That was thoughtful.

That right there is why I can’t seem to take a step back from him.

It’s why I’m so confused.

Why my heart is breaking with every breath that I take. With every warring ounce of love I feel. Worry laces his eyes as I walk toward him. I gently place my hand on his face, stand on my tiptoes, and place a very soft kiss on his lips. His hand presses into my lower back, keeping me in place as he reciprocates the kiss, reminding me just how much I’m addicted to him.

To his taste.

To the way his body molds against mine.

And to how he makes me feel protected . . . loved, despite how he truly feels.

My mouth parts, and I slip my tongue against his lips. He parts his mouth as well, and our tongues collide, but not in a frenzy. We’re calm, exploratory, appreciative. His hands slide up the back of my shirt as our kiss deepens even further, pulling the hem up until I lift my arms above me and allow him to take it all the way off, leaving me in my bra and shorts.

He then runs his hands over the clasp of my bra, and in one swift motion, he undoes it and the fabric falls off my body.

“Do you love it?” he asks as he takes me closer, pressing my sensitive nipples against his shirt.

“I do,” I say and then pause to look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Eli.”

His smile stretches across his face right before he bends down and lifts me into his arms. Our lips lock, and he takes me into the master bedroom, where he gently lays me across the bed and pulls my shorts and underwear off, leaving me bare.

From behind his head, he pulls his shirt off and then undoes his jeans and drags them down his thick thighs along with his briefs. His cock juts forward, and he grips the base. “What do you want me to do to you?”

Love me.

Make love to me.

Tell me that I’m the only woman you ever want in your life.

Truly make me yours, brand me, mark me, make sure it’s obvious I belong to no one else but you.

Eliminate this tormenting feeling that’s pulsing through me every time I look into your eyes.

Don’t leave me alone in this world of love, wondering, hoping, begging that you’ll open your eyes and see how much I can offer you.

I swallow and say, “Fuck me.”

“That I can do.” With a smirk, he bends between my legs and brings his mouth to my pussy. My head falls back against the mattress, and I let myself forget my tumultuous emotions, focusing on his mouth and how he’s making me feel at this moment . . . taken care of.

PENNY: I want to punch him.

Blakely: Punch who? Eli? Why?

Penny: He’s sooooo irritating.

Blakely: What’s he doing?

Penny: Do you want the list?

Blakely: I kind of do.

Penny: Well, for one, it’s called a shirt, man. Wear it. No one needs to see your perfectly defined abs all the time or round, disc-like nipples. Also, can he stop making me all of this food? Like, breakfast. He makes these eggs that are so delicious. Just stop it. No one wants your eggs. Oh, and get this . . . he’s always leaving the toilet seat down. What kind of crap is that? And then he’s like oh, can I massage your feet for you? Can I get you anything from the store? Hungry at 2 a.m.? No problem, baby, what do you need? And what’s with the baby shit? I’d rather him call me Mistress of the Dark or Dragon Breath, but baby? It’s honestly puke-worthy. Ugh, and he brought home all of these paint samples for the baby’s bedroom, thoughtful paint samples that I talked about. Like . . . he actually listened. And to top it all off, he’s still making me come so hard that I honestly feel my eyes rolling to the back of my head. I don’t want to come that hard. No one, and I mean no one, should have the right on this planet to have that many orgasms in a week. And he’s always giving me oral, like every time. He’s trying to show off. That’s what he’s doing. He’s showing off how good he can fuck me with his tongue, and frankly, it’s getting on my nerves. Congratulations, buddy, you can make me squeal with delight by only using your tongue. Slow clap for you.

Blakely: Ummm, don’t hate me “Dragon Breath,” but it seems as though he’s actually doing all of the right things.

Penny: EXACTLY. He is.

Blakely: Okay, so, once again, “Mistress of the Dark,” don’t slaughter me, but I fail to realize how there is a problem.

Penny: Uh, isn’t it obvious?

Blakely: No. No, it’s not.

Penny: He’s being too perfect!

Blakely: Ah yes, what an absolute fucker. How could he *possibly* be so awful to you? Damn him all to hell.

Penny: Are you patronizing me?

Blakely: Can I ask you a question?

Penny: Might as well.

Blakely: You’re seven months pregnant, right?

Penny: If you say this has to do with my pregnancy, I’m going to slice you with a rusty knife.

Blakely: You’re seven months pregnant, which means you’re entering the third trimester, and your patience is going to continue to shrink until nothing is left.

Penny: My patience level is fine. I’m just asking him to stop being so goddamn nice. He doesn’t even like me, Blakely. I said that in a hissing tone. If he loved me, then sure, dote on me all you want, but he’s making me believe he’s this nice guy, and then what happens when I have the baby? Huh?

Blakely: He’s a nice guy. We established that. And I do think he likes you. He just doesn’t know how to say it, so he’s showing you instead.

Penny: You realize how completely useless you are at the moment?

Blakely: Wow . . . welcome to the third trimester. I hope Eli is mentally prepared.

Penny: Ugh . . . I’m sorry, okay. I just . . . I can’t stop thinking about how he’s doing all of these nice things, but why? Why bother?

Blakely: Because, sweetie, like I said, he likes you, but he doesn’t know how to say it, just show it.

Penny: It’s slowly eating away at me. I can feel it. The angst of it all. I don’t want him to do nice things for me. I want him to love me.

Blakely: It takes some people longer.

Penny: Or maybe, Blakely, he just doesn’t like me like that, and all of this has just been a way to stay closer to the baby. And get laid very, very often.

Blakely: Do you really think he’d do that?

Penny: I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that with every day that goes by, I’m growing more and more irritated, more angry . . . and more sad.

Blakely: Penny, please don’t be sad. Give him time.

Penny: Hard not to be sad when all I feel like is an incubator. Someone he can have sex with. And of course, the means to an end.

Blakely: Do you need to meet up? Should we go somewhere to talk? You don’t sound great.

Penny: I’m fine. I’m going to take a bath. I’ll talk to you later.

Blakely: Penny, don’t shut down. Please just talk to me . . .

“YOU LOOK HOT,” Eli says as he comes up to me in the kitchen and places a kiss on my shoulder.

“I’m wearing a five-year-old sports bra and underwear. Explain to me how this is hot?”

He pauses mid-kiss to my neck and pulls away. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” I snap at him as I shove a brownie in my mouth and walk to the living room.

“I’m smart enough to know when a woman says fine, she doesn’t mean it.” He joins me in the living room and sits across from me on the coffee table.

Mouth full of brownie, I grip my large stomach and say, “This looks hot to you?”

“Babe, you’re easily the most attractive woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“Oh, yeah, sure . . . okay.” I roll my eyes and reach for the remote, but he stops me.

“There seems to be a problem, and I’m not positive what it is. Mind if you help me?”

“Help you what? Understand a woman? Why do I need to be your educator? Read a book.”

Now he rears back slightly, blinking. “Hey, Penny, what the hell is going on? Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, you finally realize you did something wrong? Wow, Eli, it only took you seven freaking months.”

“Wait . . . what are you talking about?”

Chalk it up to the hormones, possibly my defense mechanism to how destroyed I feel inside, but I can’t seem to control my emotions.

I love him.

But I hate him.

I hate him so much for putting me through this. For being so caring, attentive, and appreciative, but that’s it. There’s nothing else, and that is what’s making me sad.

That is what’s making me cry whenever he leaves.

That is what’s fueling the fire to the raging flames burning through me.

“If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I can’t help you.”

He pauses, blinking a few times, and it’s almost comical, watching him try to process all of this. Isn’t it clear as day why I’m irritated? How come no one can understand besides me?

“I’m sorry, Penny, but I really don’t understand.”

“Typical,” I say while I tug on my bra that, despite being five years old, still has the elasticity of a brand new one, causing my boobs to feel so confined that I can’t even take it, so I tear it off over my head and drop it to the side. Leaving me in nothing but a pair of underwear.

I watch as Eli’s eyes drift to my chest and then quickly back up.

“Was it the bra? Do I need to get you a shirt or something?”

“Uh, are you saying I need to cover up?”

“No,” he says, his tone deepening. “I’m just trying to make you comfortable.”

“Well, me comfortable, is sitting here in nothing but my underwear. What do you think about that?”

He smooths his hand over his jaw. “Honestly, I think it’s hot. Your tits are fucking sexy.”

There he goes again.

“Ugh.” I toss my hands up. “What am I? A piece of meat now?”

“Jesus Christ, did I say that?” The timid voice he was using has now turned to irritated.

Join the club.

“Might as well have. Am I just a vessel for your sexual needs, Eli?”

“Yeah, Penny,” he says sarcastically. “You’re just a hole to stick my dick in.”

I point my finger at him. “I knew it.”

“Jesus . . . fuck, you’re losing it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You’re fucking losing it. And I’d say I’ve been pretty fucking good the past two weeks since you moved in. I’ve been at your beck and call, given you everything you want, even fucking you whenever you hopped on my lap—”

“Oh, I’m sorry for all of the sex. You poor, handsome millionaire, having to have sex with a horny woman. You are so put out.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“How could I put words in your mouth when apparently the only thing I put in there is my pussy.” I stand from the couch, and he grabs my hand before I walk away.

He stands as well, his chest inches from mine. “What the fuck is going on with you, Penny?”

“As I said, if you don’t know, I can’t help you.” I snap my wrist away from him and head toward the bedroom. “I’m going to put a shirt on now so you don’t have to be subject to my feminine wiles.”

“YES, ELI. HARDER. HARDER.”

“Fuck,” he says as he pulses, pulling on my hips as he thrusts into me. “Babe, I’m going to come.”

“Eli!” I yell as my orgasm rips through me, splitting me in half and causing me to lose all sense of what is right. He stills behind me and groans as he comes, and I slowly lower my forehead onto the counter to catch my breath.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles as he leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I answer.

Like we’re two robots, he removes himself from me, and I straighten up, fixing my new maternity nightgown over my stomach and ass. I had to get some that would fit over my belly, and they have left nothing to the imagination. Cut low so my cleavage is on full display, I walked out of the bedroom after changing, only to see Eli’s eyes turn dark . . . hungry.

I was torn in half as my heart wanted him, but my mind tried to ignore him. It was seconds before my heart—and my libido—won out. I walked up to him, stuck my hand down his shorts, and pulled him out before bending down and placing him into my mouth. He let me suck him for a few seconds before he carefully bent me over the counter.

This, of course, was after we were fighting about who got to do the dishes. I stormed off, irritated that he wouldn’t budge from the sink, and put on my nightgown.

“Do you want me to grab you a washcloth?” he asks.

“I’m more than capable of cleaning myself up,” I say.

“Didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You implied it,” I counter.

“Actually, it’s called being a nice fucking guy.”

“You know, you’ve been playing that card a lot lately. The nice guy. How do I know it’s nice, and you’re not just stacking up evidence?”

“What kind of evidence?” he asks, looking confused. God, he’s a good actor.

“The evidence you’d use against me?”

“For what?” he nearly shouts.

“Uh, to prove something.”

“To prove what?”

“Oh . . . you know.” I cross my arms over my chest and nod.

“Holy fucking shit. I really don’t.”

I don’t stay to listen, though. I go to the bathroom and clean up before brushing my teeth. I consider going to bed, but I’m really not tired. I go back out and find Eli finishing the dishes.

Hand on the wall, I ask, “Are you satisfied?”

He glances up, and his hair falls over his forehead, making him look that much sexier. “Satisfied? In what way?”

“Well, let’s see, satisfied sexually and satisfied that you got to do the dishes.”

He turns the water off and dries his hands before resting them on the counter in front of him. His triceps fire off under the recessed lighting. “Am I satisfied sexually? Yes, I can barely keep up with you. Do you make me come harder than anyone ever before? One thousand percent. Hands down, no questions asked, my dick is a slave to your pussy, and it will do anything you ask.” Good answer. “Am I satisfied with doing the dishes? It doesn’t matter to me. I just want you to take it easy.”

“Why? Are you saying if I don’t take it easy, I breathe too hard?”

“What?” he asks, wincing and blinking at the same time. “How the fuck did you get that from what I said?”

“It is what you said.”

He shakes his head and tosses the dish towel on the counter. “I don’t know what to fucking do with you, Penny.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” He turns off the kitchen light and walks toward me. When he reaches me, he pauses, presses a kiss on my forehead, and then keeps moving toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To bed,” he answers and then is out of sight as he slips into the bedroom.

To bed? Why doesn’t he want to hang out with me? We usually watch a show at night together.

I lean against the hallway wall and tilt my head slightly back.

God, I hate myself. This is just not me. Yes, I’m an emotional person—passionate, one might have said. But this . . . erratic behavior is not who I am at my core. And I hate that this is what I’ve become. I used to love who I was. I hate that I keep picking fights with him to push him away, even though my heart wants to drag him closer. In my mind, if I keep him at arm’s length, I can convince myself that I don’t need him, that I can exist without his love.

Maybe you’re acting like a monster because you have no idea how to control the burning pain that is so deep in your bones. Especially because I can’t leave.

I’ve never had to wish someone would love me before. My parents, my brother, Blakely, their love has always just been there. Unconditional. And I don’t think that makes me spoiled, but rather unused to this one-sided love that promotes sadness and disappointment.

But standing here, knowing he’s upset, it breaks me.

I don’t want to be broken.

I don’t want to feel like this.

This . . . out of control.

I move toward the bedroom, where I find him in the master bath, leaning against the counter, brushing his teeth. When he spits out his toothpaste, he asks, “Do you need something?”

I nod. I can feel my tears start to surface, but I hold back, not wanting him to fret over me all over again.

He rinses his mouth. “What?”

“Are you really not going to watch a show with me?”

“Do you want me to watch a show with you?”

I nod. “I do.”

“Okay.”

He finishes up and then leads me back to the living room, hand in hand, where he reaches for the remote. “Do you want to pick?”

I shake my head. “I just want to sit on your lap.”

“Okay.” He takes a seat on the couch. I sit on top of him, and he lays a blanket over the both of us. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he curls his arm around me. Not turning the TV on, he quietly says, “What am I going to do with you, Penny?”

“Get rid of me,” I answer sadly.

“Never,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “I wish I could understand what’s going on in your brain, though. You’ve been a little up and down lately.”

I wish I could understand what’s going on in your brain, Eli.

“It’s the hormones.” I lift my head and kiss his jaw. “I can’t control them.”

“I can understand that, but I want you to know, I’m not here to pick battles with you, I’m here to support you, and no matter how much you try to push me away and fight about meaningless things, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here, babe.”

“Are you sure you want to be?”

“Of course,” he answers. “I’m all yours.”

I sigh into him, and I can feel my ugly emotion start to trigger again. “I wish that really were the case,” I say, causing him to force me to look at him by lifting my chin.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it’s the truth.”

“No, the truth is, I’m yours. No one else’s, and I’m not going anywhere. Even when this baby is born, I’m still yours.”

If he’s mine . . . then why doesn’t he feel like it?

Because he doesn’t understand the definition of love, Penny. His actions show love, but maybe he simply doesn’t know that.

And there’s absolutely nothing I can do to help him understand.

ELI IS A VERY NEAT PERSON.

I realized that from living with him in his apartment. He likes to fold his shirts a certain way, his jeans are always hung, and his shoes must be lined up properly. Suits are all stored in protective bags, and socks are folded together, not inside each other, and then lined up specifically in his top drawer.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

Drawer open, I drag my finger over the fabric of his socks, wondering what would possess a human to spend so much time perfecting the appearance of a sock drawer. This seems like such a waste of time. And would he even notice if something was out of order? What if I put one of his ankle socks with a dress sock—why does he even have dress socks? I never see him wear them. Nonsense.

Never hurts to conduct a few experiments.

I pick up a few of his running socks and replace them with some dress socks. I then open his underwear drawer and gag at the organization. He folds his underwear into little squares. What an annoying habit. It’s underwear. Toss it all in a drawer and be done. Why, as a civilization, have we found it necessary to fold underwear?

Irritated with the mere sight of it, I stick my hand in the drawer and make an utter mess of it all. Smiling, I shut both drawers. That’s better.

Needing something else to do, I wander over to the baby’s room, where I lean against the entrance and stare at the perfectly neat sample squares of paint Eli painted on the walls the other day. Variations of gray on one wall, blue on another, and green on another. They’re so precise.

And he’s starred the ones he likes.

Presumptuous if you ask me.

Inside the bedroom, I spy one of the paint cans with a paintbrush on top.

Don’t mind if I do.

I pick up the paintbrush, pry the can open with a paint can opener, and see it’s the dark gray that Eli didn’t really like. It’s so dark, it’s almost black.

Well, at the moment, I think it’s quite nice. And babies really only see black and white at first, so why not give him a color that he can appreciate?

I dip the paintbrush inside and then lift it to the wall where the blues are painted. I slap the gray onto the wall and start writing with it. I don’t bother taking my time. Instead, I let the paint drip down the wall in gobs as I scroll across all three walls. It’s cathartic.

It’s been a month and a half since the day I told him I loved him, since I confessed my most confident of secrets. And a month and a half since he visibly froze with fear. Has he changed his mind since? Not that I can tell. Does he blow steam up my ass every day?

Yes.

Should I be happy? Probably.

But I’m sad.

I feel . . . depressed.

Used.

Nowhere close to the woman I once was.

Blakely thinks I’m insane.

Winnie believes I should give him more time.

My mom even chimed in and told me that it might be harder for him to express his feelings.

But at this point, I’m not even sure I love him anymore.

God, could you hear how bad that lie was? Because it was a very bad lie. I try to convince myself that I don’t love him. I try to tell myself all of the annoying things that he does, but they don’t seem to have an impact, and with every day that goes by that he doesn’t say it to me, I feel like I’m nothing more than a sexy buddy who’s carrying his baby, I get angrier. More frustrated. More irritated.

More depressed.

More needy for something more. Anything that will make me feel whole again.

Hence, the sock drawer, the underwear, what I’m currently doing, and the smoothie I made him this morning before he went to work out that I “accidentally” put salt in and then happily watched him make a queasy face as he swallowed. I don’t think I’ve ever been more satisfied than watching him try to figure out how I ruined his drink. Pure gold.

And I can’t seem to stop myself. Call it the hormones, the embarrassment, the loneliness, the rejection, or the inability to be loved by someone else, but it’s all getting to me.

I set the paintbrush down and step away to marvel at my work. I smile to myself as I read, “This room belongs to Johnny Jim.”

Now that is what I call decorating.

Satisfied with the change, I walk into the living room and survey the space. A few pictures of him shaking hands with some famous hockey players hang on the walls. Frankly, a little pretentious if you ask me.

So I decide to change them since I’m on a roll.

I take a seat at the desk in the corner of the living room, and pull out a Sharpie and some paper. Getting comfortable in my seat, I uncap the Sharpie and then tap my chin, thinking what to draw.

Anything could be better than a stodgy picture of two men shaking hands.

Smirking, I press my pen to the paper and start my first commissioned art piece. Commissioned by me, of course, and as I continue to draw, ensuring there’s specific detail, I know my customer will be very satisfied.

I repeat the same drawing but make some adjustments here and there.

And then one more.

When I’m done, I cap the Sharpie and stare at my drawings, chuckling.

One picture is of a penis, flaccid, looking very sad and almost weeping because it’s so sad.

The next one is a picture of just a pregnant belly and boobs, coming from the side of the paper. The penis is now happy.

The third picture is the backside of the pregnant woman, walking off the paper, hair floating in the wind, the penis is sad again. Talk about portraying a story through art. Doesn’t get better than this.

It takes me a moment and some finagling—the frames were held down with what felt like glue—but I add my new art to the walls and step back.

“Wow,” I say to myself. “Those look amazing.” I snap a picture with my phone and send it to Blakely.

Almost instantaneously, my phone beeps back with a message.

But it’s not from Blakely, but rather a friend I haven’t talked to in a while.

I swipe open the message and read it.

Remi: Hey, gorgeous. I’m in town. Are you free for dinner this week?

I read the message a few times and feel a sense of . . . nostalgia pass through me. Maybe it’s because I’m in such a dark place right now, but before I can stop myself, I text him back.

Penny: Hey you, I’d love to see you. Just let me know when and where.

Remi: Perfect. Tomorrow night, I’ll come pick you up. Send me your address.

Absentmindedly, I text him back, and then on a deep, satisfied breath, I set my phone down. It will be good to see an old friend, maybe get me out of this rut that I’m in. At least it will get me out of this perfectly decorated apartment.

Drumming my fingers again, I turn toward the kitchen. “What next?”

I spend the next half hour taking all the throw pillows apart so they’re just the filler pillow rather than the pretty sham. I move his phone charger into the fridge because it felt right, and I take one of his shoes and repot a succulent in it and set it at the window. I take another picture and send it to Blakely, telling her I might be onto something with the succulent shoe. Eli walks through the door just as I’m about to rearrange the coat closet by turning it into a mini rave space, disco ball included.

“Hey, babe,” he says when he spots me halfway in the closet, halfway out. He places his hand on my back and kisses my cheek. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.” I slam the closet door and fold my arms together. “Why do you ask?”

He eyes the closet and then me. “Just wondering. Why, are you trying to hide something?”

“What would I hide?”

“I don’t know. You just slammed that door pretty quickly, as if you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything, Eli.”

“Then why did you slam the door?”

I laugh maniacally as if I can’t even believe what he’s saying. “Me? Slam the door? Maybe you walked into this apartment so fast your breeze from opening the door actually slammed the door. Ever think about that?”

“What are you hiding in there?” he asks, growing more irritated.

“Nothing.”

He tries to open the door, but I swat at his hand. “Don’t you dare go in there.”

“Penny, I’m not fucking around anymore. What’s in there . . . or who’s in there?”

“Who?” I shout, my eyes widening. “Are you really asking if there’s a who in there?”

“You’re acting like a who is in there.” He gestures to the door.

“You’re making me act like there’s a who in there.”

He grips his hair, tugging on the strands. “Who the fuck is in there?”

“No one!” I shout.

“Then open the goddamn door and show me.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to do it myself.”

I step away from the door and gesture toward it. “Have at it.”

Eyes on me, he swings the door open and then looks into the closet to find all the coats on the ground, but not a body in sight. Confused, he meets my eyes again. “What the hell?”

“Did you really think I’d hide someone in there? Or even want anyone but you?” I push lightly at his shoulder.

“You were acting weird. What am I supposed to believe?”

“Uh, how about the fact that I freaking told you I loved you in Banff? Wouldn’t that be evidence enough that no one would be in the freaking coat closet?” The minute the words slip past my lips, I regret them. Just like before, he freezes, his eyes widen, and it’s like the word love makes him turn catatonic.

This right here . . . this is why I’m losing it.

This is why I feel like crying every time I look him in the eyes.

Because it’s as if he’s completely and utterly horrified I even muttered the words.

“God, I can’t stand you.” I move past him to put on my shoes, then I grab my wallet and head to the door.

“Where are you going?” he finally asks.

“Somewhere not near you.” I walk out the front door and slam it as, once again, embarrassment consumes me.

Flipping through my phone, I pull up Blakely’s phone number and press send.

It rings three times and then, “What have you done now? Change out his shampoo for mayo?”

“Blakely, I need you.”

Her voice grows serious. “What’s wrong?”

“Meet me at Mabel’s Ice Cream . . . please?”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Thank you.”

WAFFLE CONE in hand with a giant serving of peanut butter cookie dough ice cream, I say, “You have to admit, the shoe succulent was a good one.”

She bites into her homemade ice cream sandwich—two double chocolate cookies with strawberry ice cream in the middle—and then says, “I did kind of like it. Didn’t mean it was right, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think messing with his stuff is going to fix things?”

“I’m not messing with his things. I’m nesting. Ever heard of it?”

“I have, but you’re not nesting. You’re being vengeful.”

“How so?”

She pins me with a look. “Don’t do that runaround bullshit with me, Penny. I’m your best friend. I’ve known you long enough to understand when you’re hurting and deflecting, and that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I’m not hurting,” I say, biting into my ice cream. She asked me if everything was okay when we arrived, and I lied. Told her I just needed to share ice cream with her. We then went into the fun things I’ve been doing around the house, avoiding the one main issue, how I truly feel.

“So you’re telling me you’re not hurt at all from him not telling you he loves you or claiming you as his girlfriend?”

“No. I’m fine.” I look away, unable to answer truthfully.

Because I’m hurt.

I’m hurting so bad.

“You’re such a liar. Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“Oh yeah, that seems like a stellar conversation.” In a whiny voice, I say, “Eli, why won’t you love me?” I shake my head. “No freaking way. Not to mention, I let it slip earlier, the elephant in the room. I brought up the I love you, and you should have seen him, Blakely. It was like the first time all over again. The guy absolutely freezes. Let’s face it, commitment is not his thing.”

“So what, you’re just going to stay there, fuck up his things, and then hope that maybe someday he’ll find his way to an I love you?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I pause. “Remi texted me.”

“Remi? As in Remi Gasper? The man who Eli apparently absolutely hates?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell did he want?”

“He’s in town, asked if I wanted to go to dinner.”

She pins me with a glare. “What did you say?”

I shrug. “That I was free. It’s just a dinner between friends.”

“Is that all it is?” she asks.

“Yes, Blakely.”

“Penny, I don’t think that’s a great idea. It will only make Eli mad.”

“Heaven forbid we make Eli mad,” I say, growing irritated.

“Think about what you’re doing, Penny. Remi isn’t just some friend from the past. There’s a history between them. You’re going to end up hurting Eli.”

“He’s hurting me,” I shoot back at her, pointing at my chest. “He’s hurting me every goddamn day, Blakely. How come no one sees that? Why is no one on my side here? Why am I the only one who sees how painful it is to live with a man, day in and day out, and not be loved by him? I’m in this purgatory because of the baby, but I wouldn’t have stuck around if there was no baby. Who would, Blakely? Who would stay with someone who doesn’t love them? Would anyone offer their heart every single fucking day and have it stomped on? Because that’s what it’s like. For me. Every. Fucking. Day.”

“Penny, I didn’t mean—”

Tears well in my eyes. “I just want this nightmare to be over with. I want this feeling to be washed away. I want to be out of this monotony where I wake up to his warm arms every morning, to his soft kisses, knowing damn well they mean absolutely nothing. It’s unrequited love, Blakely, something you haven’t—thank God—experienced. And it’s breaking me. I don’t want to go to dinner with Remi to be vindictive or mean to Eli. That’s not what I want to do at all. But if having dinner with an old friend breaks Eli and me, breaks the vicious cycle I’ve been living in, then it might be exactly what’s needed.”

I don’t want to be an obligation anymore. Someone Eli stays with simply to look after and be there for the baby. I’m not ungrateful. I know I’m so lucky compared to others who are left pregnant and alone. I’m simply hurting.

It’s like living with a daily wound so deep that a Band-Aid can never heal it, yet a Band-Aid is all I’m given.

And I don’t think I can live with this sorrow.

I swipe at my cheeks as my tears run down them.

“Okay . . . okay,” Blakely says, reaching out and taking my hand. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware that it’s been that bad for you.”

“It has been,” I say between sobs. I suck in a deep breath and try to steady my voice. “I’m not in a good headspace, and I just need something, anything to help me through this.”

“Why don’t you talk to Eli? Tell him how you really feel.”

“I did,” I say and shake my head. “He just goes still, quiet. Because I know he doesn’t feel that way about me. And for the sake of the baby, he’s probably just sticking it out.”

Blakely doesn’t say anything right away but instead grips my hand tightly.

She doesn’t have to say anything, because I think we both know the answer to all of this . . . there’s nothing I can do.

Finally, she lifts her head up and says, “What was it that he said to you about living in the barn for all those years? Wasn’t it that he felt so lonely, but rather than dwelling on that, he convinced himself that he didn’t need anybody to survive? That he didn’t seek their love once he realized they wouldn’t give it to him?”

I take a deep breath and think about that conversation we had. It feels so long ago now. He accepted his living situation as a foster-like situation. Even though they were blood family. It brings more tears to my eyes, just as it did then. He was only a little boy when he lost his mom, when he was cast aside and treated like a stray. Not loved like a son or nephew.

“Yes, he believed it was weak to want a hug. To ask for anything more than the scraps of home life he was given.”

“Well, maybe he just needs love, Penny. He needs to be reminded every day that he’s loved, that it’s not some fluke, and that it’s real. Maybe he needs to see your actions match your words.”

“And then what? Every day I say I love him, but I remain broken, battered, and even more heartbroken?”

“Maybe . . . but also, maybe he finally sees that he’s not the abandoned, cast-aside child he once was, but instead, a man who is wanted. A man worth spending time with. A man worth loving.”