Roomies by Christina Lauren

twenty-three

Calvin is quiet the entire walk home, hands in pockets, shoulders tucked up to his ears. We went from the terror of the chase, to the intimacy of escaping it together, to the disaster of Lulu and her big mouth. I don’t even know how to reel this night back in.

There’s nothing I can say. I did everything she said: I took subway trips I didn’t need to take, and I watched him over and over, I sent her a video of him playing once and even took a picture of him at the Hole in the Hall. I essentially told him all of this during our interview, but then let him believe it was just a story I made up to cover for my stumble with Dougherty.

I’m nauseated. I felt so powerful and necessary as we were walking into the bar, and then Lulu made me sound so creepy. If I were Calvin I would definitely be silent on the walk home, too. It’s just . . . what she said, and the way she said it, didn’t feel true to me. I feel slandered.

As soon as we arrive at the apartment, I sense it like a storm rolling in; I know it’s coming. Calvin isn’t a complicated man, but he doesn’t let things go unsaid, either.

He places his keys and wallet on the counter carefully, like he doesn’t want them to make any noise, shake anything else loose. He toes off his shoes near the door, and whispers a quiet “Excuse me” when he steps past me to use the bathroom.

I want to vomit.

I take the time to put on pajamas, selecting my favorite frog tank top and pink polka dot shorts for courage. And then I sit on the bed, waiting.

We’ve spent nearly three dozen nights together in this room—what if, after this, he returns to the couch? Am I super weird? How would I feel if I found out he was essentially going out of his way to watch me for six months? How would I feel if he had video of me on his phone, and then offered to marry me to “help” me?

A throat clears, and I look up to see him standing in the doorway, shirtless. He unfastens his pants, pushing them down his hips and kicking them into the laundry basket. “Do I need to ask, or are you going to talk to me?”

“Ask what?”

His eyes turn up, meeting mine, and I can tell he’s disappointed that I’m evading.

“Yeah,” I say, chewing at my lip. “I know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do.”

“Before I start, can I just say that Lulu was being terrible tonight? She made it sound different than it actually was.”

He leans against the doorway, pulling off one sock. “What part did she have wrong?”

“She made it sound a little more Fatal Attraction than it actually was. I wasn’t obsessed,” I say lamely. “I just . . . had a thing for you.”

“Had a thing for a stranger you called Jack? Videotaped him in public? Followed him to a bar where he—”

“I had no idea you were playing with that cover band,” I interrupt, face hot. “That was a total coincidence.”

“Holland, imagine if the roles were reversed.” He’s half-naked as usual, and for once I want to ask him to put on some goddamn clothes so I can concentrate. “Imagine if you found out that I had gone to where you worked, taken pictures of you, taken video of you and sent it to a friend. And then we coincidentally end up in a marriage of convenience?”

I shake my head and look at my hands in my lap. “Look, I know what you’re saying, but I also know me and what my intentions were. I never intended to try to talk to you, or even make this into more.”

When I look up at him, I find him studying me dubiously. He moves his hair out of his eyes with a quick shake of his head. “Yeah, but I didn’t know you or your intentions. It washes things differently in hindsight.”

The tiny seed of heat in my chest starts to burn brighter.

“I admired you,” I say, feeling a little defensive now. “It was a private thing—for me. I wasn’t being weird about it; I wasn’t talking about you on Twitter or Facebook. I wasn’t posting video of you on Snapchat. You played at the station—some of my favorite pieces—and it was amazing. You seemed too good to be true sometimes. I got caught up in that and sent a fifteen-second video to exactly one person. Are you saying it’s a bad thing that I was so invested in you?”

He walks over, sitting on the corner of the bed with his back to me. “I’m not saying that. It ended up being fine. It’s just odd.” He lets out a heavy breath.

Fine? It ended up being fine?

I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes, hating that I can’t see his expression. “I thought we came into this the same—strangers—and you were helping Robert and I was helping me.” He tosses his socks into the hamper. “But I feel like—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Like you lied to me.”

“Lied?”

“Yeah. Or manipulated me.”

This hits a trigger beneath my ribs: the seed of heat turns into a flaming brick, and I reach my boiling point. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He turns, meeting my eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

“So what if I had a crush on you?” I ask. “Yeah, now I’m getting sex and some help paying rent—but I didn’t plan that part. In fact, if I recall, I was so covert about my feelings that you had no idea I felt them. I had to endure the anger of Jeff and Robert, my brother Davis isn’t sure how to even ask me about what we’re doing, and my parents don’t even know about this. Now Robert has the virtuoso he wanted, and you have the dream position in the most popular show on Broadway and sex at home, with your fake wife. You’re seriously giving me shit right now?” I stand, walking to the bathroom to get my toothbrush.

He follows. “I just wish you had told me you had feelings.”

“Is that what bothers you here?”

“That’s part of it, yeah.”

I turn to him, squeezing too much toothpaste on my brush, but I’m too angry and proud right now to do anything but shove it in my mouth. I immediately pull it out again.

“Look, you were coming to live here, and I didn’t want you to think I had any expectations.” I point the toothbrush at him. “I was doing this for Robert, yes, but also because I’d admired your music for so long, and I wanted it for you, even if I didn’t know you.”

I pause, and his eyes search mine, looking for some answer I’m not sure how to deliver. “I did tell you all of this in the interview with Dougherty,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but then you let me think it was just a story.”

“Right,” I say, nodding. “Because you called it ‘insane’ that I would do that.” I laugh dryly. “I like to think that it makes me kind. But here I am, doing shit for other people and getting treated like I’m monstrous somehow.”

His jaw ticks and I can’t figure out what’s going on here. All I know is that I’m out of words, and I’m done explaining myself.

You let me think it was just a story.

But if he’d asked me whether it was true, I would have said yes.

I bend over the sink, brushing my teeth with the energy of a woman who wants to lift up the entire building and hurl it into the ocean. I can feel Calvin standing behind me, wordless, but eventually he turns. I can tell from his footfalls that he’s walking to the living room, not the bedroom, and am a little heartbroken to realize that I feel relieved.

I’m up at six, having slept like crap, but I must have slept some, because as soon as I open my eyes, I remember last night and a sense of dread falls like shade passing through a room. The last thing I want to do this morning is rehash everything, or feel the tension between me and my new favorite person, who is presently buried under blankets and sound asleep on the couch.

I dress quietly and slip out before Calvin wakes up.

It’s been forever since I did my little routine of walking to the Fiftieth Street station, taking the train to get coffee at Madman, but I want to do it today. I want to walk in my old shoes, to try to remember that surety that this mission was critical, that I alone was connecting two universally vital dots by bringing Robert to Calvin.

The subway station is as busy as it always is, and there is no guitarist to greet me at the bottom of the stairs. There is, however, a sufficiently capable saxophonist, and I throw a five-dollar bill into his case. He stops playing to thank me.

So, he’s here for the money, not to get lost in the music, and the honesty of that is so fucking refreshing. Calvin could have played his guitar alone, forever at Mark’s apartment if it really was only about the music for him, but it isn’t. It’s also about the audience, about the adulation, about the income—so how can he be so fucking upset that he’s receiving it? Sure—I should have told him at the outset that I’d been watching him at the station for some time, and admired his music. But his reaction to my crush was so overblown that it sours something inside me. I’m torn between staying away all day and rushing home to rip into him again.

And . . . I actually cling to this feeling, because I never get angry . . . and I forget how being angry can feel so good because it makes me feel strong. For the entire time I’ve known Calvin, I’ve felt like I haven’t totally deserved having him in my apartment, in my life, in my bed. My anger is my new best friend, telling me I’ve deserved every second of the happiness I felt before this stupid fucking fight.

I press through the crowd and onto the train, hopping from station to station, listening to every busker I find. I’m on an unnamable mission, and it isn’t until I’m on my fourth or fifth station that I realize I’m looking for someone as talented as Calvin.

But there’s no one like him in any subway station in New York. I’ve heard music my whole life; I know there’s no one like him anywhere. I knew it. I always knew it.

Calvin was right that by coming into this only as strangers, we were equals. But . . . are we no longer equals because I had feelings before he did?

Or is it that I have feelings and he doesn’t? Does this answer my question about whether he’s been playing me all along? Is banging me every day his way of keeping me loose, keeping me comfortable, keeping the government away?

Back up on the street, I get my coffee and walk for hours. I cover miles. By the time my stomach gnaws at me to eat, I realize I’ve left both my watch and my phone at the apartment and have no idea what time it is. There’s a giddy thrill in knowing that I’m completely unreachable. I’m sure Calvin did just fine getting his grouchy ass up and fed. He can get himself to the theater later; I’m not going to bother going in. Contrary to the popular idiom, those T-shirts do, in fact, practically sell themselves.

I show up unannounced at Jeff and Robert’s apartment at five, when I know for sure Robert won’t be there. For the first time in my relationship with my beloved Bobert, I feel a little disloyal, wanting to avoid him. I didn’t feel this way even when I went behind his back and married Calvin, because I was so convinced that it was for Robert’s own good. Obviously, Robert agrees with me about this now. He thinks Calvin walks on water, so I’m not sure how it would feel to hear him defend Calvin in all this.

Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about that with Jeff.

Jeff answers the door in his work clothes, holding a stack of mail. His eyes widen in surprise. “Hey, you.”

“Did you just get home?”

Stepping back, he waves me in. “Yeah. Aren’t you working tonight?”

The familiar smell of sandalwood calms me almost instantly. “I’m going to call Brian and tell him I’m taking a personal day. Can I use your phone?”

“Sure.” Jeff leans against the wall, watching me as I pick up the landline in their kitchen. “I guess this answers why you never replied to my text today.”

A sudden panic about the interview barrels through me. “Oh shit. Did something—”

“No emergency.” He seems to reconsider this. “I mean, at least I hope not? I’d texted a couple times because Calvin called me, looking for you.”

“He called you?”

Well. That’s something, at least. My anger dims, minutely. I give Jeff a grumpy look with my I’ll explain in one second finger gesture, and then finish dialing Brian’s number. Thank all that is holy—it goes to voicemail. “Brian, it’s Holland. I’m unable to make it in tonight. If you need anything, call me at Robert and Jeff’s.” I hang up and immediately step into Jeff’s arms.

He speaks into my hair. “I take it all is not well in Married Land?”

My “no” comes out muffled against his suit.

“Marriage is hard,” he says.

“I think fake marriage might be harder.”

He stills, and then hums sympathetically. “Let me change into comfy clothes, and then we can have a night in.”

I make tea while he puts on University of Iowa Hawkeye pajama pants and a Yankees T-shirt, and we meet on their enormous, fluffy couch. Jeff sits, pulling one leg up so he can turn and face me. Only a single lamp is on in the room, and it gives his cheeks a hollow, gaunt look. Jeff has always been slender, but for the first time in my life, I think he’s starting to look old. My heart breaks a little.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s have it.”

I take a bracing breath; there’s no use warming up slowly to any of this: “Things with Calvin have been really good. We’re actually . . . together.”

My uncle laughs in mock-scandal. “No. What will the ton say about two married people having an affair together!” He leans in and whispers, “We had a hunch.”

I tilt my eyes skyward and ignore his teasing. “So, last night, we were mobbed outside the theater, and it was so surreal. Afterward, we had this moment—this super-intense moment that felt really grounding—where I felt like we were in this together. I felt so protective, and he was so grateful, and it was just . . .”

“Loving,” Jeff finishes, with a question in his voice.

“Yeah . . . But then we went to meet Lulu at Dutch Fred’s”—Jeff groans knowingly—“and she got really drunk—per usual, I guess—and told Calvin how I used to basically stalk him.”

Jeff pauses, eyes narrowing. His voice goes low like it does when he’s turning more protective animal than uncle. “You had a crush on him, and were justifiably infatuated—in part because of his talent.”

“Well, she put on a pretty great show and made me sound super creepy. She told him what I used to call him, how I’d go see him play, how I knew his schedule. It wasn’t just that she was being a dick, she completely shattered this really great moment we were having, and I feel like we went back to being strangers.”

He runs a hand down his face.

“So we got home,” I continue, “and Calvin wanted to talk about it—”

“Which is good,” he gently interrupts with a hand on my arm.

“Right, it was good, but not the way he did it. I got pretty pissed.” I look at him and explain how the conversation went, how Calvin made it sound like I’m getting the most out of this arrangement, how he feels lied to.

“I hit a wall,” I say. “I did this for Robert, and for him—and maybe also for me—but why is that bad?” I stand up, walking across the room and back. “It’s not like I expected this marriage to turn real. It’s not like I put a video camera in the bookcase and took footage of him sleeping and stole his underwear.”

“Of course not, honey,” he says. “You have an incredible ear for music, and of the tens of thousands of people who probably heard him, only you were able to connect him to Robert—to make this happen.”

“But last night, the way he was talking about it, just made me feel so gross—just when I had accomplished something, when I was feeling good about having a voice and protecting Calvin like I did. I have nothing going for me,” I say, squeezing my eyes closed. “Nothing except you guys, and your support and hopes for me. I’m not Calvin. I’m not Robert. I’m not you.”

“You’re right,” Jeff says, laughing. “You aren’t a buttoned-up financial analyst.”

“You may not always love your job, but you’re good at it—and you found a hobby that you love doing.” I pull my shoulders up, feeling tense everywhere. “I have no idea what I want to do. I want to write and read and talk about books with people. I want to listen to music, and go out to dinner, and just live.”

“That is a life,” he insists. “That is a good life.”

“But I have to be able to support myself, too. I have all these things I wanted to do, and I haven’t done any of them.”

“I didn’t find pottery until I was fifty,” Jeff reminds me. “Honey, you are only twenty-five. You don’t need to have it all figured out.”

I fall back down on the couch, covering my face with my hands. “But shouldn’t I have some of it figured out?”

He places a large hand on my knee. “That perception is only coming from you.”

“Last night, it was coming from Lulu and then Calvin.” I drop my hands. “I love you guys, but I have to take your sentiment with a grain of salt. You’re biologically and/or legally obligated to love me.”

Jeff leans in, pressing a kiss to my hair. “Hollsy, think of it this way: If I compared myself to Robert when we first met, I would constantly feel behind. He was a musical prodigy. I was a waiter, trying to figure out if I had the grades to get into the mediocre MBA programs in my area.” He smiles at me. “But I knew I wanted to be with him, and he wanted to be with me, too, and also knew what he wanted to do with his life. So, we compromised. He took the job in Des Moines, and it was my responsibility to get a job that would make enough money for what we needed, and that I enjoyed enough. I didn’t have to love it, but it didn’t matter whether I did, either, because I had him. I kept trying new things, too, and eventually discovered pottery. It’s fun, of course, but the most important part is that I didn’t feel like my job had to be my everything.”

This is what I have to keep reminding myself. Sometimes a job can just be a job. We aren’t all going to win the rat race. “I know.”

“You know I didn’t approve of your marriage,” he says quietly, and guilt floods my bloodstream. “You didn’t know each other, and your feelings being what they were, I worried you would get hurt.”

I groan into a pillow, but Jeff pulls it away.

“I’m not chastising you. Listen. All of that was true, but I also didn’t expect things to turn romantic between the two of you. Seeing you two lately is wonderful for us.”

“I’m not sure it’s real, though.” I pull at my lower lip, working not to cry. After all the walking and righteous anger, not only am I physically exhausted, but the softer emotions are starting to rise to the surface. The thought that Calvin has been toying with me all this time is painful. It was easy to push the worry away when he was kissing me, when he was smiling at me. “Maybe it’s just a game.”

“I’ve seen you together, and I know men. It would be very surprising if he was faking that level of absorption. He called me twice, Hollsy. He called Robert, too. He didn’t sound like he was playing a game.”

I press my hands to my face. “But he needs things to be okay with us because he needs to stay here. I’m not sure how to trust anything he does.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons—”

“I know. I know.”

“But for the sake of optimism, let’s assume that he is genuine,” Jeff says. “If things work out between the two of you, Calvin is lucky because he has a job he loves and he has you. This gives you room to find yourself, and figure out what you want your life to look like. It doesn’t have to look like mine, or his, or Robert’s.”

“I know.”

“And it doesn’t have to look right now the way you want it to look in ten years.”

“But I think that’s what scares me the most,” I tell him. “I’m terrified it will look the same in ten years—for me. But for Calvin? He will have moved on, or moved up, or moved away.”

“You don’t know that. You have no way of knowing. All you can do is forge your path.” Jeff stands up, taking his empty teacup to the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s order some food.”

I fall asleep like a rock in the guest room, sleeping so soundly that when Robert shakes me gently, I startle-snort awake, arms flailing wildly, and nearly knock the cordless phone out of his hand.

“Call for you,” he says. He puts the phone in my palm, adding in a growl, “Your guy played like shit last night.”

Standing, he leaves the room and closes the door behind him with a quiet click.

I stare at the phone, blinking into clarity. I don’t have to say anything to know it’s Calvin. And he played like shit last night?

Lifting the phone to my ear, I give a hoarse, “Hey.”

His voice sounds all sleepy and deep. “Hey.” I can feel the resonance of it as if he’d rolled over and spoken into my neck. “I hope it’s okay that I’m calling this number.”

Goose bumps break out along my arms. “Of course. My phone is at the apartment.”

His laugh is a hollow sound. “Yeah, I know.”

I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for the words to pop into my head. My anger feels like a next-day campfire—cooled off to only a dusty smolder.

“I was hoping you’d show up last night,” he says quietly. “At the theater.”

“I was upset.”

He inhales slowly, and lets the breath out in a groan. “Then I was hoping you might sneak in later, after I fell asleep.”

“I slept at Robert and Jeff’s.”

“I assumed that’s where you were when I came into the bedroom this morning to climb into bed an’ apologize,” he says, growly and soft, “but y’were still gone.”

He wants to apologize? I squeeze my eyes closed at the desire I feel to have his warm body next to me in bed.

“D’you think you might come home today?” He takes another deep inhale, and when he speaks, I can tell he’s stretching. “This isn’t right, mo stóirín. I don’t like this.”

“I don’t like it, either,” I say quietly, wondering whether Jeff and Robert can hear me out in the living room. “But you made me feel shitty, like I’d done something wrong. I don’t think I did.”

“I know. Shite”—he exhales through his nose—“I didn’t handle this right. Last night I was miserable over it. I played horribly.”

“Yeah, I can imagine how stressful it would be to think you might have to leave the country if things don’t work out with us.” I wince as soon as I’ve said it.

It’s a long few seconds before he speaks again, and his accent seems so strong across the line. “It isn’t like that. Do you really think I’d play you that way?”

I squeeze my eyes closed at the gentle lilt to his words.

T’isnt like dat. D’ye really tink I’d play ye dat way?

“I don’t know.”

“Would you prefer I come there? What do you want?”

In truth, I want to go home, climb in between the sheets with him, and feel that heavy warmth all around me as he pulls me close. I want the vibration of his voice on my neck, my shoulder, my breasts, and the way that every bit of light is blocked out for a moment when he climbs on top of me. But I also want this spark of strength I feel right now. I woke up in some ways yesterday, and it still doesn’t feel totally defined, but I don’t want it to evaporate before I can name it.

“I want to tell you I’m sorry,” he says, voice a low burr. “Come home and kick me in the teeth if you need to, but then kiss me.”

The living room is empty when I walk inside, dropping my keys on the counter and hanging my coat over the back of the chair. The bathroom door is open—he’s not in there, either. The apartment feels oddly still; there’s no rattle of the radiator or clinking of dishes being washed. It feels like I’ve been gone a week, instead of twenty-four hours.

I find Calvin in my bed, leaning against the headboard and staring at the doorway.

His expression relaxes immediately when he sees me. “Hey.”

Kicking off my shoes, I give him a little smile and sit on the edge of the bed, but he pulls back a corner of the covers, patting the mattress. “Come here. We can talk in here.”

It’s a hard offer to refuse. I tug down my running pants and pull off my sweatshirt before burrowing under the sheets. I’m immediately hit with the solid heat of his chest and crawl into his arms; he’s completely naked, and somehow feels warmer than the sun. Calvin slides a hand up my back, unfastening my bra and pulling it away to toss it somewhere over his shoulder. He lets out a quiet groan, and a tiny thrill winds through me that he needed to feel skin on skin as immediately as I did.

“I’m sorry.” He sucks his lower lip into his mouth and stares into my eyes. “It wasn’t fair, what I said. I think I was just embarrassed that I didn’t realize you’d been honest at the immigration office. Or, maybe frustrated that all that time I’d wanted you, and you were pretending not to want me. It seemed so easy. I think I felt confused.”

I smile at this and it unlocks his own grin; he looks relieved.

“I’m not sure I totally trust why you’re doing this.” I press a hand to his chest. He looks down and shakes his head a little; he doesn’t know what I mean. “You could stay in the apartment and have the job without having sex with me, you know.”

His eyes fall closed and he lets out a little “Ahhhh,” as if I’ve just confirmed something for him.

“We could be convincing without this,” I say quietly. “But now that you know I had a thing for you before we met, I’m not comfortable doing this without knowing where you stand. It feels really unbalanced.”

His eyes flicker back and forth between mine. “My desire for you as a lover is entirely separate from my desire for the job you helped me find.”

I struggle to speak past the glow these words trigger in me. “Really? Because as you said yourself, it would be incredibly shitty of you to play me like that.”

He leans down, close enough to kiss me, but stops just shy. “Really. Of course my feelings are influenced by your understanding of music. Your opinion matters more to me than even Robert’s, or Ramón’s. But that isn’t about the job, that’s because music is part of you, too.”

I move in, resting my lips on his, and he groans, rolling over me, bringing a hand up to cup my jaw. Tension melts everywhere inside, and I rock into him when he settles between my thighs.

Making up is . . . pretty fun.

Calvin pulls back slightly, grinning down at me. “Six months before we met, huh?”

“At least,” I say, laughing and blushing. “It was a pretty epic crush.”

I slide my hands around his shoulders and then into his hair as he kisses lower, to my breasts, and my stomach, and then beneath the covers, where he kisses one thigh and then the other, and then sweeps his tongue across me.

Wanting to watch, I push the covers away, and he looks up, smiling into another kiss. He teases, pointing his tongue, nipping—almost as if he’s performing for me.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I whisper.

A long, soft suck and then: “What’s that?”

“And the answer is yes, I imagined you doing this before I met you.”

He pulls back a little, expression heating. “Imagined me kissing you here?”

I nod, and a deep ache builds just watching him watching me.

“Would you touch yourself?”

“Sometimes.”

He glides a finger over me, up and down, and then pushes it inside. “You’re getting wet just telling me about it.”

I dig a hand into his hair. “I’m not going to apologize for fantasizing about you.”

“I would fucking hope not.” He watches what he’s doing. “I don’t want you to stop fantasizing, either.”

“What do you fantasize about?”

He closes his eyes and bends to lick me, thinking. Pulling back, he says, “A lot of things,” and I feel the heat of his breath against me.

A lot of tings.

I tug at his arm, and he climbs back up my body, bending to kiss me with an open, hungry mouth.

Pulling his hand over my breast, I say, “Tell me.”

He squeezes, and then bends, sucking. “I think about saying some filthy things to you while we’re on the couch. I like when you’re facing me, so I can lick you how you like it.”

Oh. My blood heats and I arch into his mouth.

“I think about having you near the window and letting those paparazzi down on the street watch us. I get a little kick out of imagining those pictures on Twitter.”

I reach down, wrapping my hand around him, and he groans before coming back up to kiss me.

“I think about how you look when you put me in your mouth. How fast I come when you do that.” He slides his hand between us, pushing two fingers into me, and we start to move, his words speeding up. “I think about being somewhere with you, and you do that—you go down on me and no one knows.”

“Like at the theater?”

“Or anywhere,” he says, breath hot on my cheek. He grunts, fucking my hand, so close to where I want him, and I guide him there, nudging his own hand away from me. He slides in bare, so deep, and I cry out before he swallows the sound.

We haven’t done this before . . . we need to put on a condom.

“I think about this,” he whispers, “just like this. Oh, Christ, it feels good.”

It does, and so neither of us stops it. It’s so easy to keep moving, to fall into that rolling rhythm; in the past weeks he’s figured out what I need and starts there: deep, pressing, immediately. My hands roam the skin on his back, down over his ass, his thighs, as far down as I can reach.

He must know he’s forgiven because he doesn’t talk anymore, doesn’t check in with me to be sure I’m okay, and this is something I adore most about him. I think he trusts that if I didn’t want this right now, I would tell him. He isn’t going to let something go unsaid.

But even so, as he moves in these perfect circles over me, another shadow steps into view. I wonder what it is we’re fixing here, and to what end? I’ve already established that we don’t need to be intimate for him to stay here. And we certainly don’t need to be in love. But he kisses me like it’s love, and as he pushes faster into me, he sounds like a man overcome with love, and when he rolls so I’m on top of him, he watches me with something that looks a lot like love in his eyes.

But how would I really know?

“Why did you stop?” he asks, cupping my hips. “Is it okay?”

His chest has a faint sheen of sweat—from exertion, from the heat of our bodies moving together—and I press my palm to it; his heart is racing. I search his face. His eyes are clear, maybe a little worried.

“It’s good.”

I am so bad at asking for what I want.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispers.

Shaking my head, I say, “No.”

He sits up beneath me and wraps his arms around my waist, looking up at my face. “What are you thinking? What can I say to make this okay?”

“I guess I’m wondering what we’re doing.”

He gives me a wicked, cheeky smile. “I thought we were busy making love.”

“Is that what this is?” I honestly have never felt this before, so I don’t even know what to call it. But I’m not sure I can do this and keep myself from falling in love with him.

He kisses my chin. “Does it feel like something else to you?”

“I think it’s starting to feel like that to me, but I don’t actually know.” I press my mouth to his and let him deepen it, before pulling away the tiniest bit. “It feels like we should make sure we’re on the same page after”—he kisses me—“what happened with Lulu and—”

He interrupts me with another kiss. “And the fact that we’re already married?” he asks. His hand moves up my back and into my hair.

“Yeah, exactly. We’ve talked about logistics and backstory and fantasy, but we haven’t really talked about feelings.”

“You were gone all day yesterday. I woke up this morning and you still weren’t here.” He tilts his head, sucking on my neck. “I thought I fucked it up with you, and I honestly have never felt so panicked in my life.”

“The initial plan was a year,” I whisper.

“I say to hell with the initial plan.”

“It’s more complicated than just having a new girlfriend. We took vows.”

Calvin grins up at me. “I’m aware.”

“Doesn’t that paradoxically complicate the new plan?”

“How am I supposed to know?” He laughs into my shoulder and bites me gently. “I’ve never done this before. I just know I’m falling for the girl I married.”