But their support feels like another word for dependence.
I leave her office feeling worse than when I arrived.
I go home—to Tucker's apartment—and find him in the kitchen cooking dinner.
"Hey!" He turns, smiling. "How was your day?"
"Fine."
"I'm making chicken and vegetables. Thought you might want something light." He moves toward me, clearly intending to kiss me. "Missed you today."
I step back before he can reach me. "I need to work on my project proposal."
His smile falters. "Oh. Okay. I'll save you a plate."
I retreat to my room and close the door.
A few hours later, Tucker knocks on the door. "Sloane? You haven't eaten. I'm worried."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Talk to me."
"I'm just stressed about school."
A long pause. "Can I come in?"
No. "Okay."
The door opens. He stands in the doorway, looking uncertain. It's strange, seeing him like this—he's usually so confident.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asks. "You've been distant."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then what's going on?"
Everything. Nothing. I'm drowning and I don't know how to tell you.
"I'm just tired," I repeat. "And I have a lot of work to do."
He studies my face. "Is this about my family? Were they too much?"
Yes. "They were fine."
"Sloane—"
"Tucker, I really need to work on this proposal. Can we talk later?"
He looks like he wants to argue. But then he nods. "Okay. I'll be in the living room if you need me."
The door closes.
I'm alone again.
And I realize: this is how it's going to be. Me pushing him away because I don't know how to need him without losing myself. Him giving me space because he doesn't understand what's wrong.
We're going to keep circling each other, getting closer and pulling apart, until the babies come and force us to figure out what we are to each other.
