“I am not falling in love. I have too much self-respect. And I’m especially never falling in love with Fitzgerald, of all people.”
“Yeah, you’re so happy being alone you get turned on by a guybreaking into your house and touching your things.”
“If he wants to do my laundry, I am empowering men to take on feminine-coded tasks. Cleaning is gender-neutral. And—” I grab my laptop. “It’s not like he’s touching my money or anything. Besides, there’s lobster mac ’n’ cheese in my fridge in the cutest little casserole dish. It’s pink!”
“What? They make those pink?”
I send Carolina a photo after we get off the phone, tie my shaggy cut up into a high ponytail, then slip into the shower.
The warm water’s relaxing after the chill of the rainy day. I had this house renovated before I moved in. I breathe in the steam from the fresh eucalyptus bundles my ghostly stalker left in the shower, the white marble gleaming.
It’s my dream shower in my dream bathroom. I even have a plant in the window.
The towels are brand-new. Egyptian cotton. I disappear into one and step into the terry-cloth slippers waiting next to the fluffy bath mat.
My stalker left me some little moisturizer samples. I swoon at the note written on what looks like handmade cream-colored paper. I smell it—that scent of ink and oil and leather I’ve come to associate with him.
I float down the stairs.
“Ah, living alone!” I open up the fridge and pour a crisp Diet Coke over the good ice from the ice machine I put in my dream kitchen.
“You work hard, and you reward yourself,” I tell Fidget as the pasta heats up. “This is what it’s all for.”
The border collie looks up at me from under her cone and sadly taps the little brass bell next to her food bowl.
“You ate already. You ate all day. And everyone snuck you snacks. You’re on a diet. And don’t eat any more of my socks.”
Ring, ring, ring, ring.
I pick up the bell. The dog starts tapping on the empty food bowl.
“No.”
Fidget sighs heavily as I pick up her bowl and dump it in the sink.
It’s a magic sink. I just leave dirty dishes in there, and someone else takes care of them.
“This is why men want a wife, isn’t it?” I blow on the steaming pasta as I settle down on my oversized couch spread with an oversized comforter. “And a glass of wine. Actually…” I grab the whole bottle of wine. “All the wine. The new Netflix Jane Austen adaptation. It’s a perfect evening.”
All alone.
“Just how I like it,” I say firmly to the empty living room.
The border collie is rummaging out in the kitchen. I pour another glass of wine and try to ignore her, focusing on girls on TV with good hair and pretty dresses and men who are obsessed with them.
There’s clanking, then Fidget trundles out into the living room with an empty mixing bowl and a spatula.
“No, Fidget.” I start on my strawberry-cream pastry for dessert.
A bag of flour lands on my lap.
“Oof! Seriously, I’m not making you cookies. Fidget, put that back. You’re supposed to use that intelligence to herd sheep, not beg for food.”
The border collie dumps a bag of peanut butter chips on my chest and howls.
The doorbell rings.
“I swear, if you ordered DoorDash again,” I warn the dog as she runs excitedly to the door, “we are done. I’m shipping you to Minnesota. Kathy can put you on the WAG diet. Then you’ll really be upset.”
