Page 104 of The Plus One Pact

Then a movie on the couch. Something smart. Intimate. She had a few DVDs on her bookshelf. Mostly quiet films about relationships. Not what I normally watch, but, somehow, there's an appeal to sitting next to her, to seeing wonder spread over her face.

Maybe we'd take turns, and she'd tease me over my taste in bad action movies.

After a while, we'd get married and buy a bigger place. I'd finish school. Get my MBA maybe. Make new friends, people who read books and pursue traditional goals. But the books help them think differently enough. Other business owners, maybe. Other people who value their independence.

A different life.

One where people respect me for my mind.

One where I allow people to see another side of me.

Where I risk getting hurt.

Mom leaves the conversation, happy and proud. She retires to her bedroom with her head held high.

Even Daniel smiles at my vision of the future. "I should ask Cynthia to replay that," he says. "Show Ivy your romantic side."

"What makes you think she hasn't seen it?" I'm not sure how to play this. Does he believe me or is he pushing me? It's hard to tell with him.

I glance at my phone to buy myself time.

Nothing from Ivy. Disappointment spreads through my stomach. It's mild. After all, it's only a lack of a text. It's not as if I expect to be the center of her universe.

She's busy with Cynthia.

I just—

I want to hear from her. Not as a client or conspirator. As something else.

I send her a message.

Romeo: How's the search going?

Daniel laughs as he takes in the sorry sight of me staring at my cell phone with longing. "You miss her already?"

"No," I insist.

"You really like her, huh?"

"Why would I bring over a girl I don't like?"

He shoots me a please look. "Mama thinks she can keep a secret. You know better."

So, he knows she's retiring, selling the house, doling out his half. I see it all in his eyes. Of course he knows. Hell, she probably talked to him about it. "Why isn't she giving you the house?"

"She offered," he says.

"You declined?" I ask.

He nods. "I told her to keep the money. Buy herself a nice villa. I don't need it. You don't need it."

"Nice of you to volunteer that for me," I say.

"I've seen your apartment, Rome," he says. "You're doing well." He doesn't add mysteriously well. Does it fill the air?

I can't tell anymore.

He leaves me room to brag. When I don't, he asks, "Are you not doing well?"