I’m short of breath. Oh my God. This was the best ass-whooping I’ve ever received in my life. And I thought my mother was an assassin? Holy fuck. Amy’s more beautiful to me now than ever.
“What?” Amy says. “Spit it out. Whatever it is, I can take it.”
I blow out my cheeks, not sure how to accurately express the cocktail of emotions flooding me. I’m feeling overwhelming love for this woman in this electrifying moment. Not to mention, white-hot lust. But also, anger. So much fucking anger, that she’s demanding I dance like a monkey for her. Most importantly, however, I can’t wrap my head around the love I’m feeling being the real deal, the kind that would make sense to tell our families about this quickly. I don’t want to fuck up and speak those words, prematurely, or wrongly, considering what’s at stake here.
“What are you thinking?” Amy demands.
“I’m thinking a lot.”
“Like what?”
“Mostly, I’m thinking I’m crazy about you and don’t want what we’ve been doing to end. But I’m also thinking you’ve been staying with me for less than a week and I’m not ready to say the words you want to hear, on command. It feels like an ultimatum to me. A test. And I fucking hate that kind of shit.”
Amy nods. “That’s fair. Unfortunately, the kind of shit I hate is feeling like I’m your dirty little secret.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I think it is. Sorry if it seems like an ultimatum to you, but I need you to call my brother and tell him we’re dating. It’s as simple as that. I don’t need the magic words from you, as long as you feel like you’re falling for me and could ultimately imagine yourself saying them. On the other hand, if you want me to stay here and keep doing what I’ve been doing because I’m fantastic at organizing your closets, making you dinner, and sucking your cock, then hire a housekeeper and find yourself a groupie and let me go.”
I exhale in frustration. “That’s unfair. You know I care deeply about you.”
Amy pauses briefly before ultimately shaking her head. “That’s not enough for me. I want someone who wants to shout from the rooftops about me. Someone who’d write a love song about me, if he could. I want someone to swoon over me, the way I swoon over him. And if you’re not even sure enough about your feelings for me to call my brother and tell him we’re dating, then you’re clearly not going to be that someone. Which means it’s time for me to move on.”
She stares at me, giving me a chance to respond, and when I press my lips together, too overwhelmed—not to mention too pissed—to speak, she marches out of the living room in a huff.
I follow her down the hallway and into the guest bedroom, where she grabs her empty suitcase from the closet and begins packing. And that’s it for me. The sight of her packing—the reality that she’s following through with leaving me—sends me into a panic. Fight or flight kicks in for me . . . and in this case, I choose fight.
I’m not proud of myself for it, but I start screaming at her. I command her to stay. I tell her she’s overreacting. Not giving me enough time. Being melodramatic and overly sensitive. I order her to stop and listen to me, and when she does, her chin trembling, I’m tongue-tied and lame. I feel so much love for this woman! But it’s love I refuse to name right now, because it’s too much, too soon and I refuse to be commanded to react the way she wants.
Amy’s bag is packed and zipped now. Her nostrils flaring, she pulls her suitcase off the bed, grabs her phone, and begins tapping angrily on it.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering an Uber. It’ll be here in four minutes.” She looks up from her phone. “Anything else you want to scream at me, you’d better do it now—although I should warn you, everything you’ve screamed at me for the past five minutes has only made me more certain I’m doing the right thing.”
Without waiting for me, she drags her suitcase toward the bedroom door, and I follow her.
“I’m sorry I yelled,” I say. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll work on that. But this feels like a huge overreaction to me. You haven’t even landed a job yet! We agreed you’d stay long enough for me to help you land the perfect job!”
“I already did. I’ve been offered my dream job and accepted it.”
“What? No! There’s no way I’m letting you work for Seth Rockford!”
She doesn’t reply. She keeps marching furiously away from me, dragging her suitcase along with her—and when her bag wobbles on its wheels, I lurch forward and grab the damned thing myself and carry it to my front door, even though I have zero intention of letting her leave.
At my front door, I stop and whirl around. “Don’t go,” I plead. “And please don’t work for Seth.”
Amy’s face looks the same way it did when she ran away to “Genovia” as a kid. For a second, I’m certain she’s going to throw herself into my arms. But no. After a moment, she pulls herself together, squares her shoulders, and says, “This isn’t goodbye. We’ll always be friends. I simply don’t want to be your fuck buddy anymore. If you decide you want more with me, out in the open, if you want me to be your girlfriend and shout about me from the rooftops, then let me know, and I promise I’ll give you a shot . . . if I’m not already dating someone else by then.” She gazes out my front door. “My Uber’s here. Will you bring my bag to the car, please?”
My breathing catches. “Where are you going?”
“To my friend’s, until it’s time to start my new job.” She gestures to her bag, sternly, so I reluctantly carry it down the front walkway to the waiting car.
At the curb, I put Amy’s bag into the trunk, while she slips into the car’s backseat. Without looking at me, she closes her door, looks forward, and says something to the driver.
As the car pulls away, I know in my bones I’ve fucked up. I know I love her. But how can I trust these feelings after less than a goddamned week? It’d be pure selfishness to take a leap of faith that big, when I’m not sure the foundation we’re both standing on is rock solid.
I watch the car driving down my street, praying Amy will miraculously tell the driver to stop and turn around. But no. Ten seconds after pulling away from the curb, Amy’s Uber turns the corner and disappears for good.
Fuck.
For several minutes, I pace the sidewalk in front of my house, losing my mind. I don’t want to go back into my house, if Amy’s not there. I don’t want to sleep in my bed, if Amy’s not lying next to me. I don’t want to cook in my kitchen, if I’m not cooking for two. And I sure as hell don’t want to go to the studio tomorrow without Amy being there to make it all better and more fun.
Oh, God.
What have I done?
I love her.
I know I do.
I feel it in my soul. Way down deep.
So, why couldn’t I say it to her?
Because I’m not fucking crazy, that’s why.
I pull out my phone and press the button to call Amy, and then grunt in frustration when it goes straight to voicemail. At the beep, I leave a rambling message that paraphrases everything I already said to her in the house but get cut off midway through by a computerized voice asking if I want to re-record my message or send it, as is.