Page 35 of The Right Move

“You know how much I love my self-help books.”

She relaxes a bit which eases the tension around us.

“You can teach me how to be with someone, as long as I get to teach you how to be alone. Or at least how to put yourself first.”

“Okay,” she finally agrees. “That seems fair.”

Individually, we work on our list for the other.

Mine is fairly simple—do everyday tasks alone. Go out to dinner by yourself. Go to a movie you’ve been wanting to see by yourself. Grocery shop and only buy the things you want to eat. Sleep without stacking pillows on the other side of the mattress to trick yourself into thinking you’re not sleeping alone.

The last one might throw her off when she realizes I noticed that this morning when she opened her bedroom door, but maybe some accountability will be good for her.

“All done.” She looks over her list with pride.

I slide mine across the kitchen island, trading with hers.

Indy’s list for me starts fairly tame and reasonable: slow dance together, get comfortable with casual touching, plan a date which is finished with in public between parentheses.

“Were the parentheses really necessary?”

“Yes. Knowing you, you’d plan a dinner date at this very kitchen island, so we don’t leave the house.”

Okay, so she knows me a bit better than I assumed. I get back to my list—show some jealousy.

I have a strong suspicion that showcasing jealousy won’t be the issue—keeping it under wraps will be.

The last and final point on the list—kiss me.

“Indy, the last one—”

“Is a non-negotiable. I’m not showing up at this wedding and you never once touch or kiss me. It can be a peck on the lips for all I care, but this whole thing won’t be believable without a little PDA.”

I shake my head. “I don’t feel comfortable faking intimacy.”

“Ryan, it's just a kiss. It means nothing.”

“It does to me. I won’t fake that part.”

This is fucking embarrassing, a twenty-seven-year-old man refusing a stunning woman the kiss she’s asking for. But I can’t do it for show. That’s not me.

“Okay,” she softly resigns. “No kissing.”

I break eye contact, unable to look at her. “Thank you.”

She clears her throat. “How did you know about the pillows?”

Glancing up, I find Indy staring at the list I made her.

Throwing a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of her room, I tell her, “I saw your bed.”

“I haven’t slept alone in six years. I have a hard time with an empty bed. I do it in hotels too.”

“You can cross it off.” I reach out, attempting to take my list back.

“No.” She holds the paper out of my reach. “You’re right. I need to figure it out. It’s my life now, sleeping alone. I should get used to it without having to make a wall of pillows in order to trick myself.”

She takes both our lists and hangs them on the refrigerator, next to our leasing agreement. The three hand-scribbled papers act as the strangest display of our bizarre relationship.

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