Page 55 of Love is a Game

And I’m stuck in my head all through dinner, clearing up, half an episode of some nature documentary Dad’s into, and Mom’s detailed recap of my cousin’s fortieth birthday—the one I missed last month.

When they head to bed, I wander into the kitchen, pacing as I set water to boil for some herbal tea I probably won’t drink. My eyes keep drifting to the window, scanning the house next door. Wondering when she’ll be back.

Pen and Misha are hanging out a lot. It seems Misha’s at a constant loose end with Steven’s long shifts at the fire station, and her bestie, Vivian, tied up at the restaurant most nights.

What can they still be talking about? Is Pen gauging Misha’s thoughts about this baby bombshell? Are they strategizing the best way to choose a father?

Is she talking aboutme? Aboutus?

What we are.

What we aren’t.

What she might want us to be.

I turn to check the clock on the countertop.

It’s late.Where is she?

The restaurants are closed by now. A bar?

A sharp, cold twist in my gut.

No way.She wouldn’t. Would she? My grip tightens on the edge of the counter.

What if she’s out there, scanning the room, sizing up possibilities? What if she and Misha are weighing options, breaking it down like a damn checklist: height, IQ, eye color…like picking out a stud horse?

I can practically hear her, half-laughing, half-serious. “He’s got great hair, but do we think it’ll hold up against male pattern baldness?”

My jaw locks. The thought of her sitting across from some guy, assessing him for potential fatherhood. Or worse, letting some asshole put ideas in her head about what sheshouldbe looking for. Shit.

I shove a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. It’s none of my business. She can do what she wants. So why does the idea of her doingthismake me feel like I’m about to tear apart?

The kettle clicks off, but I don’t move.

The kitchen is dim, with just the light from the overhead range hood. It casts long shadows across the counter as I rub at my face, willing myself to stop obsessing.

I press my palms against the counter, telling myself tolet it go.

Until—thunk.

A flash of something at the window, followed by a sharpwhackagainst the wooden sill.

I jolt forward.

What the…?

I squint through the glass. A bird? A lizard? A branch?

The backyard is still, silent.

Then, I look down and spot a single bronze, strappy sandal on the ledge.

My pulse kicks up.

I straighten, eyes snapping upward.

And freeze.

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