Page 109 of Love is a Game

In the kitchen, every movement is sluggish, weighted. Water. Coffee. Phone—no, put the phone down. I can’t face emails, texts, or social media. Nothing waiting for me there holds anything good.

And to top it all off, Tuck isn’t here.

It’s like losing my compass, my reference point for everything. He’s become the gauge for my mood, my situation, my feelings…and now, without him, the house feels cavernous. Silent. As stuck and empty as I am.

Because, truth be told, for all the ways I didn’t want to come back here, somehow, this place has become a refuge from the rest of my life.

A life that, beyond these walls, is unraveling.

My business finances? A horror movie—bloodied, gasping, in desperate need of life support.

My creativity? Vanished. Run for the hills.

The routine that once sustained me? Shattered. The long hours in my studio—tweaking, refining, balancing numbers—now feel futile. Too many wages to pay, too many overheads, too many cracks in the foundation I was too stubborn to see.

And now, it’s all clearly unsustainable.

I pour sugar into the blackness of my coffee, watching the crystals dissolve into the liquid depths.

What’s my next move?

The week is almost up. The week I agreed to with Tuck. Some ridiculous, starry-eyed notion of pretending we’re a real couple, where we could actually get pregnant, raise a child, and play happy families. As if we’re built for that. As if we’re anything more than combustible chemistry on a time delay.

That’s not what a child needs.

Hell, Tuck doesn’t even know my business is circling the drain. He doesn’t know shit about me.

My phone buzzes. Against my better judgment, I glance at the screen.

Mia:Thanks for an amazing time!

Amazing. Right. If only she knew. Yesterday was a giant, neon-lit distraction. A delay tactic I pulled out of my ass to steer her attention away from her wedding dress.

The one still hanging in my studio. Perfectly boned, perfectly beaded, with a perfect fucking sweetheart neckline.

I step onto the porch, clutching my coffee like a lifeline, only to be met with another failure staring me in the face—my mom’s garden, dry and withering, leaves curled in surrender. The whole thing looks like it’s given up. Like it knew she wasn’t coming back and decided to follow suit.

With a sigh, I lower myself onto a deck chair. Cross my legs. Stare up at the sky.

Shit. I almost crave a cigarette—just to round out the whole aesthetic of self-destruction.

“Hey, you’re up! Thought you were gonna sleep all day.”

Oh god.

Tuck.

And he’ssmiling. That generous, wide grin of his that adds creases against his bright eyes and stirs something restless inside me.

“Mom took a sick day,” he says, stepping onto the porch, squinting against the sunshine—or maybe against the sight of me in my unceremonious state. “That’s a rare event.”

Typical. I’ve even corrupted Susan’s perfect professional record.

“Is she very hungover?”

“She’ll live. How about you?”

“About what I deserve.”

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