Page 43 of Fighting

“Look at the bunnies, Stefanie Santos-Manolo!” I reprimand her.

In the background, Lee shouts, “You mean Stefanie Carter.”

“Do you guys want to help me? I’m trying to make this something Nessa will…” I trail off. What do I want to do?

“Do something with her psych stuff,” Lee says, being an absolute bro.

Meanwhile, my sister grumbles, “No. Good night,” and disconnects the call.

As I hit the button on the side of my phone, I come face to face with a photo of the two of us looking like a couple. If anyone asked, setting this image as my lock screen is something I didafterthe town hall meeting. But the truth is it’s been like this since the summer.

In the image, Nessa’s arm is looped through mine as we walk up the aisle during the recessional at the wedding. The photographer caught us in motion, with Nessa’s skirt flowing like she’s floating on air. Her wide smile and rosy cheeks suggest she’s happy. One might even say she looks angelic. But I can still feel how her nails dug into my arm. I can still hear her teasing words. No, this was all for me.

My mind flashes from one memory to another, every one making my cock twitch. A deep groan rumbles from my chest. She needs to see me, the real me. The man who works hard and still plays hard. I send up a prayer to any deity who might be listening. “Please, please do not let me fuck this up.”

Nessa is sassy and challenging and out of my league, but I still want a chance. She’s loud and takes no shit one moment. Then, in the next, she quietly observes while pretending to be on her phone. She’s always aware of what’s going on, no matter what kind of chaos is swirling. She’s quick to defend the ones she loves, but who is looking out for her?

Stef told me that Nessa was different after she left Boston, but it wasn’t until I saw it with my own eyes at the joint bachelor-bachelorette party that I truly understood. She spent most of the evening on her phone, not participating, her snark almost nonexistent. Now that I’ve had the displeasure of spending time around Satan—a truly fitting nickname if I’ve ever heard one—one thing is certain. That asshole dimmed her glow. Thankfully, I’m just the man to polish her back to her former sparkle.

With my thoughts still on the wedding weekend, I turn to the gang of bunnies and ask, “Truth or drink?” It’s hard not to remember the game that led to our intimate night.

As I run through more conversations I’ve had with Nessa over the last few weeks, I grab my phone and navigate to a search engine to find the “horny” psychologist she told me about.

I’m pacing the hallways, trying to make a plan that will get Nessa’s attention when I find her. “Karen Horney—with an E. Boom. Nailed it,” I shout. It was a chore distinguishing the woman from the otherhorny therapiststhat populated in the results.

Laughing to myself, I snag a box of condoms from the bathroom. Then I find a fuzzy blanket and head back to my office. I set one bunny on the blanket, then scatter the foil packets around it and check my camera lighting. I grab a lamp to adjust the shadows and tell “Horney” to make a cute face. She nails it, seeing as she’s a bunny and all.

I swipe through the images and tap the little heart beneath the one I like best, then do a quick edit. Once the updated version is saved, I pull up my messages app.

Mateo:

Meet Horney. She’s the runt of the litter, but what she lacks in size, she makes up for with attitude.

Ivy:

What are you doing?

Mateo:

Bonding with my new housemates.

Returning Horney to her home, I search the internet for more inspiration. I’ve sent over one I named Gotti because there’s both John Gottman, a therapist, and John Gotti, the mob boss.

Mateo:

Meet Gotti. Is he John Gottman? John Gotti? It’s New Jersey; it could be either.

Ivy:

Very Tony and Dr. Melfi of you.

You’re acting loopy tonight. Maybe you should see Dr. Melfi next.

Mateo:

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