Page 56 of The Cuddle Clause
This wasn’t fake. At least not all of it.
And that terrified me. Because for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel invisible.
And I wasn’t sure if that was healing… or dangerous.
I satcross-legged at my desk, hoodie sleeves shoved up to my elbows, the hem bunched around my hips. I hadn’t moved in hours. My coffee sat cold and forgotten next to me, the mug perched precariously on a stack of sketchbooks like it had also given up on being useful. A little ring of condensation had formed beneath it.
Even with the blinds drawn, the screen was too bright. It made my throbbing head ache a little more, but I didn’t botheradjusting the brightness. I’d been locked in tunnel-vision mode for the better part of the day—hyper-productive, eyes glued to my work like if I just stared long enough, I wouldn’t think about Roman. Or the dreams I’d had about him. Or his bare, muscular chest. Or feelings I wasn’t supposed to be having.
I had a client logo due for a boutique shampoo bar in Silver Lake. It was organic, sustainable, vegan—all those trendy words that meant the client wanted something simple and clean but still elegant and feminine. Minimalist florals. Maybe lavender stems curving around a rectangular bar. Something that whispered eco-luxury without trying too hard.
I stared at my sketchbook propped against my knees, then pressed my pencil to the page and drew a sharp, angular line. Then another. I adjusted the curve.
It wasn’t a petal. It was a jaw.
Roman’s jaw.
I erased it so hard I ripped the page.
I tried a vine next. Soft. Flowing. Natural.
But my hand betrayed me again. The curve tipped too deep, turning into that insufferable little dimple Roman had the audacity to claim he didn’t know existed. That dimple flashed every time he was about to say something borderline criminal and flirtatious. I’d stared at it for far too long last night while pretending I didn’t care.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, dropping the pencil and slamming the sketchbook shut like it had attacked me. “I’m broken.”
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed both hands down my face. My hair was in a messy knot on top of my head, and the hoodie smelled vaguely like Roman’s laundry detergent. I hadn’t even realized it was one of his until I’d caught the hint of cedar and citrus and felt unreasonably attacked by scent memory.
I looked up at the corner of my laptop screen. There it was, just barely visible in the lineup of folders:E + M.
That stupid little label. I’d typed it nearly a year ago, back when I still believed in forever and monogrammed dish towels and couples who went to therapy to strengthen their bond. Back when I still believed I was one of the lucky ones.
I hadn’t opened it since the breakup. Not even once.
I should’ve closed the laptop. Taken the hint from the universe and moved on. Instead, I clicked. I would watch one video. My birthday dinner.
I hovered my mouse over the file before finally pressing play.
The screen lit up, and soft background music floated out of the speakers. Eric’s face filled the frame—clean-cut, confident, the human embodiment of a well-pressed linen shirt. He was already mid-story, animatedly talking about some client pitch, his voice full of self-satisfaction.
“…and I told them, if we’re not aiming for the top of the market, we’re wasting time…”
I watched myself in the background. Sitting there, smiling, nodding in all the right places. Laughing—no, not laughing. Smiling politely. Distantly. My mouth moved like it had been coached.
I didn’t look happy. I looked… pretty and controlled. Like I’d studied how to be the picture-perfect girlfriend and mastered the choreography.
There was no spark in my eyes. I wasn’t at ease. It looked like I was waiting for permission to exhale.
I closed the laptop and sat in the half-dark. Then I opened it again and rewatched the video.
Not once did I laugh, not like I had on the roof with Roman. Not like that ugly, unfiltered snort I let out when he’d compared our landlord to a Russian intelligence agent. Not like the way I’d laughed until my ribs hurt when he danced with the mop after spilling cranberry juice one afternoon.
My phone buzzed. I snatched it off the desk, desperate for a distraction.
A voice message from Roman.
His voice poured out of the speaker, low and familiar and completely unbothered. “Hey, Mags. You left your mug in the bathroom again. Either it’s part of your new skincare ritual or this coffee cup is possessed. Also, I saved you the last brownie, which means I’m clearly in love with you. Don’t make it weird.”
He laughed softly. That rough-around-the-edges, kind-of-a-growl laugh that made it feel like someone had poured warm syrup over my heart.
