The Feel Good Factor(58)

I hardly know what to say.

I barely know what she needs.

I don’t know how to make this right.

But if she were an emergency call, I’d have to figure it out.

Once I apply my work problem-solving skills, the answer flashes before me.

Brilliantly and awfully.

She needs an out. She needs an end.

I have to give it to her, as much as it hurts.

I’m not simply ripping off the Band-Aid. I’m tearing away a piece of my heart that she inextricably owns.

But that’s the only way to fix her emergency. I look her in the eyes, staying strong, treating her like a patient who needs help, who needs a calm and competent guiding hand. “Maybe we should cool things off. What if we go back to being housemates? Like we agreed. Does that sound good to you?”

She closes her eyes like everything hurts.

And everything does hurt.

Every damn piece of my heart and soul screams at me. But I have to give her—and us—the treatment we need. “We can also call off the contest if you think that’s best.”

Her eyes snap open, and I expect a fiery answer. Something like No way, we’re going to nail it, and then we’ll go back to being roomies. Instead, she shrugs. “I don’t know anything anymore.”

My fingers itch to soothe her, my arms to wrap around and comfort her. But I remain unyielding as a statue. “Sleep on it, Perri.”

She seems to flinch when I say her name. Maybe because she’s used to being kitten. Maybe because I can’t call her that anymore.

“I’ll sleep on it. But you’re right about everything else. Housemates—that’s all we can be.”

The pain radiates through me, but I know she’s hurting too. I add, just to be sure, just so I give the patient exactly what she needs, “We’ll go back to how it was.”

“Yes. There’s no other choice.”

I want to tell her there are a million other choices. There is being together, there is falling in love, there is taking care of each other.

But she’s not in this the way I am.

And I’m not in it now either.

She leaves for her room, and I finish cooking, but when I take a bite, the food tastes like dust. I clean the dishes, grab Devon’s present, and carry the hat for my niece upstairs, wishing it didn’t feel like a parting gift.





32





Perri





I punish myself with Pilates on Saturday morning. It’s fitting, since I have to twist myself into a pretzel and abuse my core to no end.

But it’s worth it. Need to stay in tip-top shape for my job.

Wait.

I should revise that philosophy. I need to get in better shape for the job. Physically, mentally, emotionally. I’m too soft. That’s the problem. I have to erase all my emotions. I’ll dive deeper into work, spend more time on cases, take some classes. I’ll work endlessly on improving all my skills. I need to be the best, and then, since I work in a male-dominated area, I simply must be better than the best.

That’s the only way for a woman to succeed in a balls-deep field—by going above and beyond, and then beyond even that.

I crunch, bend, and contort myself through the rest of the class. The workout ends, and still breathless, I turn to Vanessa and Arden. “I think I’ll stay for a second class.”

Arden’s eyes widen in confusion, then shock, then misery. “Seriously?”

I pat her shoulder. “You don’t have to hang around.”

Arden flicks her gaze to Vanessa, and they exchange a knowing glance and a couple of nods.

Arden stretches her neck. “Oh, I do have to stay, and I hate morning exercise.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I can totally handle a second class solo. I know you’re a grumbly Garfield in the morning.”

“I’ll stay too,” Vanessa offers like she’s volunteered to be a tribute in the Hunger Games.

“I’m fine, I swear. You don’t have to stay.” I stand to grab my water bottle and down a thirsty sip.

“But we do,” Vanessa chimes in, adjusting her ponytail. “Because if you’re staying, it means you’re mad at yourself.”

I scoff as we shuffle toward the studio door. “Please. That’s not the case.”

Vanessa grabs my arm. “It is precisely the case. This is what you did in eleventh grade when you didn’t get into AP History. You decided you weren’t tough enough, so you started practicing more for soccer. It didn’t even make sense.”

“I thought if I was in better physical shape, I’d be in better mental shape. It made perfect sense,” I say, defending my sixteen-year-old logic.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Vanessa says firmly, “and you know it.”

Arden nods vigorously. “It’s your weird, twisted punishment brain at work.”

“I don’t have a punishment brain,” I whisper furtively as I close the top to my water bottle and step into the hallway as the class files out.

“You do,” Vanessa says. “When something doesn’t go your way, you whip yourself to go faster or work longer.”

Arden squeezes my arm. “You did something similar a few months later when you were convinced your SAT scores sucked. You buried yourself in SAT-test prep books for days on end.”