What Lovers Do(24)

“Cersei is not a child. She is, in fact, a dog. It’s not even close to the same thing. And I never asked you to do it.”

“Yet, I did do it. And I’ve never complained.”

I rest my hands on my hips and gaze at the ceiling. “Where is your dignity? You are a good-looking guy. And when you’re driven to work hard and do things for other people, you can even be charming. Someone else will see that, and they’ll want to be with you. But that’s not me. Not anymore.”

He rips the notice up. “I don’t accept this. You owe me now. I’ve been doing everything around here, and I’ll move out when I’m good and ready and not a day earlier. If I have to get an attorney to prove that I’ve earned my keep, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” He storms out of the kitchen toward the guest room. I want him out, but him no longer sleeping naked on my sofa, after watching movies until the wee hours of the morning, has been a tiny win.

“And Sophie?” He turns just before closing the bedroom door. “Squatter is not a politically correct term.”

I rub my temples. I’m too pregnant. Too tired. And too pissed off to care about hurting Jimmy’s politically correct feelings.

“Informal settler is the correct term.” He shuts the door.





The next morning, I finish packing a few things for my weekend in Sedona, including Cersei’s bag since there’s no way I’m leaving her here with Jimmy. I’m not letting him gain any more ammunition to fight me over this eviction.

He’s ruined relationships for me. Maybe not forever, but close. He’s robbed all trust I’ve ever had in men. He’s definitely destroyed any possibility that I will ever let someone move in with me again.

“Where are you going?” Jimmy eyes my suitcase as I wheel it out of my bedroom.

I see he’s regressed, returning to his spot on the sofa, back in his boxers and an old tee. I’m guessing a shower and house cleaning are not on his agenda. “I’m going out of town for the weekend. Cersei is coming with me, so you don’t have to worry about anything except packing your shit and moving out.”

“Who are you going with? Jules?” He ignores my moving out comment.

“No. A different friend.”

“Who?”

If Jimmy can selectively choose to acknowledge my words, then I can play the same game. “Come, Cersei.” I sling her toy and treat-filled bag over my shoulder.

We cruise through the light morning traffic to my office where I told Shep to pick me up, after giving him a tiny lie about needing to check on a few things before leaving town. I can’t risk Jimmy seeing me leave for the weekend with another guy. He can’t be trusted not to do something to retaliate. More than that, I don’t want Shep to see that my miserable asshole ex-boyfriend is still living with me. Jimmy can’t reside in Shep World. And Shep can’t reside in my real world. It’s … complicated.

Even if it’s not my fault (of which I haven’t decided), it’s embarrassing. Really, it’s humiliating at this point. The people we date are tiny glimpses into the people we are. And right now, Jimmy is the worst version of himself and clearly representative of something that must be wrong with me.

“So this is where you do your doctor thing.”

I turn toward Shep’s voice, messing with a few things on the desk to look busy at my important task which apparently involves untangling paperclips and organizing pens by color. “Yes. This is where I do my doctor thing. Are you ready?”

He bends down and scratches Cersei behind her ears. “Had I known you were bringing her, I would have requested Julia and George for the weekend. Not that Millie would have agreed, but it would have been worth a try.”

“Millie? Your ex-wife’s name is Millie?” I usher him and Cersei toward the door and set the alarm behind us.

“Yes.”

“Interesting. I had it different in my head. I imagined an Emma or Scarlet. Maybe a Gwen or Abigail.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He laughs as we make our way toward a red Shelby Mustang.

“I love your car.”

“It’s my dad’s car, but thanks.”

After we load my stuff, Shep slides into the driver’s seat, and suddenly I feel suffocated by his nearness—all the things money can’t buy like his wayward hair. The sharp angles of his face. That ornery smile. I swear he always looks as if he’s winning at something or hiding a secret. So maybe he works at a pet shop and drives his dad’s car, and maybe that should be a concern since I’m a magnet for men in financial “situations,” but it’s not. We’re friends. That’s it.

Is he hiding something from me? I hope so. I hope he’s hiding a secret. Or ten. As of recently, I’ve decided I’m in the camp that doesn’t believe lack of transparency is the same as a lie. Self-preservation has its place in the world. It’s a pillar of individuality.

I’m so full of shit.

Nonetheless, I lean my head back and take a deep breath; it’s a Shep World weekend.

Speaking of … Shep smells clean, not like a body that’s been stuck to a leather sofa for weeks, emitting a toxic mix of sweat, oil, and farts. Inhaling Shep takes me on an evening drive from the redwoods of California to the coastal highway. He’s crisp and refreshing. Alluring and a little reckless. I’m afraid if my dad nicked him with a weed eater, I’d rush him into the house, screaming and crying fat tears. I’d make him a bed of newspapers, give him a water dish, and stock up on worms and guppies.