He thinks our relationship is perfect, or so he says. It’s what I say to people, too. He tells everybody that I’m great. He thinks I adore him. We’re the only ones who know what Real Love is.

“What do you want for dinner tomorrow?” I ask in a tone that sounds like I love him. It’s an effort, and I’m exhausted.

“You pick.”

“Chicken tacos.”

“I was thinking stir-fry,” he replies, and I know it’s utterly unfair but my ten percent drops to nine. At this stage of the game, it takes nothing at all to dock points. If he breathes too loudly in his sleep tonight he’ll wake up to a score of negative fifty. Keeping points like this is terrible. I’m terrible. Our relationship might be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, but when I go over it while in a positive frame of mind, it doesn’t look that bad, so then I’m unsure.

How did I fall in love with Nicholas? How did we even meet? I can’t remember anything good because it’s been overshadowed by the intense dislike I feel now. Maybe we met on a dating app. Maybe I was getting a crown put on. Maybe we were both walking briskly around a street corner from opposing sides and ran into each other like something from a movie, loose papers and to-go cups and my purse clashing in the air. All I know is that a few months ago I woke up from a very long sleep and discovered I was engaged to someone I can barely stand.

“Sweetie,” he says, which is what he calls me when it’s payday or his favorite team won or he knows he’s screwed up and needs to grovel. “I forgot to say. Mom had an appointment with the florist earlier and she wanted me to tell you she’s changing it from delphiniums to carnations or something like that.” He waves his hand in a circle. “You’d probably know better than me. Flowers are more important to women.”

“You don’t think I might have wanted a say in the type of flowers we have at our wedding?” I reply. “What about you? Don’t you want a say?”

Nicholas blinks at me. There’s an emotion hiding in his eyes, and I try to identify it before he turns his head to a sharper angle and it vanishes.

“It’s already settled. She picked carnations, since you were so ridiculously adamant that it not be roses. Or do you think it’s not too late to make changes? Think hard, Naomi. Anything you want to back out of?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“What do you think I mean by that?”

My eyes narrow. “Are you suggesting I back out of the carnations even though you literally just said that we’re already settled on the carnations?”

“Maybe I’m not talking about carnations at all.”

My spine snaps straight and I hold his stare, picking that emotion back to his surface. And I realize.

He’s fraying my ropes.

“Oh?”

Nicholas lifts his shoulder. Lets it drop. “We could talk about anything. What do you say, Naomi? Anything you want to get off your chest?” He waits patiently for a response, but all I can do is stare at him. My mind is going a zillion miles an hour, zinging from revelation to revelation. I can’t believe I’ve been so dense.

All along I’ve thought Mrs. Rose has been pulling the strings, but it’s been Nicholas, using Deborah’s nails-on-a-chalkboard powers to drive me to the point where I’ll call this off. I’ll be the crazy ex-girlfriend who snapped; I’ll be at fault for everything and responsible for the steep costs of a broken engagement and lavish wedding. Everyone will feel bad for him because of what he had to undergo, jilted at the altar.

I can see him now, chin held high. I just want her to be happy, he’ll say. A garden of Roses will sigh breathlessly and wonder how any angel could be so composed in such a dreadful situation. He’ll screw up his eyes and think about that time a guy in a truck clipped his car, and squeeze out a single tear.

For the space of a heartbeat, I see our situation through his eyes. If I end this and he gets to pretend to mourn the death of our relationship, he can easily milk that for at least a year. A year of Deborah not riding his ass over giving her grandchildren because “the wounds are still fresh.” Everyone around him will bend over backward to accommodate him. If he ends it, on the other hand, I’ll come out of this looking golden. I won’t be at fault; no one will call me a fraud. If anything, I’ll gain sympathy points. People will say How could he let you go? and If you ever need to talk to someone, I’m here.

When you build a life with someone, so many of your building blocks prop up your partner, and you’re propped up by theirs, until your foundations merge and walking away risks destabilization for you both. We have joint checking and savings accounts. Our phones are on the same plan. Both of our names are on the lease, and it stands to reason that whoever bails forfeits the house. His parents have invested in me, grooming me into Mrs. Rose material. We have obligations together. Long-term plans. I can’t cut a line between Nicholas and me and float away free, because we have tangles.

Yes. I look at him and for once, I can see outside my own cloud of resentment long enough to see that he’s got one of his own. He’s perceptive, all right. He’s already known for some time what I’m feeling. I’m not a good actress after all.

Our love percentage plummets to zero and a tremor shudders through the floor. Tiles and furniture tip into a crevice that snakes all the way down to the earth’s core, separating kitchen and living room, him and me. The truth is plain, unfolding before us, but as usual I am late to catch on because I’ve been holding it all in and trying to rationalize away my gut instincts. Focused on myself, so wrapped up in trying to hide that I don’t even notice which moves he’s making.

My engagement to Nicholas Rose is a game of chicken.

It’s day one of being clued in on the fact that I’m locked in a battle of wills, and I’m lagging behind. Nicholas has enjoyed a leisurely stretch of uninterrupted time surveying our battlefield while I grapple blindly like a video game character stuck in a glitch. He’s been strolling along, hands clasped behind his back, burying land mines with finesse. He’s going to win this, like he wins everything. I think of his gold Maserati and my Saturn sharing curb space.

I groan and nearly give in when I sit up in bed and pluck off the Skittle he’s left half-melted to my arm, leaving behind colorful mermaid scales. Nicholas doesn’t work today but he’s gone somewhere else after dropping off those stupid cookies, probably off to braid his mother’s hair. Does he even eat the Skittles or does he simply dump them there, trying to piss me off?