“Nicholas,” I say when he steps off the porch. Each blade of grass is an iceberg in miniature, crunching under his new work boots. I’m going to be the most honest I’ve ever been with either of us, out loud. Right now.

“I love you eighteen percent.”

It’s not a great number, but it’s been worse. Those glasses and the messy hair are unfairly handsome on him and he’s been more open with me. And more brutal. He killed a baby tree out of spite.

He stops in his tracks. Turns. “What did you just say?”

“That’s the percentage.” I clear my throat. “Eighteen.”

He’s so still, I think a strong wind might knock him over. “There’s no such thing as loving someone eighteen percent.”

“Yes, there is. I’ve done the math.”

“You can’t measure love.” His voice sharpens on the last word before twisting. There’s mockery running all through it now. “But if we’re going to play the numbers game, then I guess I would have to say that I tolerate you eighteen percent, Naomi.”

“So you don’t love me, then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He didn’t not say it. I cross my arms and wait for him to say something else. “Well?”

But he doesn’t reply. His expression is so stormy that my pulse skips, and he leaves without another word. I go inside, a little wobbly after our conversation. I’m wobbly all the time now, but it’s a step up from my fugue of before, half seeing and half listening to my surroundings. I pick up my phone, my heart a jackhammer in my chest. But it’s not a rejection for one of my applications. It’s a text from my mom, which is rare.

I notice we haven’t received our wedding invitation yet. Have you forgotten our address?

I compose a reply: I haven’t mailed them out. We’re not settled on a photo to include.

Gnawing on my cheek, I backspace all of it and type: They’re ready to go. We’ll send them out soon.

I backspace again. Then I delete the text without responding.

It’s Saturday, which has a new meaning now that I’m still getting used to.

In our old life, if I wasn’t scheduled to work we never spent Saturdays at home. I’d go browse flea markets and thrift shops while Nicholas hung out with his friends: Derek, Seth, and Kara—the ex he’s “just friends” with and who loves to tell me I look tired. I don’t care that she’s married and blissfully devoted to her husband. I’m never, ever going to like her.

Seth’s indifference toward me evolved into jealousy when Nicholas and I got engaged, as if I’m a usurper stealing Nicholas away from him. One-on-one, he’s all right. Get him into a large group setting, and he tries to be a comedian. When this happens, all of his jokes are about Nicholas. He takes little jabs at him constantly, smiling while he does it, which disguises his put-downs as playful ragging. Nicholas’s appearance takes a lot of hits. Nice jacket. You stopping by the country club later? Every time he makes fun of an item of Nicholas’s clothing, it vanishes from his wardrobe circulation. He’s stopped wearing the Cartier watch his parents got him as a graduation present and leaves his Ray-Bans in the car. If he uses a big word, Seth laughs and asks him if he thinks he’s smart. You think you’re at a spelling bee or something?

Since I’m not allowed to rip Seth’s throat out and have been instructed to keep my mouth shut whenever he “jokes around” (Nicholas is in denial that the remarks bother him), I’ve stopped going to social events if I know Seth is going to be there. I’ve asked numerous times why he puts up with this, and reading between the lines of his bullshit responses I got the true gist: Seth was the first guy who wanted to be his friend in college, and now he feels like he owes him eternal loyalty. Since Nicholas wants to be the confrontational type but definitely isn’t, he’s let all the comments slide with an “Oh, c’mon” and an embarrassed laugh.

Offending people who treat him badly is not in his nature, so I’m proud of Nicholas for growing a backbone and ignoring Seth’s recent texts: Come over and help me move, asshole. BYOB. Seth demanding that Nicholas help him move is pretty ballsy, considering he was nowhere to be seen when the shoe was on the other foot and Nicholas had to hire professional movers. People always go to him when they need something because they know he can’t say no. I’m stunned that he hasn’t given in to his guilt yet and skipped off to Seth’s with a case of beer and a large pizza.

Weirdly enough, Nicholas has met up with Leon of all people. To go hiking. Twice. He won’t tell me what they talk about and has called me conceited because he thinks I assume they’re talking about me (which is true, but I bet they do).

Besides getting a ride from Brandy to Blue Tulip Café to discuss her new boyfriend (an optometrist single dad named Vance who I am rooting for because he’s sweet and she deserves someone sweet), I haven’t felt like hanging out with anyone lately, either. Today we’re feeling particularly antisocial. Nicholas and I are too busy torturing each other to leave our little house of hatred.

It starts with the joke I can’t stand.

We’re on opposite ends of the couch, playing on our phones. (He’s gotten a new one for himself.) I’m reading a news article because I need to stay on top of current affairs. This way if Nicholas starts talking about a subject he just heard about, I can say, “Oh, I already heard that.” It’s an excellent thing to do to someone you despise when the object of your … despisement? … is a pretentious know-it-all. 10/ 10, would recommend.

I mutter and murmur about the news article. When he doesn’t ask what I’m reading about, I just go for it with a gasped “Oh my god.”

“Yes?” He raises his eyebrows questioningly, like I just spoke his name. He often says this when I talk to a deity. He knows I hate it, and I think this gives him life. I’m adding minutes to his life span with my annoyance.

“I hate that joke.”

“Some people find it funny.”

“Nobody finds it funny.”

“Gets a laugh from Stacy every time.”

Dr. Stacy Mootispaw, crusader against khakis and accuser of him never going the extra mile. With as often as Nicholas has mentioned her, I won’t lie to you, when I met her for the first time I was hoping she’d be a grandmotherly type, smelling of baby powder. Twice his age, in self-knitted sweaters with cats on them. A proud furbaby mom with a jolly old husband she loves so much she calls him on every break.