As you might guess, that’s not what Stacy’s like at all.

Her brain moves faster than Usain Bolt. She’s got a million college degrees and could basically do whatever she wanted. The world is her oyster. If she ever gives up the dental game, she could easily model for J. Crew. She’s got the shiniest black hair I’ve ever seen and a dazzling smile that must be half the reason she’s in this particular industry. Perfect figure. Glowing skin so blemish-free, it’s like she’s been airbrushed. She doesn’t wear a stitch of makeup but looks amazing anyway and I hate her for it. People who wake up looking glamorous can’t be trusted.

Rolling my eyes, I go throw a load of clothes from the washer into the dryer, then end up doing a bit of vacuuming and organizing. I guess I’m a housewife now. Or house-fiancée.

“Whew, it’s warm in here. Let’s turn down the heat.”

“You’re just warm because you’re up and moving around.”

“No, it’s definitely warm in here.” I fiddle with the thermostat. It says it’s seventy-two degrees, but there’s no way it’s not at least seventy-five. This thing is broken.

I sit back down and he stares at me, an irritable bear. “Speaking of Stacy,” he begins, and I quash a rumble in my chest. “I got her for Secret Santa. Any suggestions?”

“Toothpaste.”

He gives me a dry look. “Just because we’re dentists doesn’t mean we’re in love with toothpaste.”

“A gift card, then.”

“Mmm, is that too impersonal?”

“Who cares? You’re giving it to your coworker, not your best friend.”

“I want to put some thought into it, though.”

“If you want to put some thought into it, then why’d you ask me for ideas? I barely know this chick.”

“I thought you might be helpful,” he huffs. “You’re both women!”

“Right, and we’re all the same. We all like the same stuff, just like all men like the same stuff. I suppose I’ll take the present I had in mind for my dad and give it to you for Christmas instead. Surprise, it’s a model of the Brady Bunch house!” My dad’s super into collecting memorabilia of older shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family.

“You know what I meant.”

“I know you’re sexist.” I pull a throw blanket over me. “It’s cold in here.”

Nicholas glares. “That’s it.”

“That’s what?” I ask as he gets off the couch and goes to find his coat and shoes. “What’re you doing?”

“What I’m meant to be doing!”

What he’s “meant to be doing” better not be Stacy Mootispaw. I follow him to the door and watch him march out to his car. Getting rid of the Maserati was a solid choice. It doesn’t belong out here at all, whereas the Jeep looks like it was manufactured by nature. “Where are you going?”

He doesn’t respond, peeling out without another word. I spend the next twenty minutes texting him. If he’s in a dingy motel room with Dr. Sultry, the persistent vibration of his phone is going to be a real mood-killer.

Hey

Hey

Where are you

Nicholas

Nicky

Nickster

Nickelodeon

Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Acknowledge me or I’m telling your mom you didn’t come home last night and you might be missing

Really? Not even for that?

I’m bowled over that my threat produced no reaction from him, and starting to worry that he’s incapacitated somewhere when the Jeep comes clattering up the drive again.

He gets out without glancing at the house, which means he knows I’m watching him through the window. What he hefts out of the back of his car and lifts high above his head nearly makes me faint.

It’s. A. Canoe.

I’m in a lawn chair on the bank of our pond, snapping pictures of Nicholas. He’s maybe fifty feet out, in his plaid earflap hat and Ghostbuster coveralls, trying to put a bobber on his fishing line. If Freud were sitting next to me, he’d probably deduce that stressors (i.e., me) have caused Nicholas to backslide into childhood to re-create his brightest moment in the sun. He’s going to catch that bluegill again and hold it up proudly for the camera. Everyone will clap.

I call his phone.

He looks over at me in my chair, like, You are ruining this. We could be ten thousand miles apart and I’d still know what he’s doing with his face. Telepathic waves beam at me, rippling the water like a helicopter’s taking off. He’s thinking loud and clear: Go away. I’m becoming Who I’m Meant To Be. It’s a touch prissy and so familiar that I think I’m starting to love it on him.

This guy. Seriously.

I call him again. This time he answers. “What?” he snaps.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

It looks like he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But I can’t say that or he’ll hang up. I need to monitor this situation as closely as he’ll let me, for the sake of psychology. Science. America’s Funniest Home Videos, possibly. He’s still struggling to get his line baited because he doesn’t want to remove his gloves.

“Aren’t fish hibernating at this time of year?”

He pauses. “That’s not … fish don’t hibernate.”

“I think I’ve heard they do.”

“Shh. You’re making me talk and I’m going to scare all the fish away.”

“Did Leon say there’s fish in this pond?”

His silence tells me he has no idea, but Nicholas is a prideful man. He’ll stay out here until spring and catch a frog. Emaciated down to fifteen pounds, he’ll thrust the frog in my face. See!? “Shh. I’m trying to catch dinner.”

“I’m not eating fish from this pond. I don’t know if the water’s polluted.”

“First of all, I didn’t offer to share. Secondly, please stop talking. For multiple reasons.” He hangs up and doesn’t answer my next call. The call after that goes straight to voicemail. This is highly irresponsible of him. I could be having an emergency right now and he’s made himself unavailable, which is the first thing I’m going to say to the nurses after rousing from my coma.