But my problem is bigger than his interfering mother now; more than the age-old argument about where to go on our honeymoon and the size of the cake, which I no longer care about because I didn’t get my way with lemon. No one likes lemon, Naomi. I’ve been stewing in all the ways I’ve been wronged for so long now that my simmering resentment has outgrown itself to taint everything about him, even the innocent parts. In spite of everything, I’m such a caring person that I bottle up my negative feelings and don’t share them with him. He’d never understand, anyway.

If he asks me what’s wrong and my issue isn’t one he can make go away with a few reassuring words, Nicholas gets frustrated. It reminds me of my mother once saying that you can’t tell men about your unfixable problems, because they’ll want to fix them and not being able to do so fries their wiring.

Is my problem unfixable? I don’t know what my problem is. I’m the problem, probably. There are a lot of good things about Nicholas, which I have typed up in a password-protected document on my computer. I read it whenever I need to be reminded that Everything Is Okay.

I want to swallow a magic pill that makes me feel perfectly content. I want to gaze lovingly at Nicholas while he haplessly searches the bowels of our kitchen cabinets. We’ve cohabited for ten months and he still doesn’t know where we keep anything.

Our names look so romantic together on paper. Nicholas and Naomi Rose. Have you ever heard anything lovelier? We’d give our children romantic N names, too, and make it a theme. A son named Nathaniel. His grandparents will call him Nat, which I’ll hate. A daughter named Noelle. Her middle name will have to be Deborah after Mrs. Rose, because apparently it’s a tradition going back exactly one generation. Nicholas’s sister has been told the same thing, so if we all fall in line there’s going to be a dynasty of small Deborahs someday.

I close my eyes and try to imagine growing up as that woman’s biological daughter, and the picture is so horrific that I have to bleach it with happy thoughts of another contender for my heart—Rupert Everett in character as Dr. Claw from the 1999 Inspector Gadget movie—bursting through the doors of St. Mary’s and fighting Jake Pavelka to decide who gets to marry me. One of them has a robotic claw, so it isn’t a fair fight. “Not so fast!” shouts another voice. I look up to see Cal Hockley, Titanic’s misunderstood hero, rappelling down from the ceiling with the Heart of the Ocean clamped between his teeth. “This is for you, Naomi! The only woman worthy of it!” Nicholas shouts in protest, turning away from the altar, and promptly falls through a trapdoor.

With conscious effort, I look at Nicholas and try to make myself feel butterflies. He’s responsible. We like the same movies. He’s a good cook. I love these things about the man.

“Naomi,” he’s saying now, banging cupboards. “Where do we keep the Tupperware? I’m going to run to the store and get some cookies to drop off at the office tomorrow. How nice is that? I’m not even working. Nobody else swings by just to drop off snacks.” Rise and Smile is usually closed on weekends, but once a month on a designated Saturday a few of them have to come in. To take out the sting of working on their day off, they all bring in snacks. “I want to make it look like I baked them myself,” he continues, “or I’ll never hear the end of it. Stacy says I never go the extra mile. I’ll show her an extra fucking mile.”

I do an unforgivable thing here and privately agree with Stacy. Nicholas does not go the extra mile, especially when it comes to me. He didn’t get me flowers this past Valentine’s Day, and that’s okay because flowers are stupid, I guess. He reminded me that they’re just going to die. On Valentine’s Day we sat in separate rooms and tagged each other in gushing Facebook posts. We don’t need to say sweet words in person because we know what Real Love is.

We have smarter things to spend our money on than overpriced jewelry (if the jewelry’s for me) and plants that will slowly wilt for a week before turning to sludge (again: if they’re for me). We could be putting that money toward something better, like a tennis bracelet and an entire garden for his mother.

He didn’t get me flowers for our anniversary, either, and that’s okay because we know what Real Love is and we don’t have to prove ourselves to each other. He buys flowers for his mother while she recovers from a facelift because she expects it, but I’m reasonable. I understand. I know I don’t need them, whereas Mrs. Rose does need them. He’s so glad we’ll never be like his parents.

On our anniversary, we don’t even have to go out on a real date or take the day off work to be together, not marking the occasion in any way. We’re relaxed and laid-back, nothing like his parents. Our love is so Real that we can sit on the couch and watch football like the day is no big deal, like it’s just any other day. Every day is the same. Every day is like our anniversary.

Words are bubbling up in my throat. I push them down, struggle to find different ones. “Cabinet over the microwave.”

“Thanks. Actually, do you have time to make cookies tonight? Stacy’ll be able to tell if I haven’t made them. I don’t want to hear her bitch.”

I give him a contemptuous look he doesn’t see. “No. I’m going to Brandy’s.”

“So am I, but we’ve got plenty of time until then, don’t we? And I need to jump in the shower, while you’re not doing anything but sitting on the couch. Can you just whip up some cookies real quick?”

“Can’t you just do it yourself tomorrow? Why do you need them right this minute, anyway?”

He’s preheating the oven. He doesn’t even know if we have all the right ingredients. He assumes I’ll cobble it together from scratch like Cinderella’s mice. “I’m not getting up at the crack of dawn to make three dozen cookies. It’s easier to do it tonight.” His voice lowers to a grumble. “Stacy’s lucky I’m even doing this much, since I’m not even scheduled for tomorrow … we’ll see how she likes taking her Saturday turn, for once.”

I stare at Nicholas and my intestines boil because he thinks I don’t know what he’s doing. The only reason he’s choosing to shower right now is so that he has an excuse to ask me to do this for him. It’s like whenever we get home from a trip to the grocery store and he pretends he’s getting an important phone call so that he doesn’t have to help put groceries away.