“Yes,” he says, looking far more excited than he should. “You go into the bathroom over there and sit on the toilet, pretending to read a magazine. When someone comes into the bathroom, you yell at them to get out and that you need your bloody privacy.”

“What?” I exclaim, looking to where he’s pointing. “It’s a fake bathroom. I’m not doing that.”

“You don’t even have to pull down your pants,” he says, almost giggling. “The person will be in such shock they won’t even notice.”

“Ew, no,” I tell him, ripping out of his grasp and walking away.

“You really are no fun,” he says, coming up after me.

I stop, whirling around and point my finger in his face. A wave of anger swarms up from my chest. “You know, you said that to me once and it’s stuck in my head ever since. I am fun, I’m just not stupid. I know how to have fun, but I’m also not a whore. I —”

He raises his palms at me, eyes wide. “Whoa, easy. That is most definitely not what I was saying. You’re not a whore and you’re certainly not stupid, okay? It was just a joke. I poke fun at you, you poke fun at me. See…there’s fun there.”

My breathing is heavy but I take in a deep inhale and gain the rhythm back. I don’t know why I overreacted like that.

“Hey,” he says gently, putting his fingers at the bottom of my chin and tilting my head up so I have to meet his eyes. The last time he looked at me like this was on the wedding night. Fragments of feelings come wafting back and it feels like I’m there and in the fluorescent glow of IKEA all at the same time. “I can be insensitive sometimes, I know this. It’s nothing personal. You are fun.” I try to look away but he holds my face in place. “You are fun, Nicola. You’re fun to be around, whether you think so or not. And I think you might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, picking out the tiniest, cheapest little shitpiece couches for your apartment. If that’s not called fun, I don’t know what is.”

Now he’s being too nice, the compliments making me uneasy. He seems to believe them too much. “I think I like it better when you’re a jerk.”

“All right,” he says. “I can work with that too. You know what your real problem is, sweetheart?”

“What?” I ask, wanting to know and scared of the answer.

“You’re totally underfucked,” he says, his voice dropping a register. He leans in closer. “And I’m the one who can tip the scales in the other direction.”

I blink, swallow hard. I don’t have a comeback for that because I know it’s true. I just don’t want him to know it’s true.

I give him a wry look, trying to shrug his innuendo off. “There you go thinking so highly of yourself. Can’t you keep your ego in check?”

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes focused so intently on mine. “I have ego for a reason. And one of these days, you’ll find out just why that is.”

Heat flushes me from my core to my scalp. I look away and he drops his fingers from my face. I feel entirely breathless, almost shaky, like I’d been trapped in some kind of hypnotic force field in the middle of Swedish furnishings.

“In your dreams,” I tell him but it comes out as nothing more than a squeak.

He just smiles at that.

“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to change the subject. “About overacting. I’ve obviously got some issues there.”

“Don’t we all?” he asks. He grabs my hand and leads me along the hall. “Let’s go rescue your daughter from the cootie pit.”

He doesn’t let go until we get there.

CHAPTER TEN

Nicola

The rest of the IKEA outing is pretty uneventful and by that I mean all the sexual innuendo stops, thankfully, once we get Ava. Not that what Bram was spouting off could possibly be called innuendo. There was nothing indirect about it.

By the time we get back to my apartment, I feel all twisted up in knots. I think I need a moment to be alone with my thoughts, to gather my strength and my wits. As much fun as I had today, it challenged me. Bram challenged me. And it feels like the more I hang around my handsome neighbor, the more my resolve will dissolve.

But what a way to go.

“Well,” I say to him after he’s brought the heavy boxes of couch inside and once again I make a point not to ogle him while he lifts and lowers, like some impossibly rugged cave man. “Thank you so much for taking us there.”

“Anything for my two favorite girls,” he says, looking at Ava. She giggles and then as if she’s struck by a case of the bashfuls, she runs off into her room. “And I mean it,” he adds, eyes on me now. “Are you sure you don’t need help with your crappy couches?”

“I’m sure,” I tell him.

He nods. “All right then. Holler if you need anything.” He gives me a flash of a smile before he leaves the apartment. He closes the door behind him but I don’t breathe until I hear him shut the door to his place.

I collapse down on the couch and I’m suddenly sad to be getting rid of it and swapping in the new cheap ones. This couch is comfortable, it’s soft, it’s like a warm hug. Sure it’s falling apart at the literal seams but it’s been with me this whole time, there while my life became unhinged and I fell off track. I bought it from Anthropologie online and I remember Phil was so mad when it showed up at our apartment one day. He said our place was pushing him out, it was becoming too girly. That should have been a sign then. Maybe it wasn’t the furnishings that were pushing him out, maybe it was me.

I don’t want to let go of the couch. I want it to stay. I want to say, right here, where it’s safe.

“Mommy,” Ava says in her singsong voice, climbing onto the couch beside me.

“What is it, angel?”

“Is Bram my father?”

I nearly choke. “What? Your father, no. Honey. No. Phil is your father.”

She shakes her head. “But I don’t remember Phil. I have never seen Phil.” She says his name like it tastes bad. “I see Bram. Bram should be my father.”

Something in my heart cracks at that. “That’s not exactly how it works.”

“Why not? Doesn’t he like us?”

Oh, Jesus. I smooth her hair back off her face. “I think he does like us. Maybe you can ask Santa for him this year,” I add as a joke, just trying to get her to stop talking about it.

She smiles. “Okay, I will do that. How many months until Christmas?”

Shit. Obviously the joke is lost on her. I know I’m putting off the inevitable but now I feel like it’s going to turn into one horrible Hallmark movie come Christmas time. I wince at the sugariness.

I hear low bass come from next door and Bram has put on some of his 90’s British trip hop again. I can almost see him as a teen in Scotland, doing ecstasy and going to underground clubs. I bet he had short spiky hair and wore a beaded necklace and Adidas sports jerseys. I think I’ll ask him what he was like back then.

No, I tell myself. Get him out of your damn head. Now.

And so I listen to myself because I rarely steer myself wrong. I pick up my phone and I text Steph.

I know it’s Sunday, but I need a girls’ night BAD. And not to the Lion.

She’s instantly responding. Done. I’ll tell Kayla. We’ll get you good and drunk. Who is looking after Ava?

Good question.

I’ll find someone.

I then call my mother and when she can’t do it because she’s cleaning a house early tomorrow, I call Lisa. She’s got a dinner and can’t do it either.

Well, shit. I guess having two people on call for babysitting really isn’t enough, especially not on short notice. Maybe I’ll have to forget about letting my hair down after all, which is too bad because the more I imagine myself dancing without a care and drinking my face off, the more I’m beginning to crave it. I need it, need it.