Page 50 of Naughty-ish

“Was that my list?” The DO list I’d written out and hung on my fridge but eventually threw away. He’d taken a picture of it, but he’d also added his own graphics. Squiggly lines from the pencil feature in photo edits on his phone mark up the list. As if he’s been checking off the things he’s done . . . for me.

Be the light. Check.

Be present. Check.

Donate food. Modified to time and check.

Wrap someone in a hug. Check.

Send Peace. Check.

The only one not marked off is Make Love, because clearly the night last weekend meant more to me than my player neighbor.

The blow comes on top of the pressure of losing my job. All those soft words and sweet moments meant nothing to him while my feelings are real and deep. He’s been a beacon of light during my dark holiday stupor and just when I was starting to feel sexy, confident, and free, this happens.

“Am I some kind of charity case to you?” I press harder at his chest, wrestling to untangle my legs from his and scramble to the opposite end of the couch. Nick swings his legs to sit upright and face me.

I swipe both my hands into my hair, feeling dirty and cheap. My skin now crawls with the idea that this man did all these things with me. Disappointment strikes like a snowball to the chest.

“No,” he huffs, like I’m joking with him, when the joke is on me.

“Then what is that?” I wave at his phone, staring at the now blank screen. “Am I some kind of seasonal project to you? You’re Santa’s helper, assisting the pathetic single mom next door.”

“Holliday,” he groans. “It’s not like that. Not at all.”

Pressing into the cushion, I rush upward, catching myself as my balance wavers. The one glass of wine went to my head, and the little nap didn’t help.

“But isn’t it?” My voice rises, and I tug at my hair. “You’ve cut my grass. Shoveled my drive. Hung my lights.” Dropping my hands, I wave around me. “And I’m so appreciative, but you . . . you only feel sorry for me, don’t you?”

“How can you say that? I don’t pity you. How the hell can I pity you when you’re the strongest, most capable, brilliant, and caring woman I’ve ever met?” He sighs heavily. “The thing is, you don’t have to do it all alone all the time.”

Nick’s words are so at odds with his actions; both a balm and a splinter to my heart. I can’t believe he sees me that way. Strong. Capable. Brilliant? Yet for days, he’s been relatively silent.

“What I don’t need is you, Nick.” The words are the sharp saw against a tree trunk, grating and rough, slicing at the base before the loud thunk of it falling over.

“Wow,” Nick says, pushing to his feet to face me.

We stare at each other.

“You know what? Maybe you should stop writing lists and start writing your future.”

I gasp, straightening as tall as I can. What a low blow on this day of all days. “I think you should go.”

His hands come to his hips, and he turns his head as if I’ve slapped him. His verbal assault on me feels like a sucker punch to the gut.

And I don’t need this right now. I don’t need him, and I don’t want to be his little project anymore.

Finally, he turns back to me, glaring at me with those intensely blue eyes, now almost dark as coal. I cross my arms to protect myself, or maybe to hold myself together. He needs to go, even if deep down I really want him to stay.

He swipes up his phone and rounds the couch, stopping just short of my front hall. “How will Eloise and Nash get home today?”

I close my eyes at the stab to my chest. At the painful thought that he’s still being considerate and thinking of them.

“I’ll call my mother.” Maybe my parents can take the kids for the night, so I can re-evaluate my life and the shitshow it still is.

While I remain by the couch, Nick reaches for my front door. The sound of it opening has me holding my breath. Then he steps back into view and stares at me.

“Did you ever think that this was never about you needing me?”