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I went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face as she took yet another armload of clothes out of my room, her expression sublimely unaffected by it all.

I was drying my face when I saw it. Her French teddy was in my little bathroom wastebasket. She’d thrown it away. Thrown me away.

I grabbed it and stashed it in a drawer before she came back.

I slept with it that night like it was a beloved blankie. Sadly, it did help a bit.

Also, I grabbed Mac and brought her to bed with me for cuddle comfort. That helped a bit too.

The fact that Ro had to come into my room first thing in the morning to find the dog and take her out didn’t hurt either.

She was well put together for the day already, in one of her professional little outfits, glasses on squarely, hair pulled back into a flawless bun. It was like none of this was affecting her at all when I wanted to beat my chest and scream and bawl my eyes out like a baby.

She took the tiny dog out of my arms, careful to not so much as touch me. That hurt.

“You can’t do that,” Ro chided me softly, not looking at me or my almost naked, barely sheet covered body. I don’t know if she didn’t see or just didn’t acknowledge that I was clutching her discarded teddy. “If we’re going to crate train her effectively, she needs to learn to sleep in there, to look at it as her comfort zone.”

“But where’s my comfort zone?” I asked her retreating back.

She didn’t bother to answer.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I DIDN’T FEEL well at all. Something worse than a bad flu. I couldn’t get out of bed, didn’t want to. My head hurt, and I was lethargic and listless.

It took me a few days to realize I wasn’t sick, just deeply depressed.

Ro had been caring for me like I was ill but in a very impersonal, professional way, and I hated it.

Sheer determination got me back into a productive routine again, but the depression wouldn’t shake.

I couldn’t sleep hardly at all, found myself wandering the house at all hours.

I blamed sleep deprivation on what came next.

It was completely out of line. Even sleep deprived, I knew it.

I went to see her in the middle of the night.

In her bed.

While she was sleeping.

I justified it by telling myself that I just wanted to lay down with her, to hold her.

I was lonely.

It was a sad day indeed when I admitted things like that to myself.

I wore boxers at least. It was something.

She was wearing a thin nightshirt that probably went to her knees. It wasn’t there now, as she’d slept it’d ridden up around her hips. I could make out that much in the dark, though not much else.

I slid in behind her. She was on her side, and I spooned her, smelling her hair as I hugged her.

I honestly was just cuddling, though even that was laughably out of line.

She moved her back against me, moaning softly in her sleep.