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“Good thing, too,” she replies. “If we were dating, I wouldn’t be caught dead folding your shirts.”

“You don’t help Lance do his laundry?”

I’d meant it as an off-the-cuff comment, but her fingers falter a little, and I wonder if I’ve inadvertently struck a nerve. Maybe I
should
ask if everything’s okay with them.

But she recovers.

“Nah,” she says, with an easy smile. “He’s almost as good a folder as me. It’s part of why I love him.”

I fan myself. “What, he’s a fantastic folder? Shit, you better put a ring on it, Parks!”

She makes a face and flings the last T-shirt at me. “That one should go. It has holes.”

“It’s comfortable,” I say, glancing down at the faded Boston Red Sox shirt. I can’t even remember where I got it; I’m a Chicago White Sox guy.

“It’s a
rag,
” she says, snatching it out of my hands and tossing it into a bucket under the sink where we keep the cleaning stuff.

“Do I get to do that
It’s a rag
routine with your underwear next time you do laundry?” I ask. “Because I’ve seen some of your panties. You may as well stitch death to boner across the front.”

She takes a sip of her water. “New house rule: No talking about Parker’s panties. Actually, no using the word
panties
at all.”

I’m actually pretty sure that’s not a
new
house rule. It sounds familiar, but I’m not about to remind her of this.

“Oh, come on,” I argue. “You help my color-blind self pick out shirts, so why not let me return the favor by telling you which panties are going to depress the hell out of Lance?”

“Pass.”

I tell her anyway. “Those big bunchy ones that are light brown.”

“Those are my PMS panties. They stay.”

I point a finger at her. “House rule infraction. We’re not allowed to say
panties.
”

She rolls her eyes and heads toward the stairs. “I need to go finish that presentation for Monday’s meeting.”

I forget if I’ve mentioned it already, but Parks is a total workaholic.

“Fine,” I call after her. “Go nerd it up, but at least
think
about the party.”

Parker pauses. “You know I have girlfriends, right? I’m not so pathetic that when Lance cancels on me I’m going to be stuck home alone?”

“Yeah, I know, I just thought…I dunno. You looked bummed earlier today. Wanted to make sure you weren’t going to stay home tonight listening to Bonnie Tyler.”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “You worried about me, Olsen?”

“Nah. Just wary of coming home to you on the couch with Häagen-Dazs all over your face while reeking of estrogen.”

She’s already moving up the stairs. “Suddenly that D you got in biology is making total sense. You apparently missed the entire section on how hormones work.”

“It just so happens that biology is a specialty of mine,” I call up the stairs.

“Earlier today, you didn’t know what the uterus was,” she calls back.

“I knew,” I mutter.

Mostly.

Lance and I met when we were both sophomores, and if I’m being totally honest, it wasn’t one of those tumbling-into-love scenarios. No sparks the first time our eyes met, no butterflies when his fingers brushed mine.

It was more like we recognized that we were, well, right for each other.

It started when we ended up in the same study group in the econ class that kicked my butt. Despite paying careful attention in class, despite my constant studying, the homework was harder for me than for everyone else. I’d still be struggling to decipher the question when the rest of my study group had already scribbled their answer. After a while, I got sick of holding the group up, so I’d just sort of pretend that I got it, only to have to muddle through on my own back in my dorm.

Then one night, when I was feeling particularly frustrated, on the verge of tears because I wasn’t understanding anything and everyone else was understanding
everything,
Lance spoke up from the other side of the library table and asked almost the exact same question that I was too embarrassed to ask.

The same thing happened on the next question.

And the next.

It wasn’t until the fifth time of Lance playing dumb that I realized he hadn’t written a single word as the rest of the group patiently explained the answer to him. He wasn’t even looking at his homework, which I later learned had been done hours earlier.

He was looking at
me
.

When I tilted my head in silent questioning, he winked.

And that, my friends, is how you win over Parker Blanton. Homework help followed by a subtle, flirtatious wink.

I fell. I fell hard.

And it should be noted that when Lance was going out of his mind trying to understand symbolism in British literature our junior year, it was me doling out the homework help, thank you very much.

I know it doesn’t sound sexy, but like I said…it’s
right.

Or, at least, it was.

Confession time. I’m twenty-four, probably in my physical prime, with a gorgeous, serious boyfriend…

And my sex life seriously sucks.

It hasn’t always. I lost Lady V my freshman year of college to a sexy baseball player who lived down the hall in our coed dorms. We dated for a couple months before learning the age-old lesson that sometimes being compatible in bed isn’t enough to make a relationship work. After one too many meals filled with awkward silences, we split with no hard feelings.

I hooked up with one of Ben’s friends later in freshman year, but that was more of a too-much-beer, too-little-sense kinda night, and it turned into a big fat nothing.

And then…Lance.

Our physical relationship progressed slowly. I don’t think either of us wanted to mess up a good thing by rushing it. And when the sex did happen, it was good. Really good. Well,
pretty
good.

But at least it was frequent.

And then, a couple months ago, it just…stopped. I mean, I guess I
kind
of get why. Work’s been crazy busy for me, and he has school and work.

But it’s been two months.

As far as dry spells go, it’s not horrible…

If you’re
single.

But when you’re in a committed relationship, where there’s been casual, hypothetical
marriage
talk? Two months is a long-ass time.

And it’s not like there hasn’t been opportunity. I have my own bedroom in the shared house with Ben, and Lance has his own apartment.

So how is it that we’re having less sex now than when we were living in the dorms and had to tie dental floss on the doorknob to warn our respective roommates not to come a-knockin’?

Well, whatever. Tonight that changes.

I’ve spent extra time on my makeup, and I’ll admit…I look awesome. The tight black tank top and jeans aren’t anything special, but they’re not meant to be.

It’s what’s
underneath
that is the real treat: a brand-new lingerie set that blows my shopping budget for, like, the next six months, but it’s worth it.

It’s red, lacy, and doing rather fantastic push-up things to my boobs, if I do say so myself.

I’m about to head out the door when I get a text from my friend Casey.

Bachelor in an hour? I’ve got popcorn….

For a half second, I’m tempted, because…
The Bachelor.

But no.
No.
This is exactly how Lance and I got ourselves into this sexless mess…by not prioritizing our relationship. And it’s worth making time for, it really is.

I text her back.
Headed over to Lance’s, but don’t you dare tell me who gets a rose. I’m watching later.

Her response is immediate.
U sure? I have prosecco.

Damn. She knows I’m a sucker for sparkling wine.

I push through.
Spent triple digits on lingerie. Gotta go blow someone’s mind.

Casey responds.
Blow his mind, or blow his…

I respond only with a
“…”

Because…
maybe.
It has been two months, after all.

I stop by Ben’s door and knock softly. Based on all his babbling about parties tonight, he’s probably taking a nap to gear up for…well, whatever he does at parties.

Still, I knock anyway, because I know he’ll want to know that I’m heading out. He’s kind of a stickler about me telling him when I’ll be gone all night, so he doesn’t have to worry about coming after me with a shotgun to defend my honor.

He’s cute.

“You there?” I whisper loudly.

Silence.

We each have a whiteboard on our doors for just these types of occasions (college-y, I know), and I scribble a note that I’ll be spending the night at Lance’s, and not to
do it
on my bed.

As an afterthought, I go back to my room, rummaging through my underwear drawer until I find the oversized beige PMS panties we’d discussed last week. I loop them over the corner of his whiteboard, knowing he’ll correctly interpret it as
I mean it, seriously stay out of my bedroom.

Lance lives in the Pearl, a trendy district that’s a doable walk from my place, but considering my shoes—which, quite frankly, are awesome—I opt to drive over there, even though it’s very un-Oregonian to drive when I can walk.

I was born and raised in the Portland area, and I’m barely exaggerating when I say that my first words were
cookie, Mama,
and
carbon emissions.
Recycling isn’t so much an
if you think of it
so much as
do-or-die,
and the worst thing you can do in this city is honk at a bicyclist, because they’re saving the planet as you slowly kill it with your evil car. Or something.

Still, I feel only a
twinge
of guilt at my unnecessary drive to Lance’s. I have a Prius, thank you very much, and it’s like I said…my shoes are really rather fabulous. Leopard print ankle boots with just enough heel to be completely sexy.

Parking in the Pearl generally sucks, but I’m lucky, and a car—another Prius, natch—is pulling away from a prime spot just across from Lance’s apartment.

Lance is a studying machine by night, but by day, he has a cushy job as an accountant at a local investment firm, and it pays
way
better than my entry-level marketing gig, so he lives in a newish high-rise apartment building, complete with a doorman.

The broad-shouldered blond guy behind the reception desk gives me a wide smile when he sees me come in. “Ms. Blanton. It’s been a while.”

You’re telling me.

“Hey, Erik. How’s the wedding planning coming?”

“Oh, you know. Lots of education on the various shades of pink. The latest discussion is whether or not she wants to have a bustle on her dress. Do you have any idea what a bustle is?”

“Unfortunately I do. My cousin got married last summer, and it took four of us bridesmaids to figure it out.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

“You absolutely don’t,” I say with a laugh, as I proceed to the elevators. “You mind letting me up?”

He hesitates for only the briefest of moments, and I feel a little stab of unease. While Erik’s job is making sure that no guests show up at a resident’s place unannounced, I’ve been on Lance’s approved guest list since he moved in. Usually Erik just buzzes me up.

For a terrible second, I wonder if Lance has taken me off the approved list, but then Erik does his thing and calls the elevator for me, so I figure I just imagined the whole thing. Hopefully.

“Wish me luck,” I mutter to nobody, as the elevator doors close.

Lance’s apartment is on the twelfth floor, and I make my way to his front door like I have a million times before. But
unlike
a million times before, I hesitate before knocking.

I shake off the weird sense of foreboding and give a determinedly perky knock.

My shoulders relax the second he opens the door. His reading glasses are perched on his nose, the way they always are when he’s deep in studying.

He looks the way he always does.

Although usually his expression is a little more
happy
and a little less
surprised.

He shoves his phone in his back pocket and shakes his head, almost as though to orient himself to my presence. Only then does he smile. “Hey!”

There’s the tiniest wiggle of warning still clinging on in the back of my mind, but then he smiles wider and gives me a long hug.

It’s okay. We’re fine. He’s just been busy.

I tilt my head toward him, lowering my eyelashes just a little to look at his mouth in a way that I know from experience drives him crazy, but he’s already pulling back.

No kiss.

Wha?

He hasn’t seen me in a week, and no kiss?

Just like that, the wiggle of warning is back.

“I didn’t know you were coming over!” he says.

Is it just me, or is his voice a little too cheerful? Like in the fake kind of way. I study him carefully as I step into his apartment, shutting the door behind me.

“Sorry, I should have texted,” I say.

I expect him to tell me that it doesn’t matter, that he’s just happy to see me, but instead he sort of shrugs. At least he starts putting away some of the stuff on his kitchen counter, where he’s obviously been deep in the books. I tell myself that it’s a good sign, but I’m all too apprehensive that something may be even more wrong than I first suspected.

Nothing about this is the typical reaction of a boyfriend happy to see his long-lost girlfriend.

I start to sit on one of his counter stools, a part of me still hoping that the tension’s all in my head, but at the last minute I stand back up instead of sitting.

“Hey, Lance?”

“Huh.”

“What’s going on?”

He looks up from where he’s closing a spiral notebook. “What do you mean?”

I just gaze at him with a look that says
Please don’t play that game.

To his credit, he doesn’t. His shoulders slump just the tiniest bit as he lowers himself to a chair, his hands braced on his knees as he looks at the floor.

Oh…my…
shit.

Shit
.

I know that look.

That’s a
dumper
look.

Maybe I should sit down after all.

I sit beside him, although I leave a chair between us. So much for coming over for a little booty call.

“I should have told you earlier.” His voice is quiet.

“Tell me what, exactly?”

“I just…I’m not really feeling it, Parker.” And then I have to give him credit, because he does the brave thing and actually makes eye contact with me as he breaks my heart. “I haven’t been feeling it for a while.”

No air. There is no air in this apartment.

“Okay. Okay,” I say again, because damn it, there’s a lump in my throat. “So you, like, don’t want to do this anymore?”

Don’t want to do
us
?

He reaches out for my hand, his fingertips brushing mine. “It just hit me toward the end of summer. We’re so young, you know? You’re my first serious girlfriend. How do we know that this is it?”

Because you just know,
I want to scream.

But…do
I
even know? I mean, hypothetically, if I’d shown up tonight and Lance had had a ring, would I have felt anything beyond panic?

“Is there someone else?” I ask quietly. I hate myself for asking, but I wouldn’t be human—or female—if I didn’t want to know.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, there is this teacher’s aide, and…I mean, I noticed her, but I didn’t cheat. I’d
never
ever cheat, Parker, you know that.”

I know I should be focusing on the no-cheating part, but all I really heard was the “I noticed her.”

He’s been noticing other girls? No, worse than that.
A
girl. Singular.

I mean, yeah, nothing had happened. But he’d
noticed
her.

It feels like there’s a big kitchen knife in my chest.

He squeezes my fingers. “I’m not ready to say goodbye to you forever. I just think we should take a step back.”

I blink furiously to bat away the tears, and his face kind of crumples in regret, but I stand and back away from him. “A step back? So, what, you can go play the field, and then come back to me if you decide I’m what you want?”

He meets my eyes, and I see that they’re a little bit shiny, too, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “I feel like an ass, Parker.”

“Well, you
are
an ass,” I hear myself say as I stand and march toward his front door, fumbling at the doorknob.
Good response, Parker. Super mature.

But my verbal vomit continues. “Don’t expect me to just be sitting around waiting,” I choke out.

Great.
The soap opera script in my head is still unreeling.

“I won’t,” he says, a little desperately as he comes after me. “I want you to be happy, I just don’t think I’m the guy to—”

I slam the door on his sentence and it feels
fantastic.

I wobble on my high heels toward the elevator, stabbing at the
down
button frantically. I keep an ear open in case Lance comes chasing after me, telling me how wrong he was, that he doesn’t want to end it after all.