“It isn’t up to me,” he kept going. “That’s your choice. And I’d like to tell you I won’t go over there tonight and tell him that I know he called you a whore, and then explain somewhat thoroughly how I feel about that, and how I’d like him to refrain from allowing it, or anything like it, ever to happen again. But I can’t tell you that. Because when I go over there with you tonight, that’s precisely what I’m gonna do. With my job, I can’t be there every time you go over to see him. I can only hope you won’t hide that shit from me if it happens, so if I have to have another conversation with your father, I can get on that without delay or without him breaking down what I built up.”

All that was awesome, and scary, in equal measure (maybe a wee bit more scary).

But…

Hang on.

“What you built up?” I queried.

“Babe, you gotta learn how to take off the blinders he put on and see you.”

“Okay, I like that, honey. But you don’t have to make a job of that.”

In fact, I really didn’t want him to make a job of that.

I wanted to be his girlfriend.

No, I was his girlfriend.

What I wasn’t was so deep in the la-la land of Axl Pantera (and his bare chest) post-orgasm, croissants-and-coffee-in-bed goodness that I didn’t think that we’d hit rough patches and it would take work to keep our relationship strong. And frankly, at this point, build that relationship. Because we were in our infancy and anything that was shiny and new was exciting and seemed like it’d never lose its luster, but it always did.

But I didn’t want to be a job to him.

I didn’t want to be work.

His head ticked. “Sorry?”

“You don’t have to make a job of that,” I repeated.

“What do you mean?”

“Telling me all the time I’m beautiful and perfect and you like how I dance and stuff like that. Make it your job to do that.”

He fell silent.

So silent, his silence was the definition of silence.

And after it went on awhile, it started freaking me out.

“Axl,” I said.

“I thought we went through this,” he replied, his voice strange. Low. Careful.

“We did.”

“I’m not blowing sunshine.”

“Okay.”

The silence came back and now he was examining my face in a way I felt he might be able to count my pores.

“Axl.” That one came out as snappish.

Because, what was the deal?

Again with the careful tone. “You’re not hearing me, Hattie.”

“I am.”

He shook his head. “No. You’re listening. But you aren’t hearing.”

“I don’t get what you mean.”

“I’m not feeding you a line.”