“But I have to protect myself. I don’t want to depend on you. When things go south for us I won’t have anything to fall back on, and I’ll be back at square one. I’ll have to find a job, and I’ll have to find somewhere else to live. Unlike you, I don’t have tons of money. I’ll be left jobless and homeless with emotional scars. I’m not repeating history.”

I want to probe her for more answers about her last statement, but after our conversation earlier this morning it’s best not to ask. She’ll close up like a clam, and I don’t want to ruin our day with depressing shit.

She doesn’t have any hope for us to work, and I don’t blame her. And I need to remind myself that this is an experiment. She isn’t going to stick around if she finds out about my PTSD—it would be a lot to accept, and I won’t burden her with my demons.

I don’t like it, the thought of her not being with me all day, but I see her point of view. And in fact, I admire that about her. She isn’t trying to milk money out of me.

“Find another job, but I’m not giving in on you moving out. I’ll put the condo in your name so when the shit hits the fan between us I’ll be the one to move out.”

“Thanks for understanding,” she says, with a smile plastered on her face.

“Welcome.”

Awkward silence settles between us, and she watches me as I wolf down the shrimp tacos.

“You’re not going to eat?”

“I already ate ice-cream and cookies this morning while you were in your office.” I turn my head sideways and she continues. “I only eat sweets on Saturdays.”

“I know that, but why?”

“It’s comfort food day for me.” She pats my shoulder. “I started the tradition when I was sixteen. After bouncing from home to home, not having any roots, I decided to start my own tradition. So, on Saturdays, I pig out on my favorite sweets.”

I place my hand on the barstool she’s sitting at and pull her closer to me. “We’ll start our own traditions,” I tell her. “We’ll watch shows together.”

“We already do that.”

“Yeah, but we need to plan a day.”

She smiles, twirling the ends of her hair. “Tuesdays and Sundays. They’ll be our days.”

“Not on Sundays. What about Saturday?” I lean forward and kiss her on her lips.

“Why not Sundays?” She arches her eyebrow.

“I spend those days with my family.”

I don’t have to tell her about Cora or Rylee. We’re not actually in a relationship, and I don’t answer to her.

“Okay.”