Rory is standing on my threshold, eyes swollen, nose red. She’s been crying, and I’d pull her into my arms and hold her tight, but I need to know why she’s here, what we even are anymore. She lets me shove a chocolate bar into her pussy one day, but is (rightfully) mad at me the other. Getting my hopes high is a sure recipe for a heartbreak. And I’m not talking three-to-four-pieces break. My heart would completely shatter if Rory decides to ditch both Callum and me.

It’s like men are from Mars, women are from Venus, and Rory is from Pluto—faraway, mysterious, and nowhere near the rest of us.

I wait for her to say something. Preferably that Shiny Boyfriend finally got the hint, packed his Prada bags, and ran home to find himself a Botox-ridden lady friend who shares the same values. All three of them.

By the way, of all the shitty things I’ve done to get her—and the list is quite impressive for someone who doesn’t fancy himself a psychopath—kissing her today the way I did in front of him was not one of them.

We were both lost in that kiss. Found in it, too.

She is standing outside.

I’m standing inside.

And between us is a small, significant distance I really need her to be brave enough to cross.

“Where is the napkin right now?” She sniffles, shifting between her feet.

I fish for it in my back pocket—I still take it everywhere I go—and hold it up. I’ve imagined this moment so many times. The feelings of triumph and certainty coursing through me. But now, in reality, I feel…morbidly pathetic.

That I still have it. Always. With me. On me.

She storms in, slamming the door behind her with a kick. I expect it to be like in the movies: she finds out—a little later than I’d have liked her to—that I’m the one, and now it’s going to be fifty shades of every position in the Kama Sutra.

But this is not what happens.

What happens is she launches herself at me, throws her arms over my shoulders, and starts sobbing. Rory is not the sobbing type, so I wrap my arms around her and kiss her forehead, sheltering her from the rest of the world. If Arsehole Boyfriend wants her back, he is welcome to try to pry her out of my grasp.

“It’s over,” she breathes into my shoulder.

My heart is a mess of massive proportions. It hurts for her, but it’s thrilled for me, too. I can feel my shirt getting wet from her tears and snot. Her entire body is quivering with wave after wave of misery, and my initial sense of triumph is replaced with dread.