She answers with a string of heart-eyed emojis and I realize her apology opener was really just a ruse to soften me up to more of the same conversation. Her timing is, as ever, impeccable. Putting my phone facedown on the counter, I look back at Sean, determined to salvage this, make plans, do something.

“How does your week look?” I ask.

“Pretty light. Might take Phoebs to the Exploratorium. Was thinking about camping a couple nights, maybe.” He shrugs, lifting his chin to the stove. “Water’s boiling.”

“Don’t backseat-drive here, sir,” I say, trying to joke. “I got this.”

“Do you want me to make a salad or something?” He turns his attention to the fridge, indicating there’s stuff to be found there.

“Would it ease your mind to make it?”

“Either way,” he says, looking down to his phone. “I don’t just want noodles and plain sauce for dinner, that’s all.”

I stare at him for a few silent beats. I mean, a thank you would do wonders right now. “Of course not.”

With that, I turn to get the lettuce and veggies out of the fridge.

In bed later, Sean snuggles closer, humming into my neck. “Mmm, babe, you smell good.”

I stare at the ceiling, trying to figure out what I want to say. I organized a picnic on my day off, giving him a chance to get to know my friends, and he barely talked to any of them about their lives, their jobs, their interests. We came home, and I offered to cook—he ate it wordlessly, huddled at the other end of the table with Phoebe, helping her draw a unicorn.

Phoebe showed it to me, proudly, after dinner, but other than that, it was as if I wasn’t even there.

Has it always been this way, and I didn’t notice because I was so happy to be included in their twosome, and I was so busy there was nothing else pressing on my mind? Was it such a relief to have something sorted, to not feel anything—not guilt or love or fear or uncertainty—that I just let this routine become my future?

Or has something changed since Elliot came back into the picture, and no matter how much Sean denies it, it’s created a wrinkle in our easy, bland little life?

Sean kisses his way across my collarbone and then up my neck. He’s hard, pushing off his boxers, ready to go, and we’ve said maybe three words to each other in the last two hours.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

He nods but doesn’t stop his progression up my chin, to my mouth. “Anything,” he says, speaking into a kiss.

“Are you excited to get married again?”

He reaches between us, coaxing my legs apart as if he’s planning to answer this question after he starts having sex with me. But I shift away and he sighs, leaning into my neck. “Sure, babe.”