I set the glass on the vanity and turn toward him, peeling a few strands of hair from my face. Why does he look so tortured with his lined forehead and downturned mouth?

“I’m saying it for me, and I’m saying it for you. I’m saying it for us. Those are the words, aren’t they? The three words. I. Forgive. You.”

Tears burn my already red eyes. I don’t want his acceptance. I want this. His love feels incomplete without … his forgiveness. All I’ve wanted to hear are those three words. Maybe it’s being raised in a church, or maybe it’s because I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but for whatever reason, forgiveness is the pinnacle of love. It’s unconditional. It’s a baptism of the soul.

“You think love isn’t the answer. You think I can’t truly love you unless I forgive you for Steve, for Megan’s baby, for poisoning me, for absolutely anything and everything about you that can be perceived as an imperfection. You’re so wrong.”

The tears fight their way to my cheeks.

Jake steps toward me.

“I’m sick.” I hold up my hand.

“So what?” He palms the back of my head and brings me into his chest. I nuzzle his neck and let more tears find their way to my cheeks and his shirt.

“Ave, I forgive you because I love you. You think love is not enough, but it’s everything. It’s all encompassing. It’s overpriced shoes and dead animals used to make bags. It’s bright red nail polish and dark eyeshadow. It’s jeans named after women and eyelashes that fall off. It’s dog shit on shoes and untimely cases of head lice.”

I laugh through my tears. “I didn’t have head lice.”

“You did. They ate through your hair extensions.”

“Shut up.” I cringe, pressing my hand to my nauseated stomach.

Thank you, Sydney. Thank you very much.

“Here.” He releases me, riffles through the bottom vanity drawer, and pulls out a new toothbrush.

“Do I want to know why you have a supply of new toothbrushes?” I take the toothbrush after he puts a dab of toothpaste on it.

He nods to the electric toothbrush by the sink. “Because I use that one most of the time, but the dentist gives me a new one every six months. Over time, you get a collection.”

I stare at him in the mirror, using the toothbrush in my mouth to hide my grin. After a quick brush, I shuffle my bare feet toward the kitchen where he’s shutting off the stove.

“Sorry about dinner. I’m not hungry now. I just want to go home.”

“I’ll drive you.” He grabs his keys off the counter.

“No. My car is here. I’m feeling a bit better, you know … that slight reprieve after you vomit?”

He nods once. Of course he knows. I poisoned him.

“But I’d better get going before a new wave hits.”

“I’ll get your car to you tomorrow. So, either you stay here tonight, or I drive you home.”