“This is super informal. Just grab your food. There’s more sangria in the pitcher.” Rory turned on music. Jazz. Then she flipped on the globe lights.

I didn’t want the globe lights on with Tiffany there. Those were lights for me and Fisher.

“Oh my gosh … I love the lights!” Tiffany’s eyes widened for a second before she sat with her plate of food on the sofa right next to Fisher. She might as well have sat onto his lap.

My monkey brain spun in circles like an out of control tilt a whirl. She wasn’t a virgin. No “bad sex” with her. No deflowering dilemma.

Fisher leaned over and tapped my plate with his fork, startling me from my self-destructive trance.

“You’re not eating. Are you good?”

Tiffany watched with minimal concern as Fisher’s question seemed benign to everyone else.

Are you good?

I let my gaze remain locked to his for a few seconds. I thought of how I felt when he zip-tied me to the stool, when he said those words “you know the answer to that.”

Tiffany thought she was on another date. She flirted with him. She sat right next to him. And I couldn’t blame her one bit for finding him irresistible. But … he was mine.

“I’m good.” I smiled.

He rewarded me with a wink. And anyone else could have seen it, and maybe someone did. But he didn’t care, and I loved him for it.

After dinner, Rory made a comment about her menstrual cycle.

Rose and Tiffany laughed, eyeing Fisher.

He shook his head and sipped another glass of sangria.

“This is important stuff, Fisher.” Rory grinned. “Your wife will thank me someday for enlightening you on the matter.”

“She’ll thank you for me knowing when it’s time to leave the room.” He stood. “Like now. I’ll just tidy up the kitchen. Have fun with your discussion.” He grabbed the empty plates and left the overabundance of estrogen on the porch.

I spent the next twenty minutes listening to Rory and Rose discuss perimenopause. Tiffany was too young to add much to the conversation, but she still laughed and pretended to know.

My ability to pretend ran out five minutes after Fisher left. I could no longer see him in the kitchen. The dishes were clean, but I didn’t see him leave.

“Anyone else need anything? I’m going to use the bathroom and get some water,” I interrupted.

They shook their heads, mumbling, “We’re good, thanks.”

It was a quarter to nine on a Sunday night. Didn’t they have jobs in the morning?

After I peed, I decided to sneak upstairs to see if Fisher was there, but I didn’t make it past the doorway to my bedroom.

“What are you doing?” I asked Fisher, who was sitting on the floor at the end of the bed.