I press my hand against the glass, leaving a momentary handprint in the steam before wiping it away. He leans a shoulder on the doorway and smiles now that my face and my breasts are clear in his view.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he exhales. Every time he sees me naked, he reacts like it’s the first time. The awe, the amazement, the general excitement all straight men have when there’s a naked woman in front of them. But his comes with a kind of reverence; like I’m a statue carved only for him. Which isn’t entirely wrong.

“You come in here just to watch?” I ask, scratching shampoo into my scalp but moving my hips back and forth to make it sexy.

“An added benefit.” He laughs. “I was thinking the diner again?”

He’s sweet. We’ve ordered from the diner on Lexington every cheat day since I started outwardly acknowledging this wedding diet. All he ever wants is pad Thai and veggie spring rolls, but this man has pretended to crave a Reuben with potato wedges for the last eight weeks so that there’s some lettuce-based option on the menu for me.

“I’ll do the green salad again,” I say quickly, before I have a chance to change my mind. Just the thought of potato wedges makes my stomach ache for something so greasy I have to wash my hands and the corners of my mouth after eating.

He nods and then watches me for a long time as I wash out my hair and slip on the black exfoliating gloves that make me feel like an intruder in my own shower. I love scrubbing my skin with these. It’s like I can feel every single pore.

“I’m going to personally feed you seven cheeseburgers when we get back next week.”

I laugh, letting the warm water run into my mouth and then spitting it onto my toes. “I can’t wait,” I say, knowing it will never happen. Diets don’t end. They just get rebranded into “lifestyle changes” and “wellness” and “clean eating.” Whoever does their PR is a genius and a billionaire.

By the time I finish in the shower and stand in the center of the bathroom, my toes tangled in the white shag rug, meticulously moisturizing every inch of my skin with white goo proven to reduce the look of wrinkles, our buzzer goes off. Before Danny’s voice can materialize over the speaker system, Graham says, “Let him up,” and stomps to the door. He walks like he’s angry at our downstairs neighbors. Luckily, they’re nearly ninety and almost never turn on their hearing aids.

I throw on one of Graham’s sweatshirts and leggings and walk outside just as he appears with our plates—he insists on plating takeout, a flaw I’ve learned to accept—and places them on the coffee table.