“I don’t do relationships,” she says softly, and my heart stops pounding or beating, or perhaps, I just stop breathing. “You know this.”

“What the fuck do you think we’re doing?” I yell louder than I want to. “Honestly, Vivienne, what the fuck do you think we are doing?”

“We are having fun,” she says calmly, her face not showing anything.

“I don’t do fun,” I tell her. “I don’t do this”—I point at her and me—“unless I’m in a relationship.”

She slaps her hand on the table. “What? The first time we slept together, we were not.”

“And I gave in to you, knowing that if I said anything, you would freak out,” I tell her finally. “We went on dates.” I point at her. “We spend all our time together.”

“I know that, Mark,” she says, not using Markos, and I know that no matter what I say, she will never change her mind.

“Well, then,” I say, putting the bottle down on the table. “I guess this …” I want to say that it’s over, but the words get stuck in my throat. “I’m going to go.”

“Oh, come on.” She stands up now. “You’ve never just had fun?”

“No,” I tell her. “I’ve never fucked just to fuck, Vivienne. Not before and not now.” I shrug. “It’s just not who I am.”

“Well, it’s me,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “It’s who I am.” I just nod at her and block out the sound of my heart echoing in my ears.

“You deserve better,” I tell her softly. “I deserve better.” I walk back to her bedroom and get my shoes and my jacket. I don’t look at the bed that I just lay with her in, the bed that still has my head print on the pillow.

“What are you doing?” she says from the doorway.

“I’m getting my stuff,” I tell her, sitting on the bench in front of her bed.

“You’re just going to leave?” she says, throwing up her hands. “I told you I didn’t do relationships.” Her voice gets louder. “I never hid that from you.”