“Fine, when you say it like that, I’ll go put something on,” I tell him and walk to the stairs going up to his bedroom. I step into his walk-in closet, rolling my hand over his suits, and then I spot his robe in the middle of the room. The same robe he wore this morning when I left with every intention of never coming back. I pick it up to hang it up and then go to his drawers and find a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Both are five sizes too big for me, so I tie the shirt in a knot on the side and roll the waist of the shorts five times. Then I walk to the bathroom and wrap my hair in a white towel.

When I make my way downstairs, the smell of garlic fills the house, and my stomach rumbles. I walk back into the kitchen, and he’s filling a pot with water. “It smells divine,” I say, walking to the stove and seeing tomato sauce simmering in the pan with fresh basil on top. I pick up the wooden spoon and stir the sauce. “Almost smells like Italy.” I look at him from the side, and he smiles as he puts the pot of water on the stove and turns it on.

“Your wine is on the counter,” he says and leans down, kissing my neck. It’s the first time he’s kissed me since I came in. I walk to the counter, grabbing my glass of wine, and a clap of thunder sounds outside, the wind howling. I walk to the window and look out. It got dark so fast. “So how was your day?” I hear him ask and turn back around to see him slicing fresh mozzarella on a cutting board.

“I spent most of it sleeping,” I tell him as I sit on one of the chairs at the little table in the kitchen.

“That sounds relaxing,” he says, placing the mozzarella on a plate and drizzling something over it.

“It was until I woke up,” I tell him, now sitting up. “Imagine my surprise.” I tap my finger on the wine glass. “They called to tell me I got something. I was expecting maybe flowers, but then I open the door and they hand me that thing.”

“It’s a fishbowl,” he says, smiling, and I glare at him.

“It was a pet, which, in turn, means I have to take care of it, which means I’m going to go crazy and then it’s going to die and then who knows,” I tell him, my voice getting higher and higher. “I called Karrie, but she didn’t answer, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s a fish,” he says, placing the plate of mozzarella in front of me, but it’s with sliced tomato and pieces of fresh basil.