“It doesn’t have to be a big family. And I’m not looking for, what did you say once . . . a complacent wifey. I want you but you have to be more than a bestie with benefits. I need a lot more than that.”

She wipes off her tears with her robe sleeve but I can see from her wary look that she isn’t buying it. “I understand that you need more,” she whispers.

“I do,” I say.

“I wish I had it to give. I feel hopeless about that kind of love. And even if I could be that intimate it doesn’t change the facts. This seems to be my history and my destiny. I’ve never gotten what I wanted or needed in a relationship, and it may be because I don’t deserve it. Maybe this is just how it’s going to be for me.”

Why can’t she believe in me and that things could be different with us?

I think what hurts the most is knowing that she actually believes what she just said. Sometimes you have to fight for what you deserve, but what can I do if she doesn’t think she deserves to be loved for who she is? How can I get her to see in herself what I do?

I walk over to her and pull her into my arms. Holding her tight, I kiss the top of her head as I silently hope that she’ll come to believe that she can be loved completely—not in fragments that if pieced together would complete the puzzle that is Elle. She is more, and I’m willing to wait some time for her to realize that we’re worth fighting for. I don’t want to settle for a lesser version of who she can be.

I know in life you have to take a stand for what your true beliefs are, but when I walk out of this house my heart will be blown apart by not holding onto her.

“I’ve got to go,” I whisper.

She nods and steps back, staring at the ground. She doesn’t even look up at me when I move away, and turn to leave. I glance back one last time before I pass through the bedroom door. I see tears and I see her arms wrapped tightly across her chest like she’s holding herself together, but I don’t see my Elle that I held last night. And I know as I walk out that door and get in my car that I never may again.

I’m about two days into this “let’s think about things” break/break-up when I start to wonder if it was all some kind of bullshit drama that people in love do just to keep each other on their toes.

I can’t sleep and I can barely eat, but hot damn, I sure as hell am holding onto my pride like a big man, waiting for my little woman to come to her senses. It’s all starting to feel surreal and ridiculous. I start questioning everything . . . like maybe I’m okay not having a bunch of kids and instead settling for a semi-girlfriend who loves sex as much as I do.

But then I see one of those commercials where the goofy dad is trying to change the baby’s diaper while the mother is trying to wrangle the other kids into the bath, and the dog is barking . . . that family chaos thing that commercials make look better than it ever is in real life.

In the final shot the family is all cuddled together on their couch appearing content, and he and his wife give each other this look. It feels intimate and full of the kind of love I imagine I’d feel with my wife, the mother of my children.

I know my logic of an insurance company commercial affecting my life choices may be misguided but I can’t help it. That final image of the dad surrounded by his children and adoring wife reminds me I’m never going to stop wanting that kind of life.

Wednesday I call my parent’s place to tell them I won’t be over Thursday night. Ma picks up.

“Why aren’t coming for dinner, Paulie? I was going to try Elle’s lasagna recipe you went on about. I was hoping you’d bring her.”

“Well Elle’s kind of the reason.”

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

This is harder than I thought. I swallow back my frustration. “It’s just that I’m not seeing Elle for a while.”

“Why in the world not? You two are such close friends. You know how much we love her.”

I feel awkward. There’s no easy way to break this to Ma.

“Yeah, about that close friends thing . . . Remember that we were going to her friend’s wedding?”

“Yes.”

“Well it was one of those nights, and one thing led to another . . .”

“Oh my. Frankly I’m not surprised. So how does a couple go from that to not seeing each other anymore?”

“I don’t know, Ma. I’m still kind of baffled myself over it.”

“You were attentive, yes? You better say yes, or I’ll smack you.”

“Of course I was. It wasn’t being intimate—it all went to hell when I told her I was in love with her.”

“What do you mean? That doesn’t make any sense. That should’ve made everything even better.”

“I know. I’m still trying to figure it out. She says it’s not that she doesn’t care about me, she does . . . but she doesn’t think she’s meant to be in a relationship.”

Ma is eerily quiet.

“You still there?”

“I’m here. So that’s what she said?”

“Yes.”

Ma lets out a long sigh. “Poor lass.”

“You feel bad for her?”

“I feel bad for her because she must not value who she is. She was already in a relationship with you . . . a grand one. Anyone could see it. She’s a fool to let that go.”

“I don’t know what to do. I’m so messedup, Ma.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, my boy—very sorry. She isn’t thinking clearly. There must be a way for you two to work this out. Let me pray on it. You should, too.”

Ma thinks prayers cure everything, but at this point what do I have to lose?

“I’ll try, Ma. I promise, I’ll try.”

It’s just past nine o’clock Thursday night when my phone prompts. I’m surprised to see it’s my brother. He must have gotten an earful from the folks about the tragic turn my life has taken.

“Hey, Paul. Ma told us about what happened at dinner tonight. I thought maybe it’d be good for you to get out. Are you free tomorrow night?”

“Would Skye be coming?” I’m not trying to be rude but I can’t take that woman right now.

“No, just us guys.”

I let out a sigh. I’m really not in the mood to go anywhere but it’s a big deal for my brother to put himself out there and offer, so I agree. Besides I’m going nuts after work, during the long empty hours at night.

“Okay. Musso and Frank?” he asks.

I roll my eyes. This notorious restaurant is seeping in Hollywood history and is relatively unchanged over the years. It’s almost a hundred years old, which by L.A. standards pretty much is equivalent to the Ice Age. It’s his favorite place and he insists we go there every year for his birthday instead of getting presents. I don’t know if it’s the old Hollywood vibe that he likes or what, but the whole place has stopped in time. Far be it from me to crimp his style.

“Seven’s okay?”

“Yeah. See you there.”

Patrick is already in his booth when I arrive. He always asks to be in this section so his favorite waiter, Al—who’s an old, cranky bastard—can wait on us. Apparently they have a special connection that I’ll never figure out. Al always argues with me about what I’m ordering.

“Medium-well,” I answer when he asks how I want my steak.

“Rare. It’s better,” he says as he scribbles in his pad.

Screw you, old man.

We’re halfway through our old-school martinis when it hits me that Patrick ordered a burger.

“Hey, what happened to being vegan?”

He shrugs. “I can’t give up my meat.”

“But what about Skye?”

He starts to turn red as he fidgets with his silverware. “Um, I don’t eat it around her.”

“You dog!” I say with a laugh. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

He shakes his head.