Things must have worked out all right, though. Last night was the first night she slept in my room.

“Hungry?” I ask her.

“Meh,” she answers. I know that’s a clear signal one way or another, but I left my decoder ring in my other pants.

“How about waffles?” I ask.

It’s the perfect crime: I get to take a few swigs of vodka to dial back my hangover and Leila’s pacified and distracted by waffles.

“Meh,” she answers again.

Oh well.

I open the freezer and grab the vodka bottle before I even dream of touching the waffles.

This is a covert operation.

If I took the waffles out first, she’d be bound to suspect that I was up to something when I didn’t immediately close the freezer.

The vodka is cold enough that I don’t taste it for a couple of seconds, just long enough for the worst of it to pass.

I leave the bottle on the countertop. There’s no reason to put it back before I’m done with the waffles.

“Butter? Syrup?” I ask.

“I’m not that hungry,” she says.

Myself, I’m fairly certain that if I were to try and eat something right now, I’d just refund it a few minutes later.

“Okay.”

The coffee’s done, but I take another swig of vodka before I bother doing anything with that information.

“Hair of the dog?” Leila asks.

I don’t know why I still try to get away with anything with Leila around.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I’m dying over here. This hangover is murder.”

“I would imagine,” she says inscrutably.

One more swig and the vodka goes back into the freezer, right along with the unopened box of waffles.

“So,” Leila starts, “do you remember anything from last night?”

“Yeah,” I tell her. “After the shower it’s a little fuzzy, but I’m sure with some minor discussion the rest of it will come back.”

“Well,” she says, turning around on the couch to face me, “you begged me not to move to New Jersey.”

“That sounds like something I’d do,” I tell her, pulling two coffee mugs from the cupboard. “That sounds exactly like something I’d do. I both love you and hate New Jersey.”

“Yeah, that came up during our discussion,” she says. “Do you remember where the conversation went from there?”

I’m right in that in-between area where the alcohol is starting to hit, but the hangover’s still overpowering it and I want to stick my hand into a running garbage disposal just to take the focus away from my throbbing head.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It hasn’t come back to me yet.”

“Do you think it’s going to, or do you just want me to tell you?”

“Tell me.”

I have both mugs filled with coffee before she considers responding.

“It seems that you have a bit of a problem with Mike,” she says.

This can’t be a good turn of events.

“Really?” I ask. “What did I say?”

“You said it was kind of messed up that you’re doing everything to keep your past relationships away from ours while I’m still hanging around with Mike.”

“I said that?” I ask, not sure whether to be proud or nervous.

“Yeah,” she says. “At one point, you called him a douche nozzle. It was a mean sentiment, but I have to admit it did get me to laugh.”

“Sorry about that.”

“I think we need to talk,” she says.

I bring her coffee as a peace offering, but it doesn’t seem to have the magical powers with which I had so intently tried to imbue it.

“Mike is my best friend,” she says. “I get that you’ve got a little jealousy going on, but he and I have known each other for a really long time, and I can’t just stop being friends with him because you’re feeling threatened.”

“Now it’s coming back to me,” I say.

“We’re still talking about it,” Leila rejoins and my devious plan to get out of having this conversation falls on its face.

“All right,” I tell her. “Do you understand why I might be a little uncomfortable with that? Of the two times I’ve met the guy, the first time, I walked in on the two of you making out, and the second, he ignored my existence while engrossed in looking for a place for you to live.”

“I get why you’d feel that way, but it’s not what you think,” she says.

She explains how he was feeling self-conscious about the way he kisses and that he badgered her into giving him a capsule review. I just happened to walk in at the wrong time.

The story, despite its vague familiarity, doesn’t do much to ease my concerns.

“Let’s not fight about this,” I tell her. “I get that he’s your friend. I’m uncomfortable with it, but I’ll just have to deal with that for now.”

“Yeah,” she says, “you will.”

And with that, we’re about to have our first fight.

“How would you feel if I told you I wasn’t going to stop hanging out with Wrigley, despite your feelings?”

I think it’s a pretty fair point.

Leila disagrees.

“It’s not the same thing and you know it,” she says. “I never had sex with Mike. That was the first and only—”

“You’ve never had sex with him, but I guarantee you have stronger feelings for him than I ever did for Wrigley.”

“I don’t find that hard to believe in the slightest,” she retorts. “I’m surprised you have any feelings at all the way you treat women.”

“The way I treat women?” I seethe. “In what way have I ever treated you poorly?”

“I’m not talking about me,” she says, “I’m talking about all the other ones that you drug in here in the middle of the night, never to return with the same one twice. Do you really think women appreciate that? How deluded are you?”

“I never brought anyone home under false pretenses,” I snap. “Everyone involved knew exactly what it was before it ever happened.”

“Yeah?” she asks. “Well, what is this?”

I take a breath and steady myself.

There are two options here. I could go for the quick, sharp response and I have no doubt it would feel pretty great right about now, but on the same token, that approach would probably blow up the relationship.

My other option is to try to calm this whole discussion and tell her that, despite how angry I am right now, I see my relationship with her as the most promising thing I’ve ever known.

What I really need to do is say something, because she’s just staring at me now, forming her own opinions on how I really feel and the longer I go without saying it, the less she’s going to believe whatever comes out of my mouth.

I’m still not talking.

“I don’t know,” I tell her.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” she says, getting up from the couch and trying to make a break for her bedroom.

“I love you!” I shout. “But you’re leaving and it’s not like we’re talking about some far off possibility, you’re leaving next week. How is that supposed to work? I don’t even know if I’ll be able to swing this place on my own. I want us to be together. Even sloshed out of my mind I was begging you to stay. That’s where I want this relationship to go. How about you?”

The bad news is that she’s crying now. The good news? There is no fucking good news.

“You’re right,” she bawls. “We should just end it.”

And shit just got real.

“That’s not what I’m saying,” I tell her. “I want to make this work. More than anything, I want to make this work.”

“But you’re right,” she says, “it can’t. I’m taking that job. I have to. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. You’re here, doing what you’ve always wanted to do.”

“Leila, don’t do this. We can’t just give up on everything now. We’ve only been together for a couple of days and we’ve already fought more for this than most people do in an entire relationship.”

She pushes past me and slams the door to her room behind her.

I don’t know what else to say.

I don’t know that there’s anything else I can say.

I’m starting to wonder if I just conjured up my feelings for Leila as a way to distance myself further from Wrigley.