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Maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe falling for someone changes the tenor of every interaction, every look. Maybe everything they do draws you toward them like a plant to sunlight.

How would I know? I’ve never done this before.

“It’s like Nick wants me say something,” I say into my phone. “To finally come out with it. But I can’t.”

Mom thinks for a moment, then says, “There are more ways to tell someone you love them than through words, sweetie.”

Two nights later, I finally get an evening alone where I don’t have to work.

Nick texts that he’s headed to the gym, which, in Nick Harwood language, means he’ll be gone for the next two hours or more. He’s been spending a lot of time at the gym lately. Probably for the same reason I’ve been going to Blackstone Center every day.

It’s easier to think if we’re not around each other. And that’s why tonight, I have a plan.

A dumb plan.

My mom’s right. Now that I’ve figured out my feelings—and, Doctor, it’s worse than I thought—pretending I’m not falling for Nick is all but impossible. Whenever I look at him, he’s looking at me first. Whenever I think about him, he’s right there, probably thinking about me, too.

I need to dosomething.

There’s a spring rain outside, long streaks of water painting the penthouse’s giant windows. Cool mist weaves between the dark buildings below, so different from the bright ocean blue and sandy yellow landscape of Fiji. I carry a grocery delivery into the kitchen, depositing bags of ingredients on the counter.

Since he found the wrapper of my convenience store burrito, Nick has been filling containers with homemade food and leaving them in the fridge and freezer. He sticks a note on each, his handwriting small and neat.

Penne à la “I definitely didn’t make too much on purpose.” Enjoy.

Chicken soup, made with actual effort. If you don’t eat it, I’ll take it personally.

Mac & cheese. I could pretend I made this for you, but we both know I made it for myself and just couldn’t finish it.

It’s about time I return the favor. If I’m not allowed to express my feelings with my voice or my body, I can at least express myself in the other language Nick speaks.

I flick on the TV, connecting the music app to my phone and tapping my Bad Bitch playlist. Once music is floating through the speakers, I climb the staircase to my room, where I change into a pair of jean shorts. There’s a gray t-shirt on top of my clean laundry pile—the shirt Nick left for me in the villa dryer. I hesitate for a second, then put it on over my sports bra.

Clean and dry, but it still smells like him.

I’m hopeless.

Back in the kitchen, I clumsily chop vegetables and prep spices, my phone’s browser open to the stir fry recipe my mom sent me what feels like a lifetime ago. Rain patters the windows as I start a pan heating.

Medium-high heat. A glug of oil. What the hell is aglugof oil?

I turn the volume up on my playlist. I don’t know what I’m doing, but this feels kind of nice. I can see why Nick enjoys cooking in here. It’s much more comfortable than my ratty basement suite kitchen, and Mom was correct: doing something for him is aligning my heart and my head.

For the first time since I kissed Nick at our wedding, I feel like I’m not hiding.

Soon, I’m dancing to the music and scraping veggies into the pan with a glug of oil, whatever that is. As the veggies sizzle, I check my phone. No texts. It’s only been an hour. I’ll keep the food warm, leave a note on it, then disappear into my room before he comes home, like,Whatever. I do this all the time.

(In reality, I’ve never done this. Never cooked for a man, never fantasized about his reaction. Never had to stop myself from imagining what might happen afterward, if we were in a normal marriage—but I won’t think about that.)

Irisby the Goo Goo Dolls starts playing, and I sing the opening lines while I shake spices into the pan.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”

The music is so loud that I don’t hear the elevator.

Lost in the music, I turn around with a spoon in my hand—yes, I’m using it as a microphone—to find Nick standing in the living room, a small, amused smile on his face.

I freeze, a strip of cabbage falling off the spoon and hitting the floor with asplat.