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So now, I refill my well often. For me, that looks like slowing down. Reading a book. Being outside. Lingering over a homemade meal, taking my time to really taste what I’m eating and drinking. Now that I can afford it, I travel.

I think about how Milly never mentioned feeling suffocated when she was with me. I remember her being playful and always lit up when she walked through the door and saw me waiting for her. I remember the look in her eyes after she’d come, going from sated to sparkling in half a heartbeat when inspiration would hit her.

I just got the best idea, she’d breathe.

I’d ask her if it was an idea for one of her events or for what we could try next in bed.

Both, she would reply with this wicked little smile. You gave me ideas for both, Nathaniel.

My cock thickens at the memory. No one was allowed to call me Nathaniel except my mother and Milly.

I shift in my seat, silently shouting at my dick to calm the fuck down.

“That sucks,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Sounds like your well—glass—bucket—whatever metaphor we want to use—is close to being empty,” I say, venturing a glance in her direction.

She looks thoughtful, brow furrowed, lips puckered. “I fill it the way I’m supposed to. Healthy stuff. Good stuff. Productive stuff.”

“That’s all water. Water is fine because it keeps things running, but it doesn’t keep things interesting. What if you try filling your glass with whiskey instead every once in a while?”

She grins, and my chest lights up. “How far are you going to take this metaphor, Nate?”

“As far as you’ll let me.”

“Then I’ll run with it too.” She bends a leg and tucks it underneath her, wedging her body to face me. She picks up Lucy and gets her settled on the seat beside Milly’s thigh. Lucy promptly settles her head on Milly’s knee. A spike of inane, completely inappropriate jealousy has me looking away. “I love whiskey. Love it. But it also gets you drunk. And when you’re drunk, you fall down on things. Literally. You can’t run a business if you’re falling-down drunk.”

“But you run a business in a creative field. And in order to be creative, you have to get drunk. Not on booze—although that can help in some instances—but on life. Experiences. Ideas. You have to drink deep and take the time to consider how you feel about it all.” I downshift as we approach a stoplight. “The considering, the thinking, the feeling—that’s the juicy part.”

“It’s also the part that hurts.”

The soft, almost sad way she says it makes me look at her again. Another spike of sensation, this time guilt. But then she’s pasting on a grin and asking, “So you’re saying I need to drink more?”

“I’m saying you should think about working less.”

“What if I can’t?” Her grin fades. “There’s so much that needs to get done. I can’t just drop the ball. I’ll disappoint everyone—my family, my clients, my employees. What if I’m addicted to getting shit done? Don’t you ever get drunk on productivity? Tearing through a to-do list is the best high.”

“I think we need to end the metaphor here,” I say, aiming to bring back her smile more than anything.

It works. “Agreed.”

“Maybe being productive is a high. I had to basically rebuild a business from scratch over the past few years, so I get it. But I think the difference is that being productive ultimately drains you. Feeling and thinking and experiencing, that fills you up.”

“I hate that math,” Milly replies. “I hate it because there’s this pressure—I feel it all the time—to work and achieve. It’s become a compulsion at this point. Whenever I hit a goal, I just put my head down and gun for the next one. And that never-ending pressure makes me feel like getting drunk on life is a stupid waste of time. Like, there’s this little voice in the back of my head that says, don’t you have calls to make? Don’t you have laundry to do and interviews to set up and a website to update? It almost stresses me out more when I take time off because I just spend it thinking about all the stuff I’ll need to do when I get back.”

I cut her a glance. “Are you thinking about your website now?”

“Well, no,” she admits. “But that’s because I’m thinking about how terrible your metaphor is.”

I scoff. “Is that why you keep using it?”

“Shut up,” she says, but her eyes glitter.

“Seriously, though—where do you think that pressure comes from?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I think we put a lot more pressure on women than we do on men to have it together. To keep everyone else happy and put everyone else first and make sure things run smoothly, even if it makes us miserable in the process. I mean, my mom hasn’t sat down in forty years. She’d rather die than disappoint the people she loves.”