Page 44 of The Romantic Agenda

Joy swallows hard, pushing down the sudden rising panic. For better or for worse, Malcolm’s happiness has always been a priority in her life. But what she’s doing now is the opposite. It’s unhealthy and it’s selfish. Her fixation on Malcolm isn’t good for either of them. The longer she delays her confession, the worse off they will be. She breathes to stay focused and manages to keep her voice steady as she asks, “You really think Summer is the one?”

Malcolm bites his lower lip, pulling it through his teeth. He doesn’t look at Joy when he says, “She could be.”

Twelve

SATURDAY

Joy’s mood lifts the second she swipes on the last coat of mascara.

Yellow sweater crop top (thin and breathable cotton).

Fitted high-waisted lavender shorts (tailored to her measurements).

White Air Force 1s (older and broken in).

Silver rings on her index and middle fingers with a matching bracelet on her right wrist. Small hoops on her ears. Braids half up with curly bangs freshly re-dipped in hot water.

Every day, step by step, from brushing her teeth and completing her skin care routine to inspecting her final look in the mirror, she concentrates on herself and saying her affirmations. But despite her best efforts, this morning all she thinks about is Malcolm. Her life and how Malcolm saved it, changed it, wrecked it.Everythinghe does affects her and vice versa. Part of her screamsthat’s Not Good!!!but they reached the point of no return ages ago. Andanother part of her instinctually knows they’re rapidly approaching another wall.

She needs coffee. Now.

No one else has made it downstairs yet. Kitchen all to herself, she plays some mellow morning music and dances, swaying around the kitchen while her coffee brews.

You always do this, he said.

I want to get married, he said.

She could be, he said.

Joy had tossed and turned and had full-body frustrated tantrums while she struggled to fall asleep. Upset with herself for fighting with Malcolm. Upset because he was partially right.

Fox ambles into the kitchen, eyes still heavy-lidded with sleep.

“Hey, hey,” Joy says, aiming for cheery and bright, and not tormented by her unrequited emotions. “Do you like coffee?”

“Why?”

She places one hand on the counter and the other on her hip. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m just standing here in the kitchen in front of a full pot of coffee and a cabinet full of mugs for my general health and well-being. Why do you think?”

He has the grace to look sheepish, features softening as he rubs his hands down his face. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well.”

“Too loud? Too quiet? Too dark? Mattress not good?”

He takes a seat at the island. “I’m a tea person.”

“Ooh. What kind?” She holds out the fully stocked tray for him. He picks one and she turns on the electric kettle. “This is my first time in country dark. I actually kept a light on all night.”

“I grew up in it,” he says absently while folding a napkin into increasingly smaller halves. “You get used to it eventually.”

“Really? Where are you from?”

“Why?”

She rolls her eyes. “Because I wanna know you.Obviously.”

Hisfaceshrugs, nearly making Joy laugh. “I didn’t realize that was part of our arrangement.”

It must take his voice an exceptionally long time to warm up. He still sounds like he’s been gargling gravel—rumbly enough to start an earthquake.