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I have been unemployed for sixty-two days.

Not that I’m counting.

I’m on my way back to the brownstone now after running for two hours, following an hour of lifting weights. I’ve got another two months left on my gym membership, and I’m damn well using it. Krista has hinted that it’s unhealthy to spend hours every day exercising, but how could that be? It’s exercise . It’s healthy by definition.

Besides, I have to keep my energy up for when I find another job.

I am soaked with sweat when I get back inside—my T-shirt is sticking to my skin. August in New York is the worst time to go for a run due to the stifling humidity, but I do it anyway. I like to see how hard I can push myself. What’s the worst that can happen? I drop dead?

We can’t really afford to run the central air, but I’m glad it’s blasting as I catch my breath in the living room. The aroma of cinnamon hits my nostrils, and my stomach rumbles. All I’ve eaten today is a power breakfast (three whole hard-boiled eggs), and I’m starving.

I wander into the kitchen, where Krista is pulling a tray of cookies from the oven. She casts a glance over her shoulder at me and smiles. “Snickerdoodles?” I ask.

She nods as she rests the tray on the kitchen counter, next to the antique metal clock we bought at a flea market last summer. Snickerdoodles are her specialty—her signature cookie. That’s what she does when she’s happy or bored or especially stressed: she bakes.

Let me tell you a little about Krista’s snickerdoodles. When you put them in your mouth, the edges are crispy but the center is soft, and they melt instantly, spreading a perfect combination of cinnamon and sugar and butter. She baked them for me on our first date, and those cookies were part of what made me fall in love with her. I knew there was something really special about a woman who could bake something that tasted that good.

She learned how to make cookies from her mother, who I met once when she flew in from Idaho and is exactly the kind of woman who you’d expect to make great cookies. When I asked Krista to marry me, I imagined her someday baking cookies for our children like her mother did for her.

That’s the life I want. With her.

I reach for a cookie, but she swats at my hand. “They’re burning hot from the oven!” she scolds me. “Take a shower, and they’ll be cool when you’re done.”

She hates it when I’m sweaty from a run, which is fair. “Fine.”

I head upstairs and strip off my T-shirt and gym shorts. I turn the faucet in the shower to ice cold and step into the stream. I’ve heard ice-cold showers are for psychopaths, but I’m addicted—I’ve been doing it since college. It’s an extra rush of adrenaline after I’ve come down from the high of my workout.

When I’m clean and dressed, I head back downstairs, the rumbling in my stomach more insistent this time. On the way down, I pass Goldy, who is swimming contentedly in her bowl. I slip her a few pellets, even though Krista says I’m overfeeding her. I hate the idea of her being hungry.

Krista emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate of the snickerdoodles. She carries them to the sofa, and I follow her like an eager dog. She lowers the plate onto our glass coffee table and settles down on the sofa, tucking one leg under her like she always does. I sit next to her and grab a cookie.

It’s freaking amazing, like always.

“Any luck on the job front?” she asks me.

It was dumb to think I’d score another job in marketing right away. After Wayne talked shit about me all over town, you can imagine nobody was champing at the bit to hire me for any choice positions. I was grossly overqualified for the last job I applied for, and it paid a quarter of my prepromotion salary. I didn’t even get a reply.

“Not yet,” I say, trying not to sound as dejected as I feel.

Krista notices the catch in my voice and leans in to wrap her arms around me. “Is this about right?” she whispers in my ear.

“Level eight,” I say.

She squeezes me tighter. This is a little convention that the two of us have developed. In the early days of dating, Krista had a rough day at work, and when we met up that night and she told me about her terrible day, I leaned in to hug her. When she complained I wasn’t hugging her tightly enough, we came up with a ten-point scale to determine how tight of a hug we needed given how shitty we were feeling at that exact moment. I know—we’re so cute, you want to vomit.

For a good minute, we stay in the hug, which is around a level eight or nine. She’s so good at knowing exactly how to hit the right number that I need.

But of course, the hug has to come to an end. When she pulls away, she has a worried crease between her eyebrows. “So do you have enough money in your checking for the next mortgage payment?” she asks gently.

I do—barely. But after that, I am screwed. I won’t be able to pay the mortgage, and I’ll lose the brownstone. And even though it’s in my name and not Krista’s, she’ll be homeless too. I’m trying not to think about it. “It’s tight,” I admit.

“I could contribute more,” she tells me, even though I know she doesn’t have much to begin with.

Krista manages the dry-cleaning store a few blocks away. It’s how we met. I brought in a suit, and when I saw her behind the counter, I suddenly realized I wasn’t getting my suits dry-cleaned nearly often enough. I came in two to three times a week, spending a small fortune on laundry just to get to talk to her for a few minutes while dropping it off and picking it up.

I didn’t make a move right away, because I had a girlfriend. I had been dating a girl named Gwen at the time, but it hadn’t been going that great and was only getting worse. So the day after it ended with Gwen, I walked right into the dry cleaner and asked Krista out to dinner.

“I’ll find something,” I promise.

She lifts one of her light brown eyebrows. “Will you?”

I frown at her. “I’m not going to be unemployed forever, Krista. Something will turn up.”

I’ll find something eventually—I have to—but it’s not going to pay what my last job did or even a fraction as much. I’m going to have to widen my net.

Damn, I still can’t believe it. Sixty-two days ago, I had everything. How did it all fall apart so easily? I’ve called Wayne a dozen times, but he hasn’t called me back. I think my emails are going into his spam folder.

“I’m going to suggest something,” she says, shifting her weight, “and I don’t want you to say no right away.”

Oh great. What amazing idea has she come up with? Does she want me to sell a kidney? How much can you get for a kidney in today’s market? “Okay…”

“I think we should take in a tenant until you get back on your feet.”

I stare at her. Is she serious? “No. No way. I’m not living with a stranger.”

“Why not?”

That kidney donation idea is sounding better and better, although I might not get top dollar for it because of how much alcohol I’ve consumed over the last decade or so. “Because I’m not a twenty-year-old college student?”

Krista crinkles her nose. “You know, I had a roommate before we moved in together.”

“And you hated her!”

Krista’s former roommate was a day care director by day and an amateur singer by night. During my visits to her achingly tiny two-bedroom apartment near Inwood Hill Park, her roommate would burst into song while showering, cooking, and sometimes in the middle of a sentence.

“So we’ll find someone more normal,” Krista says.

“In Manhattan?” I grumble. “Nobody is normal here. You won’t find anyone normal.”

She laughs and reaches for my hand, which is only partially covered in snickerdoodle crumbs. “I found you ,” she points out.

No comment.

She slides closer to me on the sofa, resting her head against my shoulder. I brush the rest of the snickerdoodle crumbs off my T-shirt, then throw my arm around her shoulders to pull her close to me. What does she put in her hair that makes it so damn soft? There must be some secret ingredient in that girly shampoo she uses, because it’s just incredible.

“I don’t know what to do, Blake,” she murmurs into my neck. “I know you’re going to find something eventually, but… I’m worried.”

You and me both, babe.

“Maybe…” She holds out her left hand, where the diamond of her engagement ring sparkles under the overhead lights. “Maybe I should sell the ring. That will buy us some time.”

I suck in a breath. No. I do not want her selling that. I mean, yes, it would buy us another two months of breathing room, but I don’t care. My dad with his struggling hardware store—passed down from my grandfather—got my mother an engagement ring with a fake diamond that was still embarrassingly tiny. I was so proud that I got Krista not only a real diamond but one that all her friends could be jealous of. If I made her sell that ring to keep us afloat…

No. I won’t let her do it.

I swore I would always take care of Krista, in sickness and in health. No, wait, that’s what I will swear when we get married. And if I don’t figure a way out of this situation, that’s never going to happen. She won’t marry me if I make us both homeless.

“Fine,” I say. “Let’s get a tenant.”