But what’s the difference between Jeff Garnet and Dee Roberts right now? Last week, Jeff’s pressing me up against his car like some big jerk and tonight Dee’s doing the same damn thing.

“You okay back there?” Kristina asks.

“Yeah.”

“Something happen with Dee?”

“Nah. Just tired.”

“You danced your ass off!” Justin says. “It was awesome!”

“Yeah,” I say. I think: But what does it matter now? I can’t just dance. I can’t just have fun. If I start having even a little bit of fun, I have to shit or get off the pot.

My alarm goes off at five, and I hit snooze. It goes off again at 5:09, and I hit snooze again. Finally, at 5:18 I get up and get dressed. I don’t do anything to my hair except run my fingers through it.

By the time I get to Maldonado’s, I think I may have fallen asleep while driving. Twice. I don’t remember at least four blocks of Washington Street. Dee is already inside, which means I must really be late.

I smile and pretend I’m not heartbroken. Shit or get off the pot. I can barely keep my eyes open, so the I’m-too-tired-to-talk routine is 100 percent believable. The morning goes by slowly. I devein six hundred thousand million shrimp, and Dee chops broccoli and cauliflower into twelve million trillion perfect little trees. We wash and chop fruit together and grunt occasionally.

I avoid all contact with both walk-ins until a quick inventory check while Dee is doing dishes. I’m sure she notices, but she doesn’t mention it.

The only conversation we have all day that isn’t about food is this:

HER: Hey.

ME: Hey.

HER: Wanna go to the lake after work?

ME: Yeah.

HER: I don’t have to be home until three.

ME: Great.

Dee and I are on our blanket in our usual spot at Freedom Lake, and we’re just lying here on our backs watching the sky. It’s cold today, and we’re both wearing our scarves and hats. I spot a small commuter jet descending to land at the local airport, and I send it all my love. All of it.

Dee doesn’t have much to say, and neither do I. We’re both tired—or maybe she’s more tired and I’m more pretending I’m tired so I don’t have to talk.

I ask the passengers: Are you shaking your heads with disappointment? Are you yelling shit or get off the pot from your reclining first-class seats patterned in neutral-colored propellers and airplane silhouettes? Are you sick of hearing me say it?

As if she’s reading my mind, she says, “Are you pissed off at me for last night?”

“Nah.”

Silence.

“That means yeah, doesn’t it?” she says.

I sit up and cross my legs and look at her. “That thing you said. It pissed me off.”

“Thing I said?”

“Shit or get off the pot.” When I say this, I hear her say it all over again, and this huge, out-of-proportion anger fills me.

“Oh. That,” she says. She sits up, too. “What’s wrong with saying that? You say it all the time.”

“I say it to people who take their time at red lights or who can’t make a decision about a subject for their next research paper. I don’t say it about important things like this!” I’m yelling a little. “How can you be so calm and act like it was nothing?”

She stares at me.

“Is that how you want to make love to me the first time? Forcing yourself?” I’m crying. I know I’m crying about everyone who’s trying to control me, but I can’t explain that to Dee right now.

“I wouldn’t have ever done something that made you feel horrible. Jesus! You make me out like a date ra**st. You know I’m not like that.”

“You were last night.”

“Stop saying that. I was not.”

“Dude, I had to stop you. If I hadn’t stopped you, what would have happened?”

“What the f**k?” she yells, throwing her hands up. “I can’t figure you out, Jones. One minute you want me, and the next minute you don’t.”

“That’s bullshit. I want you all the time, but I asked you to be patient.”

“I was patient!”

“For two weeks. That’s how long you were patient!”

She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I just don’t get what the big f**king deal is. I mean, we’ve been together for over five months now. I’m pretty sure I love you!”

Wow. That was… gutsy. Not romantic, but… wow.

“Oh,” I say.

“Oh? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“No,” I say, trying to be gutsy, too. “I’m also going to say that if you—if you think you love me, then shouldn’t you treat me like you love me and respect me? And be patient with me?”

I realize that I’m saying this not just to Dee but also to my mother. And Kristina. And Ellis. And Jeff. And maybe even myself.

Dee sighs and squeezes my hand. “I’m really sorry, Astrid.”

We look at each other for a whole minute. I trace her high cheekbones down to her full lips and wish I wasn’t attracted to them at all. I think about going back to being an asexual sea sponge, and I cry more.

She says, “I’m really sorry, okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

“It’s just really frustrating for me. I’ve never had a person hold out so long, you know?”

“Can’t you see how even that hurts?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

We’re quiet for a while. I dry my tears. “Look. I didn’t want to get all loud and mad. I’ve just—just been under a lot of pressure from everyone, and I need a break.”

“From us?”

“What?”

“You need a break from us?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know.” I watch a plane zoom across the sky, and envy the power and control of it. I simultaneously realize that without a pilot, it would crash. “I need to be my own pilot,” I say. “And I don’t understand why my copilot is saying stuff like shit or get off the pot. It just doesn’t seem like a good team.”

Dee looks at me softly. “I don’t want you to get hurt, you know?” She picks a long piece of grass and scars it with her thumbnail. “Do you remember Deanna Klinger?”

“Yeah.” I vaguely remember her. I think she ran cross-country.

“We dated for a while, you know?”