“Then help me understand.”

“I don’t trust people,” he blurted.

“I can understand that.”

“No. I mean it. I don’t trust people—ever. And I will probably hurt you at some point—not physically,” he quickly added when my face betrayed my alarm.

“Oka-a-a-y.” I folded my arms across my middle. I was typically fairly adept at following scattered thought processes, but with Alex, I wondered if I was allowing my hopes get in the way of his words. He was trying to be honest without admitting too much or providing specifics.

I respected him for his honesty.

However, I experienced a degree of irritation with his oblique and indirect warnings.

“I’m saying this wrong.” Alex’s eyes pierced mine and seemed to grow increasingly heated with every passing second. “What I mean is, if you want me to leave you alone, I will. But, if I’m given the option between being with you—even if it puts you at risk or makes you unhappy—and being without you—where you’re safe and content—I’m probably going to make the wrong decision.”

I considered this. It felt like he’d just handed me a relationship Rubik’s cube.

In order to solve the puzzle, I started with what should have been an easy question. “Alex, do you care about me? Do you want me to be happy?”

“Yes...of course.” The hesitation in his words undermined their credibility. “But I want us to be together, and not just for one night. I wouldn’t….” His hands balled into fists, and I got the distinct impression he was having difficulty not touching me. “I wouldn’t be okay with that.”

“You make it sound as though my happiness and us being together are mutually exclusive. What makes you think I’ll be unhappy if we’re together?”

“For all the reasons you’re already hesitating.” His expression and the self-depreciation of his tone caused a sudden sadness to seize my throat.

Alex’s shoulders slouched; he stepped backward and leaned against the door. “We are not exactly compatible. You’re…you’re beautiful, educated, smart, good. You deserve someone who isn’t on parole and is unrepentant for his crimes, someone who is doing more with his life than waiting tables, someone who is going to put your needs and happiness above his own.”

“My pragmatism forces me to agree with your last statement. However, I don’t know enough about your crimes to determine whether you should feel repentant. As for waiting tables,” I shrugged, “I couldn’t care less as long as it makes you happy, fulfilled, and you demonstrate a strong work ethic for our theoretical future offspring.”

“Future offspring?” his eyes were wide, and the words sounded choked.

“Yes. You should know that I always evaluate all dating candidates for their physical and mental health as it relates to inherited and environmentally influenced disorders. I know it might be weird and premature at this point, but I don’t want to put time and effort into a relationship that isn’t going to ultimately meet my requirements.”

“What are the requirements?”

“Partnership, respect, honesty, kindness, communication, commitment, monogamy, children, humor, intellectual conversation, and—hopefully—impressive sexual congress à la der Rüssel.”

“Der Rüssel?” he echoed, fighting back a smile. He watched me for a long moment, his expression incredulous and thoughtful; then, very suddenly, he stepped forward. Alex lifted his hands to my face, cradled my cheeks, and pressed his lips to mine. His mouth was worshipful, reverent, and sinful at once. I melted against him because his body was becoming my true north.

Before tilting his head away, he nipped my lip and kissed my nose. His eyes surveyed me with scorching and vulnerable desire. His hands caressed my shoulders, slid down my back, and gripped my hips. His expression was filled with unmistakable longing, and it was as potent as a drug.

“This isn’t going to work,” he whispered, though he made no move to release me. In fact, he held me tighter.

The words were déjà vu, but it would be a fun day in hell before I would let him walk away without giving this—us—an honest try.

“It can work. We just need to put the right can-do attitude into it.” I said.

“Can-do attitude?” His tone was flat.

I’d thought about him, about the possibility of us, about what I would do if given another opportunity, for the past two weeks. He wasn’t the type I usually sought out. In fact, he’d sought me out. He disliked psychiatrists. He threw apartment-smashing temper tantrums. Regardless, in a very uncharacteristic move, I’d decided to give it—us—a chance.

Not a slamp/Wendell chance—a life-partner chance.

I couldn’t exactly explain why—not even to myself. All I knew was that I felt a connection with him, a shared strangeness, cognition. I was compelled by curiosity and—let’s just be honest—by the chemistry of zing-inducing kisses. Maybe it was the lingering effects of the red dress. After hearing the snippets of his past that he was willing to share, the connection felt more profound, the compulsion more concrete.

“Yes, can-do: positive thinking. Haven’t you ever read The Little Engine That Could?”

“Not recently.”

“Well, I’ll get you a copy. In the meantime, we need a plan.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s disappear, move to Amsterdam or another place with lax hacking laws and no extradition treaty with the United States.”

I dismissed his words as a joke even though he appeared to be quite serious. “We’ll call that plan B. For plan A, let’s just take it one day at a time.”

I sensed his dissatisfaction, so I placed my hands on his biceps and dug my fingers into his muscles to keep him from withdrawing.

“Let’s see what happens. We won’t date. We’ll….” I threw one hand in the air and rotated it at the wrist as I searched for the right words. “We’ll hang out. Isn’t that what it’s called?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He answered darkly. Alex’s palms slipped downward and his fingers flexed on my bottom. “Would you be seeing other people?”

I shook my head. “No. Not unless we called off our hanging out agreement.”

“No. I can’t do that with you.” He cleared his throat, uncertainty darkening his eyes. “I need more assurances.”

“Assurances?”

“I need a timeframe. I need to know I can count on you being with me for a certain period, like six months or a year.”

I pulled away to consider this new development, and his hands slacked on my backside, then tensed so I couldn’t move completely out of his grasp. He’d admitted to having trust issues, and I had to applaud his self-awareness.

“I can give you one month,” I offered.

He frowned. “Six months.”

“Alex, we’re discussing the minimum; it might be longer.”

“Six months,” he repeated, glaring at me.

“Two months, and you have to answer all my questions.”

He shifted closer. “Three months, and I will answer all of your questions at the end of those three months.”

I considered this, and him. I was so swept up in the negotiation I didn’t stop to consider the many, many obvious and logical reasons why—though he couldn’t hold me to it—this was potentially a disastrous idea.

I returned his suspicious inspection with one of my own, “What would be included—expected—during these three months?”

“You couldn’t date anyone else.”

I nodded. “Same for you, right?”

He shrugged as though my request was superfluous. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Hmm, okay.” I bit the inside of my lip, worried it. “What else?”

“We would see each other no less than three times a week for at least three-hour increments.”

“And what would we do?” If he said sex was a requirement, I honestly didn’t know if I would be appalled or approving.

Who am I kidding? I’d be approving.

“What did you do?” he asked, and when I looked befuddled, he clarified, “In your last relationship.”

“You know, go to dinner. See a movie. Go to the park….”

He nodded, his jaw set. “Okay. That stuff.”

“…make out, round the bases, and so forth.” I knew my eyes were wide, watchful. I held my breath, waiting to see if he took the bait.

To my surprise, he didn’t immediately start negotiating frequency, quality, and type of bodily encounters. Instead, Alex withdrew, folded his arms over his chest, rested his shoulder against the door, and gave me his profile. He was a smart guy, so I knew he understood where the yellow brick road I’d paved was going to lead. Therefore, I was surprised to find his expression tinged with icy severity.

“You understand that you’ll be watched, and what we say to each other might be recorded.”

“Unless we find a storage room.”

Some of the ice melted in his expression, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Or a broom closet.”