“What ever happened to those sketches you did of our massive home?”

“They’re in my messenger bag. Why?” I got up, tired of watching him flip through one hundred channels over and over again. I set his drawings next to my laptop and turned on the printer. First thing I searched for was a copper farm sink I saw in a magazine once. I found one that I liked, printed it out, and taped it to another blank page in his tablet. I knew he was watching me so I pretended to ignore him.

Curiosity eventually won out. “What are you doing?”

Trying to get you thinking of other things, like our future. “I found something I wanted to add.”

He leaned on the back of the couch, studying his impressive sketches. “Maybe I’ll go back to college, finish my degree.” And just like that he frowned.

“Who am I kidding? I can’t go back on an open campus.” He tossed the sketch pad onto the table and moped back to his spot on the couch. I hated this. I hated seeing him so withdrawn. Even our sex life had taken a hit.

His passion was gone.

It was time for something drastic. I hurried down the hall, hanging our little DO NOT DISTURB sign on the apartment door so Marie or Mike wouldn’t come in unexpectedly, and took off my clothes in the bedroom.

He at least gave me some attention with a questioning glance when I came back into the living room wearing nothing but my white bikini underwear. I grabbed the remote out of his hand, turned off the television, and straddled him.

“What are you doing?” He breathed out his question with a hint of admonishment, as if me being mostly naked and on his lap needed a reason or clarification.

“I want my Ryan back.”

His lips twisted into a frown, and then his expression rolled into what scarily resembled rejection.

“Talk to me.”

His hands slipped around my hips, tensed, and seemed to push back and up, raising me a smidgen off his crotch. “You had to get naked to talk to me?”

“I figured it was a good way to get your undivided attention. We should be on a beach somewhere having a grand time, making love, having fun, being young, enjoying life. You’ve been so closed down. You don’t want to talk to me. You barely touch me anymore. It’s scaring me.”

His hands pushed my hips back, a definite sign of his unwillingness to further this conversation. I grasped his forearms, unwilling to let him push me aside.

Desperation clawed at my throat. “Please don’t push me away. Please. I can’t take it anymore.” His despondence was taking its toll on my heart.

He tried to squirm out from underneath me and just like that a new fissure cracked into my patchwork heart. “Ryan, don’t. Oh God, please don’t. You promised me!” He resigned back into the couch. “What do you want?”

His momentary rejection unnerved me.

I’d been down this road once before and I’d be damned if I was going to let history repeat itself. Fucking men giving me false hope and promises that they so easily yanked back when it was convenient. Well fuck that!

“You’re breaking my heart! Don’t you see that? Is that what you want? You want me off of you, pushing me away like that? Is that what you want?” I knew my voice had risen in volume but damn he was pissing me off.

“I just want to chill. That’s it. Is that so hard to understand?”

I glared at him for a moment, shocked at his harsh tone. “Fine. You want to chill, have at it.” I started to climb off his lap but his hands clamped my thighs.

“Where you going?”

“I’m getting off of you and going to live my life. You’re not chilling, you’re rotting away here, letting that shit in your head fester and eat you alive. You don’t want to talk to me, get it out and move forward, then you can sit here and continue to chill on your own. Let me know when you’re done.”

“Stop,” he groaned.

“Why? A second ago you were pushing me off of you.”

He studied me for bit, his eyes scrunched and pained with so much mental poison.

“I’m sorry.”

I picked up one of his hands, curling it in my own and pressing it between my exposed breasts, pulling it as close to my heart as it could go. “Don’t be sorry, babe. Talk to me.” He shook his head, fighting it, not able to find the courage or the words.

“Tell me,” I pleaded softly. He was tight-lipped and scowling. “You said once that a man should own up to his situation. You also said we’d always talk it out. You promised.

Talk to me!”

Ryan was so forlorn. “I can’t shut it off.