Page 72 of Make Her Mine

But were she ever fully aware and begging for it? It would take one please and I would be the happiest man on the planet.

The second I step through my front door I see what she was up to this afternoon.

There is now a plethora of colorful throw pillows covering my couch and chairs.

There are also house plants on every obvious surface. The coffee table is no longer the space solely for coasters and remote controls. Now there are magazines and books stacked haphazardly across the top. There’s even a blanket draped over the back of the couch. Which makes me grin and roll my eyes. Who the fuck will be using that? She didn’t bring that over for herself.

The air is scented with a light lemony vanilla scent, and I notice a candle burning on a new table. She brought an entire table over. It’s a long, narrow piece that sits right behind the couch. Where there are more books and another plant.

“Harlow!” I call.

She pops her head around the corner from the kitchen.

“Oh, good, you’re home. I have all the ingredients prepped.”

“Ingredients?” I ask, kicking my shoes off by the door. “You’re cooking for me?”

She laughs. “Don’t be ridiculous. You're cooking for me. Well, us, I guess.”

I should’ve known. I wait for a moment, but she says nothing about the new décor in the living room. She disappears back into the kitchen.

Still, she has clearly moved into my house.

Damn, that means she has pants here now.

“What am I making?” I call, refusing to say anything about the pillows and candles.

I don’t hate them. They’re clearly not to my taste, but they’re very Harlow. And it’s interesting how they blend into what I’ve already got going on. My furniture is mostly dark gray, which goes with the dark hardwood floors and the colorful rug my mother insisted had to be put down if my interior decorating was going to be so dull.

I have the basics. That’s all I need. I am a single guy, and I simply need things to sit on, put things on, sleep on, etc.

Taking in the room as a whole, with all the homey touches, I realize that I was maybe, subconsciously, keeping the slate clean for when someone else was around to add to it.

I’ve never assumed that I would stay single forever. Coupling up makes sense to me. I’ve been raised around couples. Happy couples who made families and homes. That feels normal to me. Just because it hasn’t happened for me yet, doesn’t mean that I’ve written off the possibility.

“Strawberry Jalapeño Chicken,” she calls back.

I chuckle and start for the kitchen. “Did it occur to you that I might not know how to make that?”

“You caught on quickly with the spicy popcorn, so I figured you’d love to learn to make something new.”

She’s not wrong. I’m always up for trying something new. And how hard can it be?

“Do you like strawberry jalapeño chicken?” I ask.

“I’ve never had it, but I read the recipe and I think I will.”

“Then I guess I would want to learn.” I pause a beat then add, “If you were really my girlfriend.”

I don’t know when this little game shifted. But I like it. I am able to show her what it would be like for us to date without either of us having to commit to anything.

It’s risk free. Even while I cannot forget my dad’s words about us dating for real, this feels like we have a safety net. Anytime it starts to feel too real, we can simply fall back on the idea that while these might be real gestures, real thoughts, real likes and wants, we’re just going through the motions.

Or at least that’s what we’re telling each other. And ourselves.

I study the ingredients that are set out on the countertop and then Harlow hands me her phone, with the recipe displayed.

I’ve just started to scroll when a streak of gray flashes past in my peripheral vision.

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