Page 9 of Merlot Marriage

“He’s my best friend. It’s not weird.”

Sarah gives me a look. “Him being your best friend isn’t the weird part. It’s the fact that you guys act like a couple but claim that A) you’re not attracted to each other. Hello, you’re both fucking hot, so that’s one hundred percent bull. And B)—” She stops to scoop some ice into a cup. “Whenever anyone tries to ask either of you out, you always use the other as an excuse not to.”

I don’t have a chance to argue before a team of preteen girls in soccer uniforms, plus their families, walk in the door. It’s an endless stream of blended drinks and pastries until I clock out for my lunch break at ten.

Snagging a sandwich from the cooler case, I wave to Sarah, then take it and my drink out to my car. The sun has come out, and even though it’s still chilly, I want to bask in the warmth of it on my cheeks. As soon as I close the door and crack a window, the weight of being surrounded by people is baked away by the sunshine seeping into my bones.

My older sisters are both natural extroverts—Daisy lives for showing off her perfectly curated life, and Maggie is the living embodiment of a golden retriever. My whole life, I thought there was something wrong with me because I like being alone so much more than they do.

Discovering what an introvert is at the age of seventeen was a true lightbulb moment for me. And I’ve been constantly surrounded by people for the last few days. I think the only time I’ve been alone is in the bathroom. And even though Philip has never triggered my need to be left alone before, I’m suddenly so aware of his presence in my house that I can’t relax.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and scroll through it while I eat. Recently, my algorithm has taken to showing me a combination of baby cows, food porn, and women who havegiven up on the male species. I’m not mad about it—especially the baby cows.

A video with helpful tips for writing a dissertation pops up on my feed, and I quickly exit the app. I only have five minutes left of my break, and I refuse to spend any more minutes of my life thinking about my thesis. Or anything else to do with school.

Can’t think about school.

Can’t think about Philip.

I’m not sure what’s left to distract myself with.

I fire off a quick text to my sister, including a picture of a quokka for Kel’s daughter Olive. She’s been obsessed with them for the last few weeks.

By the time I drag myself up the steps to my house hours later, the countless cups of caffeine I’ve consumed to keep me on my feet are making me jumpy and sick. I unlock the front door and, for a second, question if this is the right place. Voices echo from the kitchen, and the smell of some kind of meat cooking wafts in on the cool breeze coming from the open patio door.

“Hello?” I hang my purse and coat on the rack, then toe my shoes off and line them up neatly below.

“Hi there!” Philip calls from somewhere in the house. The voices cut off abruptly, and he pokes his head out of the kitchen. “You’re hungry, yeah?”

“Starving.” My stomach growls as the smell of what he’s cooking hits me again. “Do I have time to shower? I was on bathroom cleaning duty right before I left.”

“Yup, it’ll be ready now now.”

I stop in my tracks and give him a look. “Okay, you say that all the time, and I have no idea what ‘now now’ or ‘just now’ means. Like, ‘right now’ or ‘in a bit,’ or what? It’s been driving me crazy for ages.”

Philip’s cheeks turn pink beneath his scruff. “Um. It means in a little bit. It’s a bit vague, to be honest.” He shakes hishead, then clicks the tongs in his hand. “I’m just cooking some chicken, and I made a salad. Is that alright?”

“Sounds good.” I take a few steps down the hall when I can’t think of anything else to say. This awkwardness between us is new and unwelcome. He has cooked at my house before. He’s being his usual charming and thoughtful self.

I chastise myself through a quick shower, slipping into a pair of sweats and a tank over a clean sports bra. Following my nose, I find Philip in the kitchen, plating up the food.

There’s a perfectly sliced chicken breast lying on top of a bed of salad greens, feta cheese, olives, cucumber, and tomato. “This looks delicious. Thank you for cooking.” I pop up on my toes to give him a kiss on the cheek, like I’ve done a thousand times before, and take my plate. “Do you want to watch a movie? Or finish season three ofThe Witcher? I was rewatchingBridgerton, but I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“I’m game forBridgertonif you want to keep watching it.” Philip says it just a little too casually. The moment I press play, I realize why—this is not the same episode I was on the other night. Glancing at the guilty party beside me, I stifle a snort at his pink-tinged cheeks while he carefully avoids making eye contact. I nudge him with my shoulder and settle in to rewatch season two.

I’m hyperaware of his shoulder occasionally bumping mine, and the way his thigh presses against me when he leans forward to set the remote down on the coffee table in front of us. All things that have happened a million times before, but now I have Sarah’s words echoing in my head.

I don’t use him as an excuse not to date, do I?

I’m only half watching the show as I puzzle it over. Sure, a few guys have asked me out over the last few years, but I wasn’t interested in them enough to make the time for a date. I was taking fifteen graduate credit hours, plus writing my thesisand working at the coffee shop, so where was there time for a boyfriend? I’ve been a graduate for less than forty-eight hours. Surely no one was expecting me to run out and get a boyfriend the moment I crossed that stage? Is it too much to ask for stability in one part of my life while everything else is changing?

Having to start my career, convince my family I’m not moving back to Seattle, and get ready for my new niece or nephew to arrive is enough to deal with, right?

What Philip and I have is perfect. We keep each other company when our friends drag us out, and if I’m ever lonely—which I’m not—I know I can count on him or Cassie to come over or meet up for a drink. All without the pressure of being a girlfriend. No one expects me to do his laundry, cook for him, clean up after him, or take care of him when he’s sick.

Reassured, I settle back into the couch and focus on the TV, stuffing my face with the delicious dinnerhehad ready when I came home from work.

“Are you alright?” Philip asks as I set my plate down, empty of everything except a stray piece of lettuce.

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