My pasta tastes bland.

The TV show I'm watching is boring as hell.

The next five shows I try to watch are also boring as hell. So is the book I try to read. The only thing I really want to do is sit here clutching my phone staring at my texts and refreshing them every few seconds just in case a message came through from Cannon that I didn't see yet.

But of course, that's pathetic. So I can't let myself do that. So instead, I shut my phone off and shove it under a couch cushion and change the channel yet again, hoping against hope that maybe one of these damn shows will finally distract me once and for all.

It doesn't. The only image that keeps playing over and over in my head, impossible to drown out no matter how loud I turn up the TV, is the thought of Cannon and Karen. I imagine them at the bar having a perfect date—laughing, chatting, touching one another's arms as they talk. Acting normal together in public in a way he and I never can. Shooting each other longing gazes over the rims of their cocktails as they chat about something mundane.

Or maybe not something mundane. Maybe something sexy as hell. Maybe they're flirting right now, and she's running her foot up the inside of his leg, suggesting they go back to her place. Or maybe they're already in the cab, and she's all over him, sitting in his lap, kissing him, tongue down his throat as she straddles him.

Maybe they make it back to her place and he's throwing her against the door of the apartment the way he did to me one time last week, pinning her hands over her head as they kiss, and sliding his hand down the front of her skirt. Maybe he's spread-eagling her across the couch and going down on her. Or maybe she has her head between his legs and she's sucking his cock, better than me, making him cry out in pleasure.

Maybe he's realizing at this very moment how tedious it is to hook up with me again and again. Maybe he's savoring the chance to have someone new, someone more interesting, someone he hasn't claimed yet.

Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up alone in this suddenly too big and too empty apartment, all too aware of the fact that he doesn't give a damn about me, doesn't care about me as anything more than the next fuck, just like this girl he's hooking up with at the bar right now.

My stomach coils into such a tight knot that I fear it will never recover. Against my better judgment, I turn my phone back on. Check my messages.

No new messages.

Of course not. Because he's out there with her somewhere, having the night of his life. A night away from me and all the clingy, too-heavy emotional baggage that comes with continually hooking up with your roommate, your coworker, the crazy woman who asked you to impregnate her with no strings attached.

I feel sick.

That's when the elevator dings.

I sit up straight, my gaze shooting to the light above the elevator that just began to glow in the foyer. Cannon's back. But will he be alone?

I can't stand the tension. Can't stand sitting here to watch. So I flick off the TV, grab my cell, and speed-walk back toward my bedroom. I slam the door just as I hear the elevator ding open on our floor, spilling open, revealing the people inside. I brace myself for the worst—to hear a girlish giggle or the sound of Cannon and this anonymous date sucking face.

Instead, all I hear is his steady, deep baritone voice calling out.

"Rina?"

I hesitate. Glance at my closed door. Hover next to it for a second, listening. But I don't hear anything else. No clack of heeled footsteps, no second voice in the living room.

Hesitantly, I turn the knob and swing the door open. I pretend to rub sleep from my eyes, faking that I'd been asleep. It's only 10PM, but I have had a long night, after all. A long night of driving myself crazy imagining all the worst scenarios possible.

But I walk out into the living room to find Cannon thankfully, blissfully, alone.

It takes every ounce of self control I have not to let the sudden flood of relief that flies through me show on my face. "Hey," I say, hoping my voice sounds steady, normal. "You're home early."

His expression looks the same way that it did earlier today in the office when I told him he should go on the double date Chris proposed. He looks wary, hesitant, careful, in a way that I'm not used to seeing from him. Not lately. Not ever, actually—even before we complicated things between us by having sex, we never hid things from one another. Not like this. "Got tired," he says, and fakes a yawn. I can tell it's fake, because he doesn't stretch his arms over his head the way he always does when he yawns. Instead he stifles it with one hand and then heads past me toward the kitchen.

"Date didn't go well then?" I ask. I can't help it. And I also can't disguise the way my voice shoots up a level when I do ask.

Damn it.

“Oh, you know, nothing serious.”

“Your favorite kind of date,” I point out.

He laughs, and my stomach sinks. Was he into her? Does he want her because it’s less complicated? “You know my MO too well,” he replies, and that doesn’t help my overactive nerves.

What does she have that I don’t?

Or is it just that she’s the next new thing? The one he hasn’t had yet? I think about my ex. The way he dumped me from sheer boredom, after all our time together. I steel myself for the worst. “That the only update?” I push.

"If you're asking about Chris and Lacy, I'd say that's going perfectly. They're actually really compatible I think."

"Yeah." I allow a small smile to creep onto my face. "I agree. Who would have thought? Lacy always swore she’d never date a guy who drinks vodka tonics, watches basketball or messes around at work. Now she’s hooked the trifecta.”

Cannon snorts. “Well Chris always claimed he wouldn’t date a woman who could beat him at pool or curse more proficiently than him, either. Yet against all odds, I think he actually likes Lacy.”

"Fingers crossed,” I agree.

He catches my eye. Holds it. "Guess you never know who you’ll click with, huh?”

My heart skips. Stutters. Does he mean me? Or is he talking about the girl he met tonight? I want to ask. Every fiber of my being screams to know. But I’m afraid. Afraid of what the answer might be.

Besides. NSA. We agreed. That means he’s free to date whomever he wants. Free to feel whatever he wants for anyone he desires. “Guess not,” I murmur, and push myself toward the kitchen to start making a cup of tea before bed.

"Right," he echoes. Keeps that steady, narrowed gaze pinned on me. His mouth parts again, as though he's going to say something more. Explain. Instead, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. The motion makes the edge of his shirt lift up, and I can't help myself—I cast a quick glance at his abs where they peek through between the hem of his shirt and his jeans, slung low on his hips.

Then he walks past me in the kitchen, toward the door to his bedroom. "I'm pretty beat though. Long day."

"Yeah," I echo.

On the threshold of his bedroom, he pauses. Part of me thinks—hopes—that maybe he'll ask me inside. Instead he just catches my eye. "Next week you start to ovulate again, right?"

I swallow hard. "Friday, yeah."

"Great. Well, I'll see you then for sure," he says. "Sleep tight, Rina." On that note, he swings his door open, then shut after him.

I'm left staring at the wooden panel, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to take from that.