My dog has diabetes. I thought the vet was joking when he told me this. My perfect Skippy can’t have diabetes. But he does. And he will need insulin injections for the rest of his life. My poor Skip.

After spending two nights in the animal hospital, and after waiting patiently for me to receive a thirty-minute lesson on how to test his blood glucose and give him an insulin shot, Skippy was ready to come home. The moment he climbs into my twelve-year-old Toyota, his tail wags relentlessly and he whines for me to open the window.

“Settle down, Skip. We’ll be home soon.”

I roll the passenger window all the way down and he grins as he juts his head out. He closes his eyes, panting heavily as the sun warms his face. I love him so much. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost him.

My phone vibrates in my pocket and I slip it out to check the number. I don’t recognize it so I hit the red button to decline the call, then I drive home.

The streets of Portland are lively with the trappings of summer. Outdoor patios at cafés are bustling. Bicyclists swish by when I’m stopped in traffic. Protestors are picketing in their shorts and tank tops outside the Justice Center. The air blasting through my car window smells like hot concrete and there are few clouds in the sky, but the threat of rain is always present.

I moved to Portland after I graduated from UO. It seemed like the logical next step. I was born and raised in McMinnville, about an hour’s drive from Portland. Even after the population doubled, McMinnville is still the kind of small town that is too spread out to have a true small-town feel. Don’t get me wrong, everyone knows everyone’s business in McMinnville, but there’s still a disjointed quality to the town that never sat right with me. As if the town had been planned by someone with attachment issues.

Hallie and Houston moved to McMinnville the summer before we began middle school and Houston began high school. Looking back, it seemed like a logical time for them to move, I suppose. Their parents had just divorced and their mom, Ava, wanted to start fresh. Their father had been having an affair for years and Ava couldn’t seem to escape all the people who had kept it a secret from her.

This must have affected Houston, knowing that his father was the one who had betrayed his mother for so long and still she was the one who’d had to move away to escape the memories. I often wonder if Houston was cheating on me while we were together, which is why he insisted I keep the apartment out of some misplaced sense of guilt. So he wouldn’t feel like a total bastard like his father. But I think the truth about why Houston left is much worse.

The truth is, Houston probably never loved me.

It took a near-miss with a wedding proposal to jolt the truth out of him. As painful as it is to know I spent so many years of my life loving someone who was incapable of loving me back, I’m still grateful for the months I spent curled up next to him, wrapped in his arms. Even if it was all a lie, those were still the best moments of my life.

Skippy and I are settled on the sofa, ready to spend Friday night catching up on the past few episodes of The Good Wife. I flinch a little when my phone buzzes. I snatch it off the coffee table and Skip and I both look at the screen. It’s the same unknown number that called me earlier.

“Should I answer?” I ask the dog and he looks up at me, his brow furrowed, wondering when I’m going to make the stupid thing stop buzzing.

I sigh as I hit the green button. “Hello?”

“Rory, it’s Houston. Do you have a minute?”

My first instinct is to hang up. I can’t talk to Houston on the phone. He’s married.

“Houston, what are you doing?” I whisper, as if his wife is sitting next to me. “You can’t call me. How did you even get my number? Forget it. I don’t care how you got it. Just don’t call me.”

The last thing I hear as I hang up is Houston calling my name. I stare at the phone for a second, expecting him to call back. Foolishly wishing he’d call back. Then I hug my knees to my chest as I wonder what he could have possibly been calling about.

Skip breaks me out of my trance by stuffing his snout under my armpit. I laugh as I push his head back. “Is that a hint? Are you saying I need a shower?”

I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on the coffee table so he can lay his head on my lap, then I turn on the TV and try not to think about Houston. But, at this point, trying not to think about him is like trying not to breathe.

After he drove me to my apartment two days ago, I was on high alert at the store. As I bagged groceries and punched in product codes, I’d glance over my shoulder at the sliding doors, watching the customers as they came and went. I don’t know if I was more afraid or excited at the prospect of seeing him. All I know is that I didn’t want to be caught unaware again. But he never came back to the store after his meeting with Jamie on Wednesday. And I’ve been too afraid to ask Jamie whether or not their meeting went well. I don’t want to show too much interest in this wine bar project as I have no intention of telling Jamie that Houston and I have a past.

An hour later, I have no idea what happened in that episode of The Good Wife. I may as well just take a shower and go to bed. I clip on Skip’s leash so I can take him outside to do his business before I give him his insulin. When I exit the front entrance of the apartment building, my stomach flips at the sight of a white SUV parked next to the curb.

An Asian woman climbs down from the passenger side and waves at the driver. I squint through the darkness and, through the glare on the windshield, I can barely make out another woman in the driver’s seat. Letting out a soft sigh, I lead Skip around to the back of the building where there’s a small greenway for him to do his duty.

I clean up after him with a biodegradable waste bag and toss the bag into the receptacle at the end of the greenway marked “Doggy Bags.” I round the corner to the front of the building and the SUV is back. I never noticed how many people in this complex have white SUVs, though I suppose I’ll probably start noticing them everywhere now. That’s the way these things work. After Houston and I broke up, my heart would stop every time I saw a gray Chevy truck.

Of course, I wasn’t really afraid of running into him then. Houston had moved to Portland right after graduation, less than one week after we broke up. It was my memories of him I was afraid of.

“Rory.”

I jump at the sound of his voice. Whipping my head around, I catch Houston entering the lobby behind me.

“You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” he says with a smile that’s sexy enough to stop my heart.

My cheeks get hot and this makes me irrationally angry. “Go home, Houston.”

“Nice to see you, too,” he replies, following me to the elevator. “I need to talk to you. We need to talk.”

I punch the elevator call button and look up at him. “We didn’t speak for five years and we did just fine.”

The elevator doors open and I roll my eyes as he steps in after me. I coil Skippy’s leash around my hand to pull him closer. Houston smiles as the dog licks the back of his hand.

“Hey, buddy. You feeling better?” he says as he scratches Skip behind the ear.

Skip pulls on the leash as he tries to get closer to Houston, but I maintain a tight grip.

“You can’t get to me through my dog.”

“I’m not trying to get to you. I just need to talk.”

He kneels down and laughs as Skippy laps at his jaw, and for a moment all I can remember is the raw feeling I used to get from hours of kissing Houston. He used to refer to his scruff as a “free exfoliating treatment.” I turn away so I don’t have to see Houston kneeling down before me, scratching Skippy’s throat. So I don’t have to wonder if that’s what he looked like when he proposed to his wife, supplicating and still so damn happy.

I never understood the tradition of a man kneeling before a woman and begging her to marry him. Which is why I also got down on my knees when I thought Houston was going to propose to me. I wanted him to know he didn’t need to beg me to be with him. I was already his.

Houston stands as the elevator doors slide open. “I need to talk to you about the work situation,” he says as he follows me out. “I got the contract, but I want to make sure you’re okay with this before I sign it.”

“You want to know if I’ll be okay working with you?”

I slide the key into the doorknob and Houston places his hand over mine to stop me from turning the knob. “I can’t go in there with you. Please stay out here until we’re done talking.”

I shake his hand off and turn around to face him. “There’s nothing to talk about. You have to sign the contract. The way I feel about working with you shouldn’t matter.”

“But it does matter. I don’t want to upset you. You were there first.”

I can’t help but laugh. “So this is a territorial thing? You think because I was there first that I have some sort of right to keep you out?”

His left eyebrow shoots up the way it always does when he’s confused, and it nearly renders me mute.

I shake my head to clear the momentary distraction. “Houston, if I didn’t work there you wouldn’t think twice about signing that contract. So that’s what you should do. Just… please stop making this into something it isn’t. We hardly know each other anymore, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

He swallows hard as he lets this sink in. “I guess you’re right. I’m sorry I bothered you. I only wanted to… Never mind. I’ll get going. I have to get up early to go sign that contract. Not that you care.”

He shakes his head in disappointment as he walks away and I’m glad I don’t have anything solid in my hand other than Skippy’s leash or I might throw it at the back of his head. So I’m the one who doesn’t care? Ugh. Typical Houston and his endless psychological games.

Maybe I should have told him to walk away from the contract, but that would have meant admitting that he still has this much power over me. It also would have been the truth, and the truth has never gotten me into trouble. In fact, the truth is something my previous relationship with Houston was sorely lacking.

Nevertheless, I don’t need to right the wrongs we made while we were together. I don’t need to tell Houston that the sight of him makes my throat dry and my stomach flutter. He doesn’t need to know that I still go to sleep with scenes from our life together playing on repeat in my mind. Or that sometimes I wake with his name tumbling from my lips, the remnants of dreams where he never left and nightmares where he hovers just out of reach.

Before Wednesday, the last time I had seen Houston was the day after he met me at the Planned Parenthood clinic. I didn’t ask him to come, and I don’t know how he found out the date and time of my appointment, but he was there when we pulled into the parking lot. Lisa, a girl from my Social Inequality class whom I’d had coffee with a couple of times, had graciously agreed to take me to the clinic. The moment we pulled into the lot and I saw Houston leaning against his truck, I knew I had to send Lisa home. He would insist on driving me back to the apartment after the procedure, to watch over me.

It was the last thing I wanted, to have Houston doting over me after terminating the pregnancy. But it was also the only thing I wanted. It was as if he was performing the last rites on our dead relationship.

It took me a while to wake up after the D&C. I didn’t want to be conscious while they did it, so I opted for a sedative in addition to the local anesthesia. The nurse pushed me out the back door of the clinic in a wheelchair all the way to Houston’s truck. He scooped me up out of the chair and gently placed me in the passenger seat as if I weighed nothing. I closed my eyes and pretended not to feel it when he kissed my forehead before turning the key in the ignition.

I head into my apartment and hang up Skippy’s leash inside the coat closet. As I’m getting undressed to get into the shower, my phone lets out a short buzz. I’m almost afraid to look at it, but it could be my mom. She loves texting me. She thinks it makes her a “hipster.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the words on the screen in a daze. Is this how mature adults behave when they’re confronted with the painful memories of a past relationship? Should I be trying to sabotage his contract? Is that what he expected me to do?

I take a deep breath and let it out as I begin typing my response.

My index finger hovers over the send button. As much as I want to be honest with Houston, I know I can’t send this message. The window of opportunity for honesty closed the minute he got married, whenever that was.

I delete the words I typed without sending the message, then I delete Houston’s text message to me and his phone number from my call history. Hey, Houston, how does it feel to be erased? Again.