“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

“As we discussed during your appointment, if you are going to be sexually active with a partner you’re not feeling overly safe with, then I suggest you use condoms in conjunction with the birth control pill. I’d like to see you in another three months for a checkup and to run the tests again.”

More tests. That means something could still be dormant inside me, waiting to sprout up at the most inopportune time.

Gulping, I twist around to make sure I’m still alone. “Do you think that’s necessary?”

“Given the information you revealed during your appointment, yes, I really do. It’s your choice, of course.”

Her words paint a much prettier picture than the reality of what happened during my appointment. The reveal of information was me having a sobbing, hysterical meltdown with my feet in stirrups and my ass at the edge of a paper-lined exam table. Dr. Green and her nurse were both incredibly sweet and comforting during the exam as I rambled on tearfully about Evan and the bridge and the bending over and the dick sucking. They listened to me with empathetic, non-judgmental smiles. The nurse held my hand as I was spread, scraped, and poked, then gave me a paper cup of ice water and a box of tissues. When I had finally calmed down enough to get dressed, I was given a small plastic bag filled with condom samples and pamphlets about safe sex.

“Well, yeah, but I’ve talked to my boyfriend since then, and he hasn’t had as many partners as I originally thought.”

The word boyfriend feels foreign on my tongue, as if I’m speaking another language or perhaps telling a lie.

“That’s good to hear. I still highly recommend practicing safe sex at all times and a checkup in three months. You can call back to schedule. And if you have any questions in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call me or make an appointment to come see me, all right?”

“I definitely will.”

Relief overpowers me when I hang up the phone, and it’s so overwhelming I actually feel dizzy and sick to my stomach. I grab my water bottle and take a few sips between deep breaths.

“What’s wrong?” Melissa asks, appearing suddenly and dumping a pile of file folders onto my desk. “These are from Anne in accounting.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look weird.”

Ignoring her, I slide the files closer so I can begin to organize them by priority. Melissa can’t take a hint, though, and continues to stare at me until I look back up at her questioningly.

“You know what’s odd, Piper? I could have sworn I saw you the other night, making out with that hippy homeless guy that’s always hanging around downtown, begging for money.”

My jaw clenches as I narrow my eyes at this girl who loves to antagonize me. I knew someday this was bound to happen. Evan and I haven’t exactly always been discrete about public displays of affection.

“Don’t you have work to do, Melissa?”

“Aren’t you even going to deny it?”

That’s when it truly hits me like a brick wall. I’m in love with Evan, and I don’t want to hide or deny it. I refuse to live a lie or cover up my feelings for him just to satisfy other people or to avoid being judged by them.

Love isn’t dictated by what a person does for work or where they live.

“Why should I deny it? He’s sweet, incredibly talented, and hot as hell.”

“He’s homeless, Piper. Are you fucking serious?”

“I am,” I admit casually. “By the way, how’s your fiancé? Is he still unemployed?”

Melissa makes a disgusted face, and I fear she’s going to come right over the top of my desk and murder me here on the spot.

“You’re a bitch,” she seethes. “No wonder you can only get a homeless guy to date you. Nobody else would ever want you.”

I feel guilty as she stomps away in the direction of her cubicle with tears in her eyes, but she instigated me. Saying hurtful words to someone isn’t something I enjoy at all, but as my mom is always telling me, I have to fight back sometimes so people don’t walk all over me. It’s not my fault Melissa is a rude, judgmental bitch who constantly goes out of her way to make me feel bad, so maybe she deserves a jobless fiancé.

Blue usually hears my car pull up in front of the abandoned house every night and waits for me at the shed door, but today when I get there, he’s not standing at the door. Instead, he’s sitting on the floor with his guitar, surrounded by a notebook and scraps of paper. He’s so immersed in scribbling madly with a black crayon that he doesn’t even look up at me.

“Blue?” I say softly.

Without acknowledging me, he rubs his hand across his forehead and plays a few notes, then shakes his head, starts over, shakes his head again, plays a few notes, then bangs his hand on the body of the guitar.

“Fuck!” he yells, reaching for the pack of cigarettes lying next to him. I glance over at Acorn, who’s curled up in the fleece dog bed I bought for him earlier in the week. He was so happy when I gave it to him he wagged his tail and spun around in circles for about fifteen minutes before snuggling into the bed with his cherished penguin.

“Evan.” I take a few steps closer to him. “Are you okay?”

He takes a deep drag on the cigarette and blows smoke up over his head. His eyes are wild, bloodshot with exhaustion, his expression tortured. The handsome smile I love is nowhere to be seen.

“Do I look fucking okay?” He grabs a bottle of vodka from beside him that I somehow didn’t see until now and takes a gulp of it before slamming it back down and picking up the crayon to write more on the tattered notepaper.

My heart sinks like a two-ton rock into my gut. “You’re drinking?”

I kneel in front of him and touch his hand, but he yanks it away as if I burned him.

“I’m trying to write, and I can’t fucking get it. It’s all a mess.” Eyes darting across the page, he shakes his head in frustration and crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it a few feet away with the others.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Maybe you just need to take a break for a few minutes.”

His lip curls up in anger. “I don’t need a break. I need to fucking get this song right.”

“It sounds good, from what I heard,” I say, and that’s the truth. I didn’t hear anything wrong at all with the piece he was playing. It sounded just as awesome as all his other songs.

The face he makes is one of complete disbelief and repulsion. “Don’t pacify me. Are you deaf? It’s pure shit. It’s making my fucking ears bleed.”

I want to tell him how wrong he is, but it’s obvious he’s too far down into the tunnel of his own head to listen to any sort of logic, reason, or honest feedback from me. I don’t understand why this particular song has him so stressed out. I don’t think anyone expects it to sound a specific way.

My worry for him heightens as he presses his fingers into his temples, screws his beautiful eyes shut, then strums a myriad of beautiful notes in tune to the nodding of his head, then mumbles something I can’t understand to himself. Sighing, he scribbles some more onto his paper and repeats the process all over again.

It slowly sinks in as I watch him. He expects it to be a certain way. He must be suffering from a self-imposed artist vision of perfection that’s got him all wound up.

When he goes for the vodka again, I reach out and grab the bottle from his hand just before it reaches his lips.

“Evan… I don’t think you should be drinking this. You told me you had problems with alcohol in the past.”

He glares at me, eyes flickering with flames of anger and defiance. “I told you a lot of things.” He yanks the bottle from my hand, and the liquid sloshes around inside. “Don’t get all AA with me, Piper. Leave me alone or just get the hell out of here. Please.”

The venomous tone and nasty words slice through the comforting smile I had forced onto my face, and I slowly rise to my feet, hoping with all hope an apology will quickly chase away the hurt.

“Fine.” My voice shakes with the start of tears when I’m met with deafening silence. “I’ll leave.”

Chewing my thumbnail, I wait for him to look up at me, to ask me not to leave, to pull me down onto the sleeping bag and kiss me senseless, but he’s completely submerged in the song and whatever notes or lyrics he’s fighting a battle with.

“Are you doing drugs?”

The muscles of his narrow jaw tighten, and his tongue sweeps across his lips as he lifts his head to look at me. “No, I’m not. But thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Evan, that’s not wha—”

“Thought you were leaving.” He turns his attention back to the notepaper, making his feelings very clear.

I grab my purse that’s hanging from one of the hooks that once held a rake, leaving the bag of snacks for him and Acorn on top of the wooden crate we use as a table. I’m still expecting him to stop me when I walk through the door, and I’m sobbing big wet tears and gulping breaths by the time I get into my car and drive away. I swipe my hand across my eyes and peer into the rearview mirror, but the street is still dark and vacant.