“This is literally the middle of nowhere,” I say, as I take in the small corner store with the attached beauty salon/hardware store combo.

“I know, it’s perfect,” Roman responds. He points toward a small road up ahead. “Here, turn on this street.”

I take the turn and do my best to ignore the sinking pit of dread in my stomach. As we get closer, I can feel Roman grow more and more excited. He’s eager to see her, his girlfriend. Shakira.

I try to convince myself I don’t care. But the idea of spending even a week with a lovesick Roman and his girlfriend is killing me. As much as I try to bury my feelings, it’s painfully obvious that I’m nowhere near over Roman. And the last thing I want to do is meet the gorgeous new woman in his life, who likely eclipses me in every way. No way am I going to subject myself to that kind of torture. If I wanted to make myself that miserable, all I would need to do is log on to Google and run a quick search for “Daphni Monroe + love handles.” No, thank you.

My plan is to call Melissa the first second I can sneak away and come up with an exit strategy. If there was anything Melissa excelled at, it was getting me out of things I didn’t want to do. She could make me disappear in minutes with the craftiest of excuses. That alone made her worth every penny.

“It’s here. This street. All the way down, last house on the left,” Roman directs, interrupting my thoughts.

Reluctantly, I drive down the rock and seashell driveway. When Roman had suggested we come here to lay low, I had wondered if it was the best idea. This was the very house where Roman and I had first made love nine years ago. He had pilfered the key from his parents, and we had driven up here on a long weekend. We had been dating for a few weeks, and the whole ride down, my body had been humming with a nervous energy over what was to come. He had been my first, and it had been everything I had ever hoped it would be. Too good. He had ruined me for any other man. And now, being back here, I feel like a nervous teenager all over again. Except he’s not here to be with me. He’s here to see his girlfriend. The one he had apparently had now for two years. Had he told her that he loved her? Did he make love with her in the same bed? Though the answers were painfully obvious, it still hurt to accept.

As we near the house, Roman reaches across and honks the horn twice. At the sound, a man around our age and a beautiful bouncing dog, easily 150 pounds, come barreling down the stairs. Roman jumps out of the car and, guarding his stitches with his hand, kneels down to hug the dog, who whimpers as she licks his face. I cautiously step out of the car and once the dog sees me, it comes racing toward me next. Roman whistles at the dog. “Slow down there, girl!”

She obeys and slowly approaches me. I kneel down in front of her and let her lick my hand. “Hey girl,” I say as I pet her soft, dark fur.

I follow Roman toward the house. The dog faithfully trails behind Roman, her tail swinging so quickly I’m worried it might snap off. I keep my hands at my sides as I look around, waiting for the mysterious Shakira to appear.

Roman shakes the man’s hand, a smile on his face as he greets him. “Thanks so much for helping me out and watching the house while I was gone.” He affectionately pets the dog next to him. “How was she?”

“Aw, she’s the best girl in the whole world. But she missed her daddy.” The man kneels down and playfully slaps the dog’s butt. “Didn’t you, Shakira?”

I stop in my tracks. Did he just call the dog Shakira?

My eyes dart to Roman, who looks over at me, a guilty smile on his face. He waves goodbye to his friend and calls his dog—Shakira—to follow him into the house.

Still glued to my spot, I regain my senses and jog after him.

“Shakira?” I ask, when I catch up to him.

“What?” he asks.

“Shakira. Your girlfriend, Shakira. She’s your dog?” I rush out, annoyed at him for being so flippant.

“Gross, Shakira is not my girlfriend. She’s my baby girl,” he says, as he claps his hands on his chest, prompting Shakira to jump up, press her paws against his chest, and lick Roman’s face. He wraps his arms around her, an expression of pure bliss on his face.

I watch their little love-fest, my mouth gaping. “Okay, first of all, that dog easily weighs more than me. She is not a baby. And most importantly, did you make up having a girlfriend?”

Roman disentangles himself from Shakira as he walks up the stairs to the porch and toward the front door. “Maybe,” he blithely responds. He keeps his hand on Shakira, stroking her fur as they walk into the house. "Don't worry, though, Shak—no woman will ever replace you."

Shakira lets out a sharp, quick bark, earning herself a wide grin from Roman, who beams down on her like she just discovered the goddamn cure for cancer.

I follow them inside, surprised by how little the house has changed. Evidence of Annette's decorating is still sprinkled throughout the house: the set of penguin Russian nesting dolls, the hand-stitched pillows on the couch, and the paint-by-numbers paintings elegantly hung throughout the interior. It's quirky, but every bit Annette.

"Roman!" I shout after he continues to wander around the house and into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.

He turns to look at me, the glass of water in his hands. "Yes Daphni?"

I gape at him and then look down at Shakira, still by his side. "Shakira?"

At the sound of her name, Shakira's big ears pop up and Roman smiles. "Yes, Shakira," he confirms.

I roll my eyes in annoyance. "Yes, Shakira!" I huff out. "Shakira—your girlfriend?" I drop down onto the empty barstool at the long counter. "Why would you make up a girlfriend?"

Roman takes an irritatingly long sip of water before responding. “You were all hot and heavy for me, so I needed to put a stop to it.”

My mouth drops open and I narrow my eyes at him in annoyance. “Ew, gross. I was not ‘hot and heavy’ for you. And you felt the need to make up a girlfriend to do that?”

“Well, it worked,” he replies, shrugging nonchalantly.

“You are infuriating,” I grit out.

“Maybe," he responds, shrugging his shoulders again. "But I’m also tired. I’m going in for a nap. Feel free to do whatever. There’s a couple of bedrooms upstairs. Pick whichever one you want.”

Placing his glass on the counter, Roman heads up the stairs. Shakira dutifully follows, her tail still wagging furiously. Well, at least the name suits her, I think, as I watch her wiggle her butt back and forth. I let out a frustrated groan, and I swear I hear Roman chuckling from upstairs.

Truth be told, I'm exhausted as well. So with an annoyed sigh, I follow them up the stairs and, stepping into the first bedroom I find, drop into the soft mattress and fall asleep.