“You don’t know him,” I gritted out.

“Neither do you.”

I wasn’t proud of what I did next, but it needed to be done. I stormed out of the kitchen and went up to my room, where I slammed the door like a moody teenager and dove headfirst into a sea of fluffy pillows. It took me minutes to finally catch my breath and look up at the pin board wall. At all the backs of all the faceless people I’d taken pictures of.

I’m losing my mind trying to find out what happened. But I will. I will solve this riddle.

Then Roman sent me a text (or maybe it was a sext?) asking for an orange onesie-less picture, so I complied.

At some point, he stopped texting and just called me.

“I needed to hear your voice.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a feeling you were touching yourself, and I would pay good money to listen to that shit.”

“How romantic,” I said, a smile on my face. “You know, sex is not about money.”

“My little grasshopper. Everything is about money. Are you gonna touch yourself?”

“Are you gonna touch yourself?” I taunted.

He was silent for a moment. “I’m a dude, and I’m talking to my girlfriend in the middle of the night. I’ve been playing with my dick like it’s Nintendo for the past ten minutes now.”

I snickered, allowing the conversation to take a very sharp, unexpected turn. Most of the time I wasn’t really sure of what Roman was doing. I simply enjoyed tagging along for the ride. For a while, we just panted, taunted, and described what we were going to do to one another. My whole body was clenched before it loosened with a tsunami of an orgasm.

After that, Roman told me, “Good night, Snowflake.”

“Wait,” I choked on the word, feeling needy, too needy, but then again, he had called me his girlfriend, and my heart was about to burst every time I replayed his voice saying this word. “I can’t fall asleep. That’s why I jog at night. I always have nightmares.”

Another meaningful pause.

“Try. I promise I won’t hang up until I hear your gross snores.”

I fell asleep with my phone pressed against my ear.

When I woke up, the top of the touch screen was still green, and the call was still going.

“Good morning, SnortyPants.”

Neptune.

Dark. Cold. Blue. The ocean seemed morbid at six in the morning. I shuddered in my wetsuit, jogging in place without really feeling my toes. The sand was cold and tight, stretching like canvas beneath my feet, and I felt like I was ruining Roman’s art by being there. We were nearly done with our session. Beck, Edie, and Hale—whom Bane had re-introduced to me as “my real asshole, the source of all the shit in my life”—went on surfing while Roman stayed ashore with me, teaching me how to paddle with my stomach flat against it on the sand. I felt like an idiot. Like I was slowing him down. Then we moved to the water and he stayed by my side. Hale and Beck were laughing and coughing “pussy-whipped” every time we got near them, and Edie smiled at us, shaking her head. I felt bad hating on her for no reason. She was actually pretty cool. Not Gail-cool, but still good people. Not to mention the bump of her lower stomach was unmistakable. She spent her time sitting on her surfboard, letting the first rays of morning sun braid her yellow hair with fresh highlights.

She wasn’t after Roman.

She was after the ocean, nature, and everything it had to give.

After we were done, Roman invited me to take a shower at his place. It was the first time I’d set foot in his houseboat. Small, neat, basic. I knew Roman probably made enough to live in one of the candy-colored condos of the promenade, and I loved that he didn’t. I loved a lot of things about him.

What’s the antonym of hate?

Love. It is love, and maybe I should be the one to say it first.

“I can’t believe your place is so tidy.” I ran a hand over his coffee table, eager to leave a mark. His place was small and old-ish, almost like a sailor’s pad. He stood behind me, dumping his surfing gear by the door.

“Might’ve tidied up for you,” he said around a freshly-rolled joint.

“Might’ve?” I turned around, beaming at him.

“Please let me keep my balls for a little longer, Snowflake. See, I’m kind of attached to them. Also: literally.”

He’d made me laugh more in a few short weeks than I had in three years. I shrugged. “If you behave.”

Before I headed out to the promenade this morning, I’d packed a duffel bag with a change of clothes, knowing my shift started at 9:00 a.m., and I might not have time for a shower. I pulled out burgundy corduroys and a cute tank top the color of my eyes. I’d ransacked my closet earlier this morning to find something that wasn’t emo black hoodies and pants loose enough to fit three clowns and a convertible. I walked over to where I presumed Roman’s shower was, swaying my hips and knowing that he was watching.