Page 5 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

Chris blinks in surprise.

“I mean, that’s notwhyI moved in...”

“That’s what you just said.”

“No, that’s whatmy momsaid. I moved in because we’ve been together for ten years.”

“That’s... not a great reason either.”

I can’t put my finger on why, but he seems almost... happy when he says that?

I pause. “Are we fighting? Are you mad because I showed everybody your penis?”

“This is not about my penis,” Chris says firmly. After a second, during which I suspect we are both thinking about his penis, he sighs and is quiet for a really long time.

He isn’t looking at me.

Wait, whatisthis?

Oh shit, I know this Chris. This is the Chris who hates confrontation. He literally freezes and cannot speak.

Don’t help him don’t help him don’t help—

“What are you trying to say?” I ask quietly.

Dammit, Mo.

“I just—” He freezes again. He takes a deep breath, and then he fucking says it. “I just wonder if we’re together for the right reasons.”

What do yousayto that? “But we’ve always been together.”

He runs a hand through his really nice hair and shrugs. “I hope we can be friends.”

Friends?

My ribs start to close in on me again. I snatch the paper bag from him, but we’re both holding on too tight, and it rips before I can hyperventilate into it. I half-heartedly crumple my piece up and feel it drop from my hand. This cannot be happening.

“Can’t we be togetherandbe friends? Like at the same time?” My voice is going up into the stratosphere, like I’ve sucked on helium, like I’m the balloon that can pull us out of this mess.

He doesn’t answer.

“Did you coffee table me out ofpity?” My voice echoes off the expensive tile.

And he can’t look me in the eye. He’s staring intently at the sink, then at the daddy longlegs in the corner, then in the mirror for moral support. “Breakup sex is totally normal,” he says in an infuriating doctor voice, as if a doctor would ever say that.

“That was not breakup sex, Chris. It’s only breakup sex ifboth people know it’s breakup sex.Otherwise it’s just sex with really shitty timing!”

“I’m sorry, Mo,” he says, and I want to shove the entire roll of toilet paper in his mouth before he can finish the sentence.

But I don’t.

And he does.

“I think we should... take a time-out.”

Chris can’t bring himself to kick me out of what is now very clearly HIS condo. He shrugs sheepishly in the direction of the nice microsuede couch we’ve never had sex on, as though I should consider sleeping on it, and I almost throw up.

In approximately thirty-seven seconds, I throw some clean underwear and a couple of T-shirts in a duffel bag, all while blowing through an entire box of tissues.