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myself—that this is a game, and we can’t cross that line because we aren’t going to be married once this show ends. All I can think of right now is, Why couldn’t we have met outside this show?
    I follow her outside and start taking in everything around me. There are three stations set up, each with our names. Joey steps behind Joshua and Joey Wilson and my heart stops beating for a moment. Seeing my name like that, tied with hers, makes me anxious, in a good way. It also makes me nervous that I like seeing our names together. Marriage isn’t for me, at least it shouldn’t be. I don’t have any good examples to follow.
    Joey slips an apron over my neck, and I stop her from tying it behind my back. I’m barely holding on to the resolve I have now. I don’t need an excuse to touch her. I’ll be making plenty of those later.
    I step in behind Joey and she slightly steps back, erasing the gap between us. Her neck is at the right height, allowing me to get a good dose of her perfume. It’s stronger than I remember.
    “When did you put on more perfume?”
    “In the bathroom when I changed. I wanted to smell good.”
    “Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
    “What?”
    I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “You smell nice, Joey.”
    “Newlyweds, it’s time to play ‘Name That Pie’. I’m going to show you a series of ingredients for a certain pie and the first one to chime in with the correct answer scores a point. The first team to seven wins the master suite for the week. Are you ready to see how domesticated you are?”
    “Yes, Patrick,” we say in unison.
    “Remember, let someone win,” I remind Joey. She doesn’t acknowledge me, giving me the impression that she’s as stubborn as I am.
    The first ingredient appears: Celery.
    I cringe. “Who puts celery in pie?”
    “Potpie, haven’t you ever had one?” she chides me.
    “No, can’t say I have.”
    “I’ll make you one.”
    No, you won’t, I want to say, but my stomach growls, and now I’m really looking forward to having a potpie with Joey.
    The next ingredient appears: Carrots
    “I know this,” she says.
    I set my hand on her hip and apply a little pressure. “Let them win.”
    She nods and writes something on the board and chimes in.
    “What’s your answer, Joey?” Patrick calls out over the loud speaker.
    “Mushroom Pot Pie.”
    “That is incorrect. You and Joshua are out of this round.”
    “That was brilliant,” I whisper into her skin. She reacts, unwillingly I’m sure, as her skin pebbles under my touch. She nods and tries to step away from me, but I hang on, not allowing her to move.
    I’m lost on all things Joey right now, and it’s only when I see Cole and Millie being congratulated do I realize we’ve lost and the game is over. Cole looks excited and Millie looks nervous. I don’t blame either of them. Millie is a pretty woman, but she doesn’t hold a candle to Joey.
    Holy shit, what the hell is wrong with me? I need to stop thinking like that. She’s a friend … just a friend.

I have never felt so much anger toward anyone that I can imagine his or her head exploding until now. Visions of my mother’s head popping off and bursting like a watermelon appear each time I close my eyes. Not even when I found Tony and my former best friend slash maid of honor playing doctor, did I feel this much anger. How can a mother do this to her daughter? I know she had no idea that I’d be paired with my celebrity crush—the man I have imagined doing wicked things to—that Joshua Wilson would end up being my husband. I’m sure she’s sitting at home just waiting for the scenes to play out where Joshua Freaking Wilson and I fall madly in love and have wild and crazy monkey sex.
    Sorry, Mom, it’s never going to happen, and why? Because my “husband” doesn’t want to have anything to do with me, that’s why. Yet, he continues to touch me and each touch sends the most glorious chills down my spine. Each touch is