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your problem?” Cole had demanded.
    “You’re my problem, dickhead!” I had responded.
    Insults were hurled, frustrations were voiced. And then when our anger had finally abated and when we normally would have run out of things to say to one another and hung up, we actually began to talk.
    Cole started telling me about the concert. He began to share with me what it was like to sing up on stage in front of a crowd that wanted to own him. It was as though he were desperate to share this important part of his life with me.
    His excitement was infectious. It filled me and spilled over. I was happy for him. And that felt so much better than the anger.
    And we had, just like that, fallen into something better than our usual. Because for the first time in the history of our relationship, we were talking to one another. Or Cole was talking and I was listening without wanting to tell him to shut up.
    It was disconcerting how easily it happened. And by the end of the phone call I was in a good mood and more than willing to engage in a boisterous round of phone sex.
    I should be annoyed with how quickly I was turned around by Cole. That despite all of my strong resolve, it was no match for a sexy laugh and a great set of pipes.
    Why did Cole have to make it so damn easy to forget that I wanted to hate him? Why didn’t I have any sort of self-control? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was the cutest doormat in Bakersville, Virginia.
    Gracie nudged me out of the way and started rummaging through my walk in closet. I loved our apartment. It sat on the bottom floor of an old Victorian house in the heart of historic Bakersville. It had been completely renovated before we had moved in and was open, light, and airy.
    My room was painted a soft, pale yellow and had French doors that led out onto a small, stone patio. My large four-poster bed that sat in the middle of the room had been a gift from my parents when I started high school. They had loaded it up with the rest of my bedroom furniture and driven it over four hundred miles from Pennsylvania the weekend Gracie and I had moved in.
    My mother helped me to arrange my room and even had a hand in choosing the tastefully framed artwork that adorned the walls.
    My parents really were wonderful.
    This room screamed Vivian Baily. You only needed to walk through the door to know everything about me. My personality, my passions- they were all there.
    I realized looking at my cream comforter and bright orange throw pillows that Cole had not once in the two years we had been sleeping together been to my apartment. He had never spent the night in my bed, wrapped in the blanket I had purchased for myself when Gracie and I had moved in.
    I had never shown him the pictures of my family and friends from back home. Hell, I don’t think he even knew whether I had siblings.
    And again, just like that, and despite Cole’s funny yet crude text that had made me laugh, I felt hollow.
    “Wear this. You’ll look gorgeous,” Gracie said, holding out a classic grey pencil skirt and blue silk blouse.
    “Wow, I didn’t realize I owned something like this,” I said, taking the clothes from her.
    “They’re Maysie’s. You borrowed them for the wine tasting we went to last year,” Gracie remarked dryly.
    “Oh, well that makes sense,” I said, quickly changing.
    “You really need to do some shopping. Halter tops and hooker shoes won’t cut it at The Claremont Center,” Gracie advised.
    “Maybe we can go after work! Oh, goodie! Retail therapy!” I enthused, clapping my hands together.
    Gracie smiled and nodded. “Sounds great!” she said, just as excited by the idea of shopping as I was.
    “Thanks again, G,” I said with a smile before shooing her out so I could sort out my makeup. It required my total and complete concentration. The perfect blending of foundation and blush was a work of art.
    My phone buzzed again and I saw Cole’s name flash across the screen. It was eight fifteen on a Monday