“No Corey?”

“He’s working late,” I mutter, unable to hide my annoyance. He wants to hook up on Saturday, though. So we can “de-stress,” his latest text said. That’s code for “get laid.” Normally, a message like that wouldn’t bother me. But today is different. Today, it bothers me. The fact that he can’t even spare ten minutes to call and make sure I’m okay after getting the axe is a growing thorn in my thoughts. When did he become so focused on his career, in his bid for promotion, that I became a clear runner-up?

And how hadn’t I noticed it sooner?

Simon’s mouth curves into a frown. “I saw that photograph in the rubbish. The one of you two from last summer.”

“It got mangled when the box broke.”

“It’s a nice picture.”

“Yeah.” It was taken last June at my friend Talia’s cottage on Lake Joe, the same cottage where Corey and I had met a month before when he was visiting a friend’s place three doors down for the long May weekend. We crossed paths on kayaks early that Saturday morning, in a quiet part of an otherwise bustling lake, slowing to float beside each other and exchange “gonna be a great day!” pleasantries. It was his silky blond curls that caught my attention; it was his mesmerizing smile and easygoing laugh that held it. I was even more thrilled when I found out he lived in High Park and worked only eight minutes away from my office.

By the time we paddled back to our respective shores side by side, we’d made plans to meet up for lunch. By the time the bonfire in Talia’s pit was burning that night, we were playfully smearing melted marshmallow across each other’s lips.

In the picture, we’re sitting on a pile of craggy gray rocks that creep out into the lake. Hundred-year-old pine trees tower in the background. Corey’s long, lanky arms are wrapped around my shoulders and we’re both smiling wide, completely enamored with each other. That was back when we saw each other at least four times a week, when we’d make all our plans based around each other’s schedules, when he responded to my texts with cheesy quips within thirty seconds of me hitting Send, and he’d order flowers from my mom’s florist shop every week and have her put them by my bedside table—which solidified her adoration for him almost instantly. Back when I had to push him away—giggling, of course—as he stole another last kiss, no matter who was watching.

But somewhere along the line, things have changed. The flowers don’t come every week anymore; the text responses sometimes take hours. And the kisses only come as a prelude to more.

Maybe we’ve just grown comfortable in our relationship.

Maybe too comfortable.

Maybe Corey and I need to sit down and have a talk.

I push that thought aside for another day. “I can always print another one.”

Simon looks at me again, his narrow face hinting at mild concern. He adores Corey, too, possibly more than my mother does. Then again, they’ve always welcomed my boyfriends and there have been more than a few coming through our front door over the years.

Corey is the easiest to like, though. He’s intelligent, soft--spoken, and easygoing. The corners of his soft hazel-green eyes crinkle with his laugh, and he is a master at giving you his undivided attention. He cares what other people think of him, but in a good way, a way that holds his tongue even when he’s angry, to avoid saying things he’ll later regret. He has always treated me well—never uttering a word of complaint when I hand him my purse to free my hands, holding the door for me to pass through, offering to stand at crowded bars to get my drink. A true gentleman. And he’s hot.

What parents wouldn’t want their daughter to be with a guy like Corey?

And why, as I stand here mentally going through Corey’s best attributes, do I feel like I’m convincing myself of them?

“Well . . . Guard your drinks and stay together,” Simon murmurs.

“I will. Kiss Mom good night for me.” With the wedding season in high gear, she’s already fast asleep, needing her rest before an early-morning rise to finish this weekend’s bridal bouquets.

I make it all the way to the front door before Simon calls out, “Don’t forget to take the rubbish to the curb.”

My head falls back with my groan. “I’ll do it when I get home.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?” he asks lightly. Knowing full well that the last thing I’ll be doing when I stumble up the steps at three A.M. is hauling the medley of garbage, recycling, and composting bins to the curb.

I open my mouth, about to plead for my stepdad to do it for me, just this once . . .

“Putting out the rubbish once a week as your only contribution to this household seems like a good substitute for paying rent and utilities, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes,” I mutter. Because it’s true. We have a housekeeper come twice a week to clean and run laundry. Mom has our weekly groceries dropped at our door and ready-made dinners delivered from an organic, grain-fed, hormone-free, gluten-free, dairy-free kitchen, so I rarely have to shop or cook. And I always slide my blouses and dresses into the pile when Simon takes his sweater vests and pleated pants in for dry cleaning.

I’m a twenty-six-year-old woman with no debt, who has been living on her parents’ dime despite earning a decent salary for the past four years, without a complaint from either of them because they love having me here and I love the lifestyle I can afford by living at home. So, yes, the least I can do is put out our “rubbish” once a week.