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And maybe on her.
Just a quick text to make sure she’s okay in this storm.
But no. That will seem odd since I haven’t contacted her since Sunday. At this point, I owe her an explanation, if not an apology, for my disappearance. Not that I’m going to tell her about the private battle I’ve been fighting; work will suffice as an excuse. And to further smooth over any ruffled feathers, I’m going to ask her out to dinner that same night, so we can pick up where we left off.
All of this once she returns from Florida, naturally. I have to go at least a week without her, to make sure that I can.
To keep myself from doing something stupid, I dive into my pool and do three dozen laps. Then I shower and head into my kitchen to grab lunch, noticing as I pass by the window that the snowfall has stopped and the snowplows are out in full force.
That’s good. Hopefully, that means they’ll restore power to those neighborhoods that lost it soon. Especially if Emma—
Stop. Don’t fucking think about her.
Opening the fridge, I take out a tuna salad sandwich and sit down at the bar to eat it. As I chew, I glance at the microwave clock.
11:43 a.m.
Emma is definitely awake by now.
Dammit. I really can’t control myself, can I? If I’m going to be spending that much time thinking about her, I might as well be with her.
I pause, a half-eaten sandwich in my hand as I process that thought. Maybe I’ve been going about it all wrong. Maybe by trying not to think about Emma, I’ve been ensuring that she’s at the forefront of my mind. It’s like the classic “white bear” experiment in psych class: If you’re told not to think about a white bear for a specific period of time, it’s going to be the only thing occupying your thoughts.
Yes, of course, that’s it. I should’ve seen it before.
Emma is my white bear.
By trying to resist my addiction to her, I’ve been making it infinitely worse.
What I need is the complete opposite approach—to gorge myself on her. Not the way I went about it this weekend, to the point of neglecting my work, but in a more controlled manner. And I know exactly how to make it happen.
I have to get her to move in with me.
The solution is so glaringly obvious I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me earlier. It’s pretty much Economics 101. The problem right now is that Emma is a scarce resource. With her living in Brooklyn and not wanting to leave her cats alone for long, I simply can’t get enough of her in the limited time we have together. No wonder I dropped the ball at work this past weekend: with her leaving for the trip and refusing to spend two nights in a row at my place, it was all but inevitable that I’d focus on her to the exclusion of everything else.
Because that’s how scarcity works.
It makes the scarce item extra desirable… practically irresistible.
Of course, living together is a major commitment—which is probably why I didn’t think of this before. Actually, no, I did in a way. My desire for her to be at my place all the time was likely my subconscious proposing this very solution. And the more I think about it, the more I like it.
All the things I want—having her with me every night, seeing her as soon as I get home from work—are going to be so much easier if she’s living in my penthouse. And commitment-wise, it’s not as big of a deal for me as it is for most people. Partially, it’s all the financial logistics that make living together a big step. A dating couple often has to lease or buy a new place, plus cover the moving expenses for one or both individuals. My penthouse, however, is big enough for a family, much less just the two of us, and I can cover Emma’s moving costs with my pocket change. I can also lease another apartment for her if we end up going our separate ways in the future.
The only downside as far as I can see is that the cats will move in too, but it’s a small price to pay for such a neat solution.
Yes, that’s it, I decide, my heartbeat speeding up with dark anticipation. I’m going to finish my lunch, then call her and apologize for my disappearance. Afterward, as soon as the roads are cleared, I’ll have Wilson drive me over to her place, and we’ll talk before she leaves for her flight—or maybe we’ll do so as I give her a ride to the airport, in case she wants to get there early. The trickiest part will be convincing Emma to get over her financial hang-ups, but I have some ideas in that regard.
