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“Hello?” he asked again.
“Pete,” I ventured, “is someone hitting you with pillows… or sofa cushions?”
“What?” he asked, sounding shocked.
“I can tell what’s going on,” I said, tears welling in my throat. “I’m an interior designer. I know what pillows and cushions sound like.”
There was a long pause. I thought perhaps he was going to chicken out and just hang up on me, but then I heard his muffled side of a conversation: “Krissie, give me a minute, okay? One minute,” and he was back. “Sorry about that,” he said. I heard the sound of a door close. “Okay, I can talk now. How’s it going?”
“What happened? I thought we were great,” I said. I tried to hide the fact that I was crying, but it was impossible. I did my best to keep from hiccupping and snorting.
“We were great, Emma.”
“Were great? That’s the past tense. Are we over, Pete? Tell me we’re not over.”
“We are great. I mean, when we’re tog
ether, we’re great. It’s just…”
“It’s just what? What went wrong?” I asked.
“Are you kidding?”
“Why would you ask me that? This is serious,” I said.
“Emma, in my defense, you went on a game show to find love and get married. You’ve been gone for almost two months. I’ve only heard from you once in all this time. Are you going to end up married to that guy?”
“No way! I’m just in it for the jewelry!”
“Okay. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
“Are you the moral police now? Because that might be a little hypocritical.”
“Are you ever coming home?”
“I just got here.”
“You’ve been gone two months.”
“Has it really been two months? That seems impossible. You must mean two weeks.”
“No. I mean two months.”
“I thought you’d wait for me.”
“I waited for a month and half. But I can’t wait forever.”
“Can’t wait or won’t wait?”
“It’s up to you how this goes. At least you’ve still got that going for you. That might not be the case if you’re gone for another two months.”
“I feel like you’re turning this around on me and making it all my fault,” I said.
“If you ever come home, I’m all yours. Until then, I have a pillow fight to continue with. See you around.”
“This conversation isn’t over,” I said, “and if you think you’re going through with that pillow fight, you are wrong.”
“I’m leaving, Emma. Good luck deciding who you want.”
