Now it is Valentine’s Day and the pressure of love bears down on them. Inside every store window are red cut-outs, pink lights, roses, chocolates. They both find the holiday ridiculous, yet they participate. Jack makes reservations at the local vegetarian restaurant, it’s a fundraiser for Women in Afghanistan, and they both feel a little less conventional for this gesture towards charity.

The move from like to love has turned into a staring contest. Lacy won’t blink first. She slipped the other day and said, “I love it when you wear shorts.” He mentioned marriage, but in a way that could mean with anyone. Only she wanted to be the subject of the sentence. They were slipping, and it was Valentine’s Day.

Lacy doesn’t usually wear underwear, but she buys some red lacy piece to surprise him with. In Victoria’s Secret she can’t believe the get-ups women are buying: dental floss thongs, corsets, fishnet hose, and perfumes with names like “naughty girl”. She gets in and gets out. It all feels wrong, force-fed romance.

Jack doesn’t send flowers; she had told him she thought sending flowers was dumb. That flowers only died, they didn’t last. Flowers were a symbol of the temporary. Only Lacy finds herself disappointed when tulips never arrive.

She wears a purple wrap-dress to dinner. He wears a jacket and slacks. They are both ironed and pressed, and uncomfortable. The band, three acoustic guitars, plays mushy love song, after mushy song.

“Want to dance?” He asks, and reaches across the table for her hand.

“To this?”

“Come on, let’s show ’em some moves.”

“There’s no base beat.”

The band was playing an acoustic version of some Marvin Gaye song.

“I’ll lead and also take the blame if we look like idiots.”

So, they go out to the middle of the dance floor, which is really a small area where chairs have been cleared away. She is the perfect height to fit under his chin. Jack turns her, and then Lacy turns him back. The crowd watches. Lacy notices that most of the couples are not talking or touching much at all. She tries to be thankful for what she’s got. He keeps his hand on the small of her back, and she knows he feels her lace underwear.

They dance five more times before dessert, a raspberry chocolate torte that she moans over.

“I’m so happy to be with you.” He says over the red votive on the table. Really the restaurant isn’t romantic at all, but is decorated with red candles. She thinks about how quickly perceptions can change. How everything is a cover up. During the day this place is filled with college students and professors trying to ignore them. That word—romance—is so awful, she thinks. People have turned it into money being spent and those corsets at the lingerie store. Romance should be a verb, not a noun. Cupid is a crock, she thinks.

“I’m so glad to be with you.” She says back, but she feels like a woman on a soap opera. She feels like someone in the restaurant will drop dead soon or be kidnapped. She wishes someone would kidnap her. She doesn’t want to hear, “I’m happy to be with you,” and she doesn’t like the lace underwear that are riding up her ass.

“I’m happy to be with you,” is a poor excuse for a sentence. “I’m happy to be with you” is pure cowardice.

Lacy keeps quiet, and dances once more with him, but she doesn’t look up at his face. She keeps her head on his chest and her mind reels.

Jack opens the car door for her when they leave, something he never does, and she thinks about slamming it shut, just to see his reaction. Would he open it again? She sits down into the passenger seat, and it feels like a long fall.

The thing is: he doesn’t notice. He keeps creeping his hand up her thigh and teasing her on the way home. And the thing is: she plays along. Lacy realizes now, this is how it has been since she wanted to say love. Ever since they got stuck in between like and love. This middle ground is like the space between novel chapters. There is only interpretation. Everything is before or after, and she is wedged here, between sentences.

She crosses her legs, so he can’t put his hand between her thighs. Jack thinks Lacy is playing hard-to-get.

Now, Lacy gives herself a pep talk, on how this is 2008 and a woman should be able to say love first, but she knows Jack will say it back. That’s the problem. He will say it back, and she will always question if he meant it. If he was really ready.

Lacy knows she will slip her dress over her head and stand in black heels and fancy underwear. She knows Jack will be gleeful over the red lace. He will say, “Let me see it from the back,” and she will spin for him. He won’t notice the lace is woven into small intricate hearts. Jack will touch more of her skin than usual. He will whisper all the right words except one. They won’t even make it to the bed, but will fall onto Jack’s worn out couch. She has given in. She must lie in this space between.