Daaaaaammmmn, says my uterus, fanning itself.

Just when I think my knees will give out and I’ll slither to the floor, Cam pushes away from me and strolls out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I had a meetin’ with one o’ my attorneys last night, lass. I came home alone. Not that you care, right?”

The front door slams, and he’s gone.

It’s a good thing Mr. Bingley is deaf, because my scream of frustration would scare the bejesus out of him.

I spend the remainder of the day inside with the door locked. I check it three times just to make sure. I do laundry, clean the apartment, fiddle with some of the beauty products Mrs. Dinwiddle gave me, and try to keep Cameron McGregor out of my head.

Irritating space invader that he is, he doesn’t comply, so I’m stuck with a smug, imaginary Cam inside my brain, lounging naked on a mattress with one leg swinging slowly back and forth off the side.

At six o’clock on the nose, rap music blasts through the walls.

Prince Pantydropper is summoning his dinner.

Muttering made-up voodoo curses, I bang around the kitchen until I’ve got something for him to eat. When I knock on his door, the music lowers instantly.

“Hullo, lassie,” he says when he opens up. “What brings you by?” He grins, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest so his biceps bulge out everywhere, just as insufferably smug as he is.

Resisting the urge to kick him in the shin, I smile instead. “I haven’t forgotten our bargain.” I lift the platter I’m holding. “Pasta primavera with a garden salad. Here you go.”

He looks at the platter, then back up at me. “Here I go? Here I go where?”

My smile turns brittle. “Take your food, prancer.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Our deal was that you make me food and I eat it over at your place. Forty-five minutes, remember?” He swings his door open wider, and the rap music swells out louder into the hall. “Or would you prefer to spend your evenin’ with my good friend Ol’ Dirty Bastard?”

He stares at me with a challenge in his eyes, his smile growing wider in obverse proportion to how mine shrinks.

Without a word, I turn around and march back to my apartment. I leave the door open behind me because he’ll find his way inside whether I want him to or not. The man is insidious, like an infestation of termites.

But he’s not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

I leave the platter of food on the kitchen table. As soon as I hear Cam’s music cut off, I retreat into my bedroom with the cat and shut the door.

And lock it.

Then I call my mother. She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom. It’s Joellen.” I always feel the need to remind her who I am, in case she’s forgotten she has two daughters since we last spoke.

“Oh, hi, honey! I was just thinking about you!”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

She laughs. “Nothing’s wrong, silly, I was just thinking I’d call you tonight. How are you?”

From beyond my bedroom door, Cam calls, “You better not be skippin’ dinner, lass!”

I stick my tongue out at the door. “I’m good. Great, actually. I got a raise at work.”

“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!”

She sounds thrilled, which makes me smile. “Plus, I’m up for a promotion.”

“A promotion, too?”

“For an associate editor position. I already put the application in. I’m just waiting to hear back.”

“That’s fantastic! When will you know?”

Cam knocks on the door. “Is that your mother, lass? Tell her I said hullo!”

I stare at the door with slitted eyes, wishing for whatever the superpower is that lets you shoot lasers from your eyeballs so you can blow people to smithereens through solid objects. “Probably soon, maybe next week? I’ll call you as soon as I know. How’s Dad?”

“Who’s that with you?”

Shoot! Mother hearing strikes again. I turn away and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so now there are two doors between me and the Incredibly Irritating Man. “Hmm?”

“I heard someone’s voice, honey.”

“It’s the TV. I’ve got the news on.”

“So it’s not Cameron McGregor?”

The hope in her voice makes me want to vomit. “No, Mother, it’s not Cameron McGregor.”

A voice faintly calls, “I can hear you talkin’ about me!”

These people should work for the CIA! I turn the shower on full blast, go into the closet, and crouch down beside my dirty-clothes hamper, feeling like a refugee fleeing from a totalitarian regime. Which really isn’t too far off the mark.

“Listen, I wanted to apologize for that remark I made about him the last time we spoke.”

I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Forget about it, Mom. I was just being sensitive.”

There’s a short pause. “I feel like we’re talking about two different things.”

“I’m talking about when you said a man like him couldn’t fall in love with a girl like me.”

Her exhalation sounds disappointed. “Oh, honey, let’s not go over that again. It’s just reality. Everyone has to box in his own weight class, as your father would say. Birds of a feather and whatnot. What I’m talking about is when I called him a sex object. That was a little . . .” She laughs uncomfortably. “I can’t call myself a feminist if I’m guilty of the same thing men are always doing to women. Namely, objectifying them.”

I’m having a hard time following her logic because now I’m steaming mad. She’s sorry she called a man she’s never met a sex object, but she’s not sorry she made her daughter feel undeserving of a successful, attractive man’s love. Twice.

“Mom.”

“Yes, honey?”

“I know I’m not beautiful like you and Jacqueline, but sometimes you make me feel really shitty about it.”

She sounds surprised. “What on earth are you talking about?”

Is she being willfully ignorant? Years of pent-up frustration at being the ugly duckling in a family of swans starts to gather steam.

“I’m talking about boxing in my own weight class! I’m talking about how you like to make ‘jokes’ about me not being a size two like you guys! Calling me ‘plumpy’ isn’t an affectionate nickname, it’s a personal attack! And just because I’m not tall and willowy and blonde doesn’t mean I’ll never feel the touch of a man—”

“Joellen!”

“—or deserve to be loved—”

“Now wait just a minute!”

“—or get treated with respect by my family, the ones who I’m supposed to be able to trust and be myself with. I’ve had total strangers say nicer things to me than you do! Somebody told me the other day I have beautiful skin, and I almost fainted from shock!”

“Of course you have beautiful skin, sweetie! You get it from me!”

She’s defensive. And completely missing the point. I might as well explain my feelings to a brick wall, because I certainly won’t be getting any understanding from her.

Same old shit, different day. The emotion I’ve worked up fizzles out, and I’m left feeling nothing but drained. “Okay. Good talk, Mom. Later.”