My Girlfriend Can Touch Me There. What About You

I have this ridiculously shredded six-pack body pillow.
I can t get a decent night s sleep without hugging it, running my hands over its perfectly sculpted foam abs.
One night, stumbling back from the bathroom, I groggily veered into the wrong room. My landlord s son s room.
I climbed into his bed, reflexively lifted the shirt of the warm body I found there, and started my nightly ritual.
Suddenly, a hoarse voice rumbled from above my head. Are you done? Because you re about to get a reaction.
My day job is basically staring at spreadsheets until my eyes bleed. So when I get home, all I want is peace, quiet, and my pillow.
But today, peace was off the table.
Sprawled on my sofa, looking like he owned the place, was the most lethally handsome man I d ever seen.
I live alone.
My first thought was: burglar. A ridiculously good-looking burglar, but a burglar nonetheless.
I instinctively backpedaled toward the door, ready to bolt next door to my landlady, Carol.
But I paused. I m a sucker for a pretty face, and this guy s face was a masterpiece. Long legs, broad shoulders, skin like pale marble.
I took another look.
Then another.
Something was off.
Burglars don t typically make themselves at home and sip tea from your favorite mug with an air of regal boredom.
He looked less like an intruder and more like the king of this castle.
But Carol never mentioned renting out the other rooms.
His cold expression didn t exactly scream approachable.
I decided to retreat and get intel from Carol first.
Just as I turned, his voice, low and smooth, drifted across the room. Halt.
I froze, then slowly turned back. Who are you? I asked, my voice a little shaky. What are you doing in my apartment?

A slow, mocking smile touched his lips. He took a delicate sip of tea, his long fingers wrapped around the ceramic.
Then he leaned back, propping himself up on one arm, and looked me up and down. Are you sure, he drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, this is *your* apartment?
I wasn t aware my home had been repossessed in the eight hours I was at work, no.
I stood there, clutching my work bag like a shield, utterly bewildered.
His apartment?
Just then, the door next door opened, and Carol bustled in, a half-eaten apple in her hand.
Her eyes flicked from my confused face to the man on the sofa. A look of dawning horror crossed her features.
She immediately pulled me behind her, a protective lioness. Ronan, what did you say to her? she scolded, pointing the apple at him. Don t you dare bully her! You haven t set foot in this place for years. Clover has nowhere else to go, so what s the problem with me renting it to her?
The man Ronan let out a humorless laugh. He stood up, and the room suddenly felt smaller. Mom, this is the house I bought for my future wife. You rented out my *marital home* without even asking me?
My house. For my wife. And you ve got a stranger living in it. Does that sound reasonable to you?
Carol faltered for a second, realizing she was on shaky ground. Well& you don t even have a girlfriend yet! What s all this marital home nonsense?
Ronan s jaw tightened.
He sank back onto the sofa, crossing one long leg over the other, the picture of immovable displeasure. I don t care. This is my house. For me and my future wife.
He jerked his chin in my direction. What is *she* doing here?
Carol beamed, her confidence returning. She s your good luck charm.
I could feel Ronan s gaze on me, sharp and piercing.
If looks could kill, I d be a pile of ash on the welcome mat.
Clover keeps this place spotless, Carol continued, blissfully unaware of the murder vibes. If it weren't for her, Ronan, do you think you could have just waltzed back into the country and started sipping tea?
You d need a three-day deep clean just to breathe in here!
I shuffled my feet, a hot wave of guilt washing over me.
Because I was not, in fact, the one keeping this place clean.
Ronan s eyebrow arched. He let out a short, sharp scoff. I have a cleaning service come in every week, Mom. She should know that.

A lightbulb went on in my head.
So that s why a cleaner magically appeared every Tuesday.
I thought it was Carol being nice.
In fact, Ronan s voice turned dangerously silky, if the cleaner hadn t told me it looked like my wife was hiding a man in our bed, and that I should rush home to check, I wouldn t have even known my house came with a live-in girlfriend and her boyfriend.
His eyes swept over me again, this time with a thick layer of contempt.
My face burned.
I knew exactly what hiding a man meant.
It was my six-foot-tall, ridiculously shredded six-pack body pillow.
When I first moved in, the master bedroom felt huge and lonely. I needed something to hold onto, something to make me feel safe.
So I bought the pillow online. Its foam abs had the perfect firmness. It was the ultimate boyfriend substitute.
I hugged it, I caressed it, and I slept like a baby every single night.
I guess from under the covers, its human-like shape must have been misleading.
I scratched my head, too mortified to explain the misunderstanding.
Explaining my relationship with an inanimate object shaped like a headless, chiseled torso felt& a little unhinged.
The situation ended in a tense truce: Ronan and I would be temporary, very unhappy roommates.
One, because my lease with Carol wasn't up.
Two, because Ronan had just returned to the country and didn't have time to find a new place.
And he refused to live with his parents.
So, in his own marital home, he was relegated to the small guest room, while I, the usurper, occupied the master bedroom. Which I had, admittedly, turned into a cozy den of chaos.
I can move out of the master, I offered, feeling genuinely bad. You should have it.
His already sour expression curdled.
I don t sleep in rooms other people have slept in.

I shut my mouth, but couldn t stop myself from muttering, But& I ve been living in this entire house for months&
Ronan s hearing was apparently bionic. I m selling it, he snapped. As soon as I buy a new place, I m gone.
I fell silent.
Forcing the owner out of his own house. That felt& wrong on a cosmic level.
After Ronan moved in, I was a nervous wreck, terrified of annoying him.
What if he got fed up and kicked me out?
But after a month, I realized he was a ghost. His job seemed to keep him incredibly busy, and even though we shared a roof, I rarely saw him.
So, I let my guard down.
I started forgetting he was even there.
I stopped closing my bedroom door.
One Saturday morning, Ronan was actually home.
He walked out of his room, his path taking him past mine. He glanced in, then stopped, his eyes locking onto the six-pack pillow lying sprawled on my bed.
He stared for a solid ten seconds.
He blinked. Then a slow, amused smirk spread across his face. What, he asked, his voice laced with laughter, is that?
I was momentarily stunned. Huh?
Ronan gestured with his chin toward my bedroom. It s& uniquely ugly. Suits you perfectly.
I felt an irrational surge of defensiveness.
I retreated to my room and stared at the pillow s perfect six-pack, lost in thought.
Maybe leaving them exposed all day was a bit& indecent.
It was clearly provoking jealousy in lesser men.
So I did the only logical thing: I bought my body pillow a t-shirt. Which, I discovered, added a whole new layer to the experience. Now I had to lift the shirt to get to the abs.
The role-play was getting dangerously immersive.

After dressing my foam boyfriend, I went to take a shower, only to find the body wash was empty.
Thinking Ronan was out, I wrapped myself in a towel and padded out to the living room to find a new bottle.
Terrible timing.
Ronan, glistening with sweat from a workout, was just walking through the front door.
I, meanwhile, was rummaging through the storage closet like a frantic, half-naked gremlin.
A sharp cough from behind me. Could you please put on some clothes? Ronan s voice was tight with irritation. Or did you forget this isn t just your house?
I was still digging, my back to him. Sorry, I mumbled. Can t find the new body wash.
Finally, success. I grabbed the bottle and stood up, turning to face him. He hadn t moved. He was just standing there, staring.
I looked up and noticed his ears and face were a startling shade of red.
A single drop of sweat traced a path down his temple, along his sharp jaw, and disappeared into the collar of his shirt. His breathing was heavy, almost ragged.
Was he okay?
Did he overdo it at the gym? He looked like he was about to have a stroke.
I didn't have time to analyze it. The draft was cold. I clutched my body wash and scurried back to the bathroom.
After my shower, I found Carol in the kitchen.
She was holding a steaming pot. Just made my famous beer-braised duck! You two have to try it, it s amazing!
Carol s cooking was legendary. She always brought me a portion of whatever masterpiece she created.
I grabbed a bowl and eagerly joined her.
Ronan emerged, frowning. Mom, I don t like duck.
Carol waved a dismissive hand. Who said this was for you?
Do you think you re worthy of my culinary genius?
Clover, honey, come here.
Ronan was speechless.

Carol patted my head while I devoured the duck, asking if it was good.
Under the combined force of her incredible food and overwhelming affection, I ate nearly the entire pot.
It was delicious. It was also& very alcoholic.
As a fog began to settle over my brain, I heard Carol slap her forehead. Oh, shoot! I forgot you re a lightweight, honey. I used a bit too much liquor& I think I poured in half a bottle of your uncle s Pappy Van Winkle&
My world tilted.
I don t even remember my nightly ab-rubbing ritual. I just collapsed into bed and passed out.
Sometime later, a desperate need to pee woke me up.
I dragged my foggy brain out of bed and navigated to the bathroom on pure muscle memory.
Then, on the way back, I followed that same internal compass.
Door open. Shoes off. Climb into bed.
Pull the covers up.
Was I imagining things? The sheets smelled incredible, like a crisp, clean, masculine soap.
Not my brand.
I didn t care. I nuzzled my face into the pillow, humming contentedly.
Why hadn't I noticed how good my bed smelled before?
I settled into a comfortable position and, as always, shifted closer to my body pillow.
My hand made contact. It felt& firmer than usual. And warm. Very warm.
Whatever. My head was spinning. Hallucinations were probably normal.
I reflexively lifted the t-shirt and placed my hand on the familiar expanse of abs.
The next second, the muscles under my palm clenched violently, a sharp, involuntary flinch.
My hand paused. I was too tired to open my eyes or think too hard. I just continued my routine: a chaotic, back-and-forth, repetitive caress.

Tonight s abs were exceptional. The texture was perfect solid, but with just the right amount of give.
I d never touched real ones, but I imagined this is what they d feel like.
I closed my eyes tighter, and for some reason, Ronan s face popped into my head.
The image fit perfectly. It felt like I was touching *his* abs.
And damn, Ronan looked like he d be fun to touch.
Usually, a few minutes of this would knock me out. Tonight, I was feeling more awake by the second.
I savored the moment, swallowing hard.
I decided to explore. My hand started to wander upward, a rogue adventurer on a new continent.
It stopped on a small, raised nub.
What part of the pillow was this? I didn t remember this feature.
As I pondered this anatomical mystery, there was a soft cough from above me. Then a voice, hoarse with tension, spoke. Are you done yet? Because I think I m about to&
Have a reaction.
That familiar voice shot through my drunken haze like a bolt of lightning.
Ronan?
I squeezed my eyes shut, praying it was a hallucination.
My hand was still frozen on his chest, refusing to move.
*Click.*
Ronan switched on the bedside lamp.
I slowly tilted my head back. In the dim, golden light, his face was a mask of crimson, his brows knitted together in a furious glare.
My own face instantly felt like it was on fire. I dropped my gaze, mumbling a frantic string of apologies. I m so sorry, I m so sorry&
If you re sorry, Ronan bit out, then maybe you could get your hand off my chest.

His words only made me more flustered. My fingers twitched, reflexively squeezing.
A low, pained groan escaped his lips.
He gritted his teeth. Clover Dean, if you get out of my bed right now, I will pretend this never happened.
My brain was a blank slate. I scrambled off the bed and practically sprinted back to my own room.
The moment I was gone, I heard his bathroom door slam shut.
The sound of the shower started, a rushing torrent of water that went on for a very, very long time.
Lying in my own bed, the silence of the apartment allowed my scrambled thoughts to slowly reassemble.
I had just& sexually harassed Ronan Everett.
Oh, God.
I d fantasized about him, sure. His stupidly perfect, sculpted face was hard to ignore.
But even in my wildest dreams, I d never dared to cross this line. And now, in real life, I d just pawed him like a common criminal.
His shocked expression was seared into my brain.
He must think I m a complete and utter pervert hiding behind a quiet, unassuming facade.
I groaned into my pillow. I am a wolf in sheep's clothing.
I stared at the ceiling for hours, trying to figure out how I could possibly face him again.
Finally, as the sky began to lighten, I pulled out my phone and opened the Zillow app.
It was time to move.
But after an hour of searching, I found nothing even close to as good or as cheap as this place.
Carol had taken a liking to me and given me an incredible deal on the rent, which was why I d signed a long-term lease in the first place.
Looks like I was stuck.
I groaned and rolled over, bumping into the original culprit: my six-pack body pillow.

I glared at it. This was all its fault.
I gave it a therapeutic grope. The texture felt cheap and fake compared to the real thing. I was even more annoyed.
Why did I have to think about him again?
With a frustrated kick, I launched the pillow off the bed.
I was still agonizing over how to face Ronan when work decided to bury me in an avalanche of projects.
I was so swamped I barely had time to think, let alone dwell on my mortifying mistake.
The only strange thing was, every evening when I got home, Ronan would be there, sitting on the sofa, sometimes reading, sometimes drinking tea.
But the second I walked in, he d stand up and disappear into his room.
He was avoiding me like I had the plague.
One night, after a brutal day of overtime, I was starving and craving hot pot.
I went to a popular spot by myself.
The line was insane.
If I d known I d still be ten tables away after a two-hour wait, I would have left immediately.
But now, I was invested. Walking away would mean my two hours of suffering were for nothing.
So I gritted my teeth, gnawed on some complimentary crackers, and waited.
At 1:03 AM, I finally sat down to my glorious, boiling pot of soup.
Just as I was ordering, my phone buzzed. A text.
It was from Ronan.
[How come you re not home yet?]
A moment later, another message popped up: [My mom wanted to know.]
I thought for a moment. [Carol is usually asleep by ten. How would she know I m not home?]

The little & bubble appeared and disappeared for a full three minutes.
Finally, a reply: [She has insomnia.]
I stared at the screen.
Then another text: [So are you coming home tonight?]
The question felt& weird.
Like he was actually concerned. Which made no sense.
When I didn t reply, he sent another: [No other reason. Just don t want you dying somewhere and affecting the resale value of my house.]
Ah, there it was. The real Ronan Everett.
I explained: [I was in line for hot pot. Just got seated. I ll be back late.]
[I ll be super quiet so I don t wake you.]
[If I do, you have my full permission to yell at me.]
Ronan replied: [Just don t randomly climb into my bed again.]
[And don t bring anyone home. I have a thing about germs.]
I sighed.
To prove I was alone, I snapped a picture of my solo hot pot feast. Across from me sat a little teddy bear the restaurant provided for solo diners.
Ronan texted back: [Just you and that bear? Your other boyfriend isn t with you?]
It took me a second to realize he meant the body pillow.
Who in their right mind would bring that thing to a restaurant?
I replied: [He s strictly a bedroom companion. It d be a bit weird to bring him out in public.]
Ronan didn t text back.
When I finally got home, full and happy, the living room light was still on.

Ronan was sitting on the sofa, the warm overhead light casting shadows on his handsome, expressionless face.
Was it my imagination, or did I see a flicker of loneliness in his downcast eyes?
The apartment was warm. I started shrugging off my coat as I walked in. The fuzzy collar brushed against my neck, and a familiar, maddening itch returned.
I d tried on a sample necklace at work, and my skin had staged a full-scale rebellion. The itch was unbearable.
I couldn t help but scratch, leaving a patch of angry red skin on my neck.
As Ronan passed me on his way to his room, his gaze lingered on my neck for a moment. He didn t say a word, but his expression soured, as if he d seen something deeply unpleasant.
A strange wave of disappointment washed over me.
He really, really disliked me.
So much for the little crush I d been nursing.
Clearly, we weren t meant to be.
The next evening, I was in the kitchen making pasta when my mom video-called me.
I nearly dropped my phone, frantically looking around.
Thank God, Ronan was nowhere in sight.
I couldn t leave the stove, so I turned the volume down and answered.
Even on low, my mom s voice boomed through the speaker. Clover Dean! It s almost the holidays. Do you have a boyfriend yet this year?
I closed my eyes, bracing myself.
Here we go again.
No, Mom, I recited my usual lines. Look at me. Do I look like I m swimming in dates?
I haven t even held a guy s hand, remember?
I conveniently left out the part about exploring a man s torso.
Why not? she demanded.

It s not like I can just conjure one out of thin air!
But you re living all alone! Your father and I worry& hey, who s that behind you?
I turned.
And there was Ronan. I don t know when he appeared, but he was walking past me, opening the fridge to grab a can of LaCroix.
He saw me looking and gave me a little mock-toast with the can.
His voice was quiet, but perfectly clear. Just grabbing a drink. Don t mind me.
He walked away.
But the damage was done.
My mother s eyes were wide. Before Ronan was even out of the kitchen, she was hissing, That s him, isn t it? Your boyfriend! And you said you were living alone! You re even wearing matching-colored pajamas! He s so handsome, Clover, I love him! Bring him home for Christmas, you hear me?
Mom, wait, he s not
The call suddenly dropped.
I looked at my phone. Network error.
The Wi-Fi was down.
I peeked out of the kitchen. Ronan was standing by the router, holding the unplugged cord. He offered me an apologetic smile. The game was lagging, so I was just checking the connection. I forgot you were on a call. My bad.
He was so not sorry.
Later, no amount of texting, voice notes, or desperate pleas could convince my mom that Ronan wasn't her future son-in-law.
I had a terrible, sinking feeling she was about to do something drastic.
To prevent a catastrophic emotional entanglement, I needed to confirm one thing: that Ronan was, in fact, single.
Asking him directly was out of the question, given his general attitude toward my existence.
So, I did the next best thing. I went to see Carol, armed with a fruit basket.
She was sunbathing on her porch and was thrilled to see me.

After listening to her recount the gossip of the entire neighborhood, I finally found my opening. Little Timmy downstairs is already on his second kid. I bet you ll be a grandma again soon, huh?
At the mention of Ronan, Carol s smile faded. She sighed dramatically. Honey, he s been back for two months, and you re the only girl I ve seen him with. I ll be lucky to get a grandkid this century.
I feigned surprise. He doesn t have a girlfriend?
Sweetie, if he had a girlfriend, do you think he d be living with you? He d be living with the person he loves.
I nodded, a small wave of relief washing over me.
At least if my mom did something crazy, the cleanup would be slightly less messy.
Please, Mom. Don't do anything crazy.
As I left Carol s, I found the door to our apartment ajar. I could hear Ronan s voice and the cleaner s.
Mr. Everett, you re finally back! Your wife, she s always having men over when you re not here. There s always a man sleeping in her bed. Did you catch them?
A woman like that is no good for you. You re such a catch, you deserve better.
Ronan let out a soft chuckle. Ma am, the man under the covers is a giant pillow she likes. She s not that kind of person. Please don t assume things about her.
The cleaner pressed on. You have to be careful! You re gone all the time. Who knows what she ll do? She doesn t look like the faithful type&
Ronan s voice suddenly turned sharp and cold. I know my wife better than you do. And I ll be spending more time with her from now on. Also, you re fired.
And if I hear one more rumor about her from you or anyone else at your agency, you ll lose more than just this job.
Silence.
I stood there, replaying his words in my head.
*My wife.*
Maybe his attitude towards me wasn t as hostile as I thought.
At the very least, he was willing to defend my honor.
After a few more terse words from Ronan, the cleaner scurried away.
I peeked out from behind the doorframe and ran right into him. He stared at me, his expression unreadable, knowing I d heard everything.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I beat him to it. I m sorry for causing you trouble.
He scoffed. If you re really sorry, you ll throw out that ugly pillow. Show me some sincerity.
Without thinking, I refused. & No way. I can t sleep without it.
Did it save your life or something?
I answered honestly. It s the best one I ve ever had, texture-wise. If I throw it out, what am I supposed to hug at night?
Ronan s eyes narrowed, a slow, dangerous smile playing on his lips. Oh, really? Is it better than me?
I muttered under my breath, I can touch it whenever I want. I can t touch you.
Hearing that, Ronan took a sudden step closer. We were inches apart.
I could see my own reflection in his dark, intense eyes.
What if I said, he murmured, his voice a low thrum, that my girlfriend can touch me whenever she wants?
I scratched my head, genuinely confused. Okay? What s that got to do with me?
Ronan froze. His smile twitched. He reached out and tapped me lightly on the forehead. You, he said, his voice tight with exasperation, can go marry your ugly pillow.
What was that for?
He turned and stalked back to his room.
I looked down. Somehow, a tube of anti-allergy cream had appeared in my hand.
A week later, my premonition came true.
My mom showed up.
She d become so convinced that Ronan was her son-in-law that she couldn t wait for the holidays. She and my dad booked a flight to Seattle to meet him.
I was buried in work all day and didn t see the storm of texts until I left the office. The final message was a video of my parents and Ronan s parents, all sitting together, laughing like old friends.
The world tilted on its axis.
I rushed home, but Ronan wasn't back yet. I stood at the door, my hand hovering over the keypad, trying to figure out how to even begin to deal with this.

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