The next day, Walsh called to ask her if she wanted to get dinner on Thursday. He didn't mention anything about the note, nor did he apologize for the things he'd said to her on Saturday. Either he hadn't left the note, or he wanted her to play along, so she didn't bring it up.

Instead, she just told him she'd think about it, but that she might have to work late Thursday. She felt a little guilty. It wasn't actually an outright lie: she might have to work late Thursday. But it was a lie of omission; she could stay late Wednesday and come in early Friday, and then Thursday would work fine.

But she just didn't feel ready to see him. She called Mary Margaret.

"Hey, Emma, what's up?"

"Is this a bad time? I kind of need a sounding board."

"Go for it. I need a break from grading this assignment."

"Walsh wants to go out Thursday, I don't really want to go, and I need you to tell me why."

"I thought you said you needed a sounding board," her sister said warily.

"Okay," Emma said apologetically—sounding board meant talking it out. "We had a fight this weekend, and I guess I'm still angry with him."

"What did you guys fight about?" Emma appreciated the patience in Mary Margaret's voice, even though this was probably the twentieth time she'd called about problems with Walsh.

"Oh, you know, the same things. We were at his place, and he kept making all these comments about how nice it was that we could chill and watch on the couch—you know how much he hates that I don't have one. And he started talking about when I moved in, what stuff did I think I'd bring with me."

"That's really presumptuous of him, given that you've told him repeatedly that you're not ready for that yet."

"Yes, thank you!" Emma said forcefully. "Which is what I told him! And do you know what he said to me?"

"What?"

"He said that he knew it was going to happen for us eventually and he was just trying to find a way to ease into the discussion."

"Geez."

"And that's not even the best part."

"How is that not even the best part?"

"The best part is that he started telling me what stuff from my place he thought would go well in his house, and he said—I still can't believe he said this—that he hoped I'd be okay selling my dresser because there was one at his store that would go much better with his bedroom set."

"Emma." Mary Margaret was clearly appalled. "He wants you to sell it? I mean, that was his suggestion?"

"Yep," Emma confirmed. "I wondered if he just meant he'd buy a new dresser for me for the bedroom, and my dresser could go in another room. Like the guest room or something. And when he said no to that, I asked if maybe it could go in the basement, and we could use it for storage. He always goes on and on about how he's going to finish the basement, so why not stick a dresser down there for storage, right?"

"And he doesn't even want it in his basement?"

"Nope. So of course I asked him, a little sarcastically, what I'd be allowed to bring with me, and he got angry with me. He said that he owns a furniture store and that it made him really particular about what he puts in his home. And I challenged him and said that either he could live in his home or he could live in our home, and he said that it would be our home because we'd be together and that it didn't matter what stuff was there."

"That makes no sense."

"No, it doesn't. And then I realized we were arguing about what would happen when we moved in together as if that was something that was actually happening for sure, when I really don't want that right now."

"So what did you tell him?"

"I told him to drive me to the T station so I could come home, and he got really irritated."

"Because you were going home, or because you needed a ride?"

"Guess."

"Both?"

"Yep."

"You took a cab, didn't you?" Her sister knew her all too well.

"Yeah. I splurged and took it all the way home. I didn't want to deal with the T after all that."

"Has he apologized?"

"I don't think so."

"What does that mean?"

Emma sighed and pursed her lips briefly. She didn't like keeping things from Mary Margaret, but the more people she told about the note, the less she could ignore it. "Someone left a note under my doormat yesterday. A secret admirer, apparently. I can't tell if it's Walsh trying to … I don't know, fix the relationship by staging a situation where I fall in love all over again when I think he's a stranger, or something. I don't know." She couldn't really remember how Ruby had described it.

"I know," Mary Margaret replied. "Ruby told me. I don't think it's Walsh."

"Ugh, she told you? How many people know?" No one in this friend group could keep a secret!

"I haven't told anyone," her sister said defensively. "Well, except David, but that doesn't count."

Emma rolled her eyes; David was just as likely to blab as anyone. "So you guys don't think it's Walsh?"

"No. I hate to say it, but Walsh seems to be one of those people who likes to move past fights by pretending they never happened. Sending you notes pretending to be a secret admirer is way out of left field."

"So you don't think I should go to dinner?"

"Well, you clearly don't want to go, so ..."

"Yeah, but I can't avoid him forever."

"Well, you could, but I'm supposed to be advising you to do the mature thing. What are you going to do about the note?"

"I should do something about the note?"

"Sweetie, you have a secret admirer. That's cute!"

"Cute like middle school," Emma said wryly. "How do I reply to it? Who do I give it to?"

"Just put it under your doormat."

"But, I mean, how do you reply to a message like that? 'It is my sincerest hope that you had a lovely Monday.' Who talks like that?"

"Poets?"

"Desperately lonely, horny stalkers?" She laughed. "I'm gonna go. I'll let you know what I decide to do about Thursday. Say hi to David for me."

"Will do. Love you, honey."

"Love you, too."

And with that, she was back to her dilemma. Well, two dilemmas.

First, there was Walsh. Did she really want to see him? No. She was still upset about their fight, for one. And there was this weird nagging feeling she had that she couldn't quite place. It was a feeling she got every time she was irritated with Walsh, and it was eerily similar to the feeling she got when she couldn't remember a particular word.

But as she'd said to Mary Margaret, she couldn't just keep avoiding him. He was her boyfriend; they'd been dating for almost eight months. She had to see him at some point; she might as well get it over with.

Boy. This wasn't a healthy way to think about her relationship. But at least she wasn't as wrapped up and obliviously in love like she'd been with Neal.

She quickly texted him. Rearranged my schedule for Thursday. Dinner at 7 at Fin's?

He replied nearly immediately. How about 7:30 at Tango?

Ugh. No. That was a restaurant in his suburb, and the suggestion carried the implicit understanding that she would stay the night. I'd rather stay near my neck of the woods. Have to get to work early on Friday.

Okay, I'll see you at Fin's at 7. At least he didn't argue.

One problem solved, she now faced the second: the note.

How could she reply? She had a boyfriend; she didn't really want to encourage this other person's attention. And she didn't know who the hell this person even was; what if he (or she) was incredibly unattractive? She didn't think she was that shallow, but she'd feel much differently about this secret admirer if it ended up someone like Hot Guy than she would if, say, it was Elderly Italian Guy downstairs.

She grabbed a sheet of paper from the legal pad she kept on the kitchen counter and she fished through her junk drawer for a pen.

As good as any Monday could ever be. Like any normal human, I live for the weekend.

She thought about signing it, but if her admirer wasn't using his or her name, then she didn't want to either. Instead, she simply added:

Isn't this a little bit middle school?

She left the folded sheet of paper, sans envelope, under her doormat the following morning on her way to work.

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