“She’s just my friend, I swear,” Ambrose says, picking at his nails. They're almost healed now, but they used to be constantly ripped and bleeding. It's a nasty habit he's picked up. “I’ll send you my location and take pictures of what I’m doing every hour. I—I have pictures of us growing up together. She's just in town for the weekend, so I thought..." He shuts himself up, unable to look at you.

You’ve never asked for him to do that, and you probably don’t expect him to, but it’s what he’s used to. His last girlfriend hated when he was around other women—around anyone, really. He’s so used to being told what to do he’s expecting it from you, too. Ambrose swallows.

“Or I can stay home,” he says, looking guilty he thought about leaving to do something. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

It feels like bugs are crawling all over him. He hates how pathetic he's become, hates how much confidence he's lost. You're nothing like his ex-girlfriend, Macey, but her shadow seems to linger around him. It's been nearly two years since he's seen her; he needs to get it together and move on.

And yet.

Somedays he's fine. Ambrose is happy with you, you're too good to him. Other days it feels like he's looking over his shoulder, waiting for the ball to drop. His chest grows tight and he gets sick. It's not healthy, but he doesn't know what to do. Sometimes he wishes he could just forget everything and be a normal boyfriend to you. His therapist reminds him, constantly, that you love him and don't expect him to suddenly be healed.

"Should we order pizza?" Ambrose asks, attempting to change the topic. He'll just text his friend he can't make it. It's fine. He's sure he'll see her another time. "I know you wanted to watch that one movie. What was it again?"