As we walked to the car that night, Maya leaned her head on my shoulder. "My mom really liked you," she said happily.

Emily's expression softened, and she smiled. "I know you didn't mean to hurt my feelings," she said. "But honestly, I wish you'd stop comparing me to my mom. It's not fair to either of us."

It sounds shallow, doesn't it? But it’s the truth. And that truth has made my life a living hell for the last six months.

Sofia was finer. She was a masterpiece of a woman. But masterpieces belong in museums, behind glass, where you can look but you can never touch. You can’t live with a masterpiece; you can only admire it until you’re terrified of breaking it.

The problem isn't that Sofia is fine. The problem is that she knows it, and she uses it like a weapon.

By the time dessert was served, the guilt had set in. I was caught in a silent, internal tug-of-war. I loved Maya, but I was captivated by a woman I could never have, a woman who was the literal blueprint for the person I was dating.