“Maybe the bananas just like to dangle?” she suggests. “Hang free and all?”

Smacking my forehead, I go along with it. “Aha. That makes perfect sense.”

“I’m here to help.” She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “But can we please get to the sheet aisle? You can’t sleep on a naked mattress.”

“That may be true, but I could definitely sleep naked on a mattress,” I offer, and she laughs as we navigate through another sardine-packed aisle in the mammoth store.

It’s one in the afternoon, and I just moved in this morning. That took all of two hours. Spending my twenties in med school and as a resident gave me very little time for the acquisition of things, so most of my possessions fit in a duffel bag. I have very little. Not even sheets for a queen-size bed. Ergo, I’m spending Saturday at Bed Bath & Beyond, which is a bit like wandering through a Buzzfeed post titled “Ten Things I’ll Never Use.”

More like five hundred. Wait. Make that five hundred and one, because I just spotted the new number one item on the list.

“That,” I say as I make a beeline for a shelf of crème brûlée torches. Grabbing a silvery one, I hold it up. “Please say we can have a housewarming party, and you’ll make crème brûlée, and I can stride all proud and awesome into the kitchen,” I say, puffing out my chest and deepening my voice. “And I can light it with a torch, and we’ll all ooh and ahh at the manly fire I made when I lit up a dessert.”

She arches an eyebrow. “A manly fire?”

I nod vigorously. “And then you’ll let the guests take turns punching me in the face for being a total douche for owning a crème brûlée torch.”

She narrows her eyes. “You actually want people to punch you?”

I’m deadly serious as I answer her. “If I ever own a crème brûlée torch, you have carte blanche to punch me, Josie. You really should.” I drop the torch on the shelf and take her hand, clasping it tightly in mine. “Promise me. From this day forward. Promise you’ll punch me if I ever own a crème brûlée torch, a rotating tie rack, or more than one kind of cheese grater. This is part of our roommate pact.”

She grips my hand tighter, her green eyes glowing with stark seriousness. “I solemnly swear to pummel you under all the aforementioned circumstances. As proof of our friendship and roommate solidarity.”

“You’re a saint,” I say, then wrap a hand around her head and tug her close for a quick kiss on her forehead.

And hello, sweet, sexy scent of Josie. What is this delicious smell? Is it . . . oh fuck me. Cherries. My God, she smells like cherries. Like the perfect summer fruit. Like the naughtiest fruit. And I’ve got to wonder if that cherry scent is her face lotion, her shampoo, or her body wash?

Body wash.

My mind is adrift, and the word association begins. Because what goes with body wash but nudity?

Naked woman in the shower. Washing. Lathering. Soaping.

Ah, hell.

Snap the fuck out it, Summers.

I stuff those images into a far corner in the dark closet of my mind and pull back from Josie, leaving the questions unanswered. I slap on a happy, wholesome smile. “Thank you for your commitment to my non-douchery endeavors.”

“I’ve got your back,” she says, and pats me.

Then she points to a cupcake tin. She pants like a dog. “Must. Have.”

“Don’t you have twenty of those?”

She nods as she grabs it from a shelf. “Yes. But I need more.” She spins around, and her hand darts out for something else. “It’s an icing smoother. I need a new one. Gah, this aisle is like baker porn.” She smiles gleefully.

“Baker porn. I like that,” I say, then offer to hold the kitchen goods. She hands them to me, and I tuck them under my arm.

When we turn the corner toward the next aisle, Josie stops at the end cap. She taps on a big silvery box. “Quick. Waffle maker. This is the true test of our roommate compatibility. Do you need a waffle maker?”

I peer at her through narrowed eyes, then slam my free hand as if I’m hitting a buzzer on a game show. “And the correct answer is: No. Never. That’s what Sunday brunch is for.”

She holds up a palm and we smack hands. “You win this round of the New Roommate Show. Because who wants to buy a monstrosity for the kitchen counter to make waffles in once a year and then have no place to put it in our tiny New York apartment?”

“Not this guy.”

“And not this girl.”

Damn, we rock at living together.

We soldier on through the store.

On our quest for sheets, we wander through sconces. And seriously, what the fuck is a sconce? Does anyone even know what a sconce is? No, no one does, because it’s not a thing. Then an entire rack of high-end ice cream makers, which forces me to ask—who the hell decided we should make our own ice cream? Have people, I dunno, not heard of Talenti’s, Edy’s, Ben and Jerry’s, or the corner ice cream shop?

At the end of a maze of aisles and escalators, we arrive at the sheets. I blink and stare. Up and up and up. “Josie, there are literally five hundred kinds of sheets here,” I say, my tone heavy.

“Choice is good,” she says, tapping her finger on her chin as she checks out the options.

I survey the rows upon rows of navy, black, white, dotted, and other manly-patterned sheets, and immediately I’m overwhelmed. Why is sheet shopping so complicated? I swear restarting a heart is easier than figuring out the proper thread count.