“Just trying to be helpful. That’s all.”

“And I appreciate it. I’m also buying this pillow.”

When we reach the counter, I pay for the pillow and hand it to her. I pay for her baking goods, too. “Have I ever told you I give amazing gifts? It’s kind of a special talent of mine.”

She rolls her eyes, but as we leave, she lets go of the teasing and drops a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for the amazing gifts. That was very sweet of you.”

Later, as we spend our first night together as roommates, I’m weirdly jealous of a pillow.

But a week or so after that, it’s not pillows I’m jealous of.

7

From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book

Air-Popped Popcorn for Nights Hanging Out on the Couch

* * *

Ingredients

1/4 cup unpopped corn kernels

One popcorn popper

* * *

Directions

Place the kernels in the popcorn popper.

Put the top on.

Stick that baby in the microwave.

This is the toughest part. Gather close. Wait for it . . . hit the popcorn button on the microwave. Watch it. When the microwave dings, voila!

* * *

Serving suggestion: Dump the popped corn into a bowl, sprinkle with a little salt, grate a small bit of parmesan cheese, and prepare to enjoy the hell out of a snack as you curl up on the couch and watch TV.

* * *

Special instructions: Resist placing your feet on Chase’s legs. Refrain from snuggling up next to him. Keep your hands out of that hair. That golden brown, slightly wavy, looks-so-damn-soft hair. You are friends, and you like hanging out with him. It’s that simple, and don’t presume that friendship means you get the chance to touch his hair. Even though you really, really, really want to touch his hair.

8

Six things I’ve learned about women from living with one. . .

* * *

One

* * *

They use a lot of toilet paper.

Okay, hold on. I don’t mean anything untoward. What I mean is this—it’s like an epic fiesta of tissue in the bathroom.

“Can you pick up TP on your way home?” Josie asks on the phone one evening as I’m leaving the hospital after an insane day of sprains and broken bones. “We’re almost out.”

“There’s half a roll,” I say, because that’s good for three days, right?

Nope.

I’m wrong.

“Chase,” she chides as I head down the street. “That’ll be gone in a couple of hours.”

And I know why. The chick loves toilet paper. She’s like one of those cat memes, where the pussycat’s paws are wrapped around the roll, and she’s gleefully tugging it off the holder. Josie uses it for everything.

She uses it to take off her makeup. She uses it to clean up water on the bathroom sink. She uses it to dust. Yup, she wads up a chunk of TP and wipes down the shelves with it. She fucking unravels it with her little feline paws. She uses it when she blows her nose, which, incidentally, is kind of adorable since she makes a little squeak.

I pop into the drugstore and grab some TP. I get her favorite kind. Because it makes her happy.

* * *

Two

* * *

Hair.

It’s pretty much everywhere. I find brown strands on the couch. I discover pink strands in the sink. And, truth be told, I find Josie’s hair in my own hair. Shhh. Don’t tell her but . . . I use her hairbrush. I don’t know why, but girls’ brushes are evidently way better than combs. They’re just really fucking awesome.

* * *

Three

* * *

Josie really likes it when I perform manly tasks. I like it when she likes it when I do manly tasks. Sorry if that makes me not PC or whatever. I’m sure I should be defying stereotypical gender roles and knitting her a scarf or planting flowers, but I won’t lie—I vastly prefer when she asks me to lift shit. A few days ago, she wanted to move the coffee table. I happily obliged, and I enjoyed the fact that she checked out my arms when I carried it. The other night, she asked me to open a pickle jar. I strutted into the kitchen, flexed my arms, and made a big show of it.

“Peacock,” she muttered.

I wiggled my eyebrows. “It’s really hard to sound like you’re insulting me when you say that word.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ding dong.”

I shrugged. “Again, not insulted.”

“Pickle-jar-opening show-off.”

I tapped her nose. “Bingo.”

“You’re insulted now?” She pumped a fist. “Excellent.”

I frowned. “You’re trying to insult me. I’m so sad,” I said, then I reached into the jar and ate a pickle.

She patted my belly. “Pregnant?”

I shuddered. “Horrors.”

“Oh, please. Like that’s the worst thing in the world.”

I gave her a sharp stare. “It kind of would be.”

I’d rather be firing the trigger on the baby, not carrying it.

Like I said, I prefer manly tasks.

* * *

Four

* * *

After a long day at the hospital, which pretty much describes every day at Mercy, it’s nice to have someone to come home to. And I’m not just saying that because Josie makes absolutely killer air-popped popcorn.

But she does. This popcorn is delicious, and we munch on it all the way through a binge fest of Ballers, Vice Principals, and Veep on HBO. When we reach the end, I rattle the bowl then pretend to hunt for more, sniffing the inside of it.