Page 8 of Falling for my Best Friend

“I needed another rescue.”

“You still with the guy?”

“No, Fiona bailed me out with an emergency call. I’m on my way home.”

“Where are you now?” I asked. “You need a ride?”

“No, I’m on Clark and Dawson. Nearly home.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the problem with this guy?” I asked, picking up my bag and heading towards the parking lot.

“There’s someone else.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah. And that someone is Jesus.”

I laughed. “Oh dear.”

“I told him I didn’t want to be his number two.”

“Sounds like your date was number two.”

“Very funny.”

“Well, if you don’t need my help anymore, I gotta run. I have a missed call from Chelsea.”

“Alright. Catch you later.”

I hung up and dialed my girlfriend’s number. She answered as I was throwing my bag in the trunk.

“Chelsea Delacroix.”

I walked around to the driver’s side. “Hey. It’s me.”

“Oh, sorry. I don’t have my contacts in, and I thought it might be the people from the casting I went to earlier.”

“No problem. You called?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to remind you that I’m making dinner tonight so don’t eat on your way home.”

“Great,” I lied. “I’m starving. What are we having?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Is it something I can pronounce?”

“It’s not quinoa if that’s what you’re asking.”

Thank god. “Alright. I’ll see you in a half hour.”

I hung up the phone and got in the car, thinking I must have been the only guy in the city who wasn’t excited to hear that his girlfriend was doing the cooking.

Then again, it served me right for dating a model. Normally, it was fine. I liked dating someone whose job also required them to take care of their body. But I also had a great fondness for butter, dairy products, and the occasional anything fried in oil, all of which were ranked just behind terrorists on Chelsea’s scale of evil things to be avoided.

As a result, we often got in a fight when she cooked because I would make some not entirely flattering observation about the seasoned vegan bullshit that she made like “this tofu reminds me of how I used to chew on the strings of my hoodies as a kid” or “this quinoa looks like a pile of eye boogers,” and she would get so offended you’d think she invented tasteless food.

Of course, even when I didn’t say anything, she’d get annoyed when I got hungry an hour later and started scrounging for food in the kitchen. But what could I do? Unlike her, my stomach wasn’t the size of a Cadbury Egg.

To be honest, I was sort of hoping she would recognize the pattern and stop cooking for me since it only put stress on our relationship.

Unfortunately, it seemed her talents were limited to walking in a straight line, keeping track of money, and giving good head.

---