Page 1 of The Boyfriend Goal

1

WHEN A SCARF’S NO LONGER A SCARF

Josie

Don’t look now, but everything is going perfectly today.

This never happens so I’m going to savor every single second. My flight into San Francisco arrived early. My black-and-white leopard-print luggage was the first to land on the carousel. And the town car my older brother sent for me—since his wife is fifty-nine million months pregnant with twins—cruised along the 101 and into the city easily without hitting any traffic, even on a Sunday afternoon.

The car pulls up in front of a charming yellow building in Hayes Valley that my college friend Maeve has been secretly renting from a trapeze artist, who’s been subleasing it from a foot archer (I didn’t even know that was a thing), so somehow this game of six-degrees-of-circus-separation brought her to this vibrant neighborhood. And it brought this neighborhood to me, since I’ll be couching it here this week until I move into my own short-term rental on Friday. My new job begins on Tuesday. I’m so excited to start this next phase of my life.

Right now.

The car stops and the driver hops out, hustling to my door and swinging it open for me. “Here you go, Josie. Can I help you with anything?”

I smile brightly at the man but decline. “I’ve got it,” I say, since I can’t let myself get used to drivers or special service. That’s my brother’s world—not mine.

I’m a do-it-yourself kind of gal, and my meager bank account thanks me for it. When the driver unloads the suitcases on the sidewalk, I thank him then take a beat to note what’s on this block. A cute café, a record shop, a noodle diner, and a sea of people swimming through the city.

It’s a little overwhelming, but in a good way. It’s also nothing like the quiet little town in Maine where I’ve lived most of my life. But I’m getting out of my comfort zone. I’m starting my first job post master’s degree, and I’ve even got my list from my fabulous aunt Greta.

The list I’ve held onto for two years. The list I will definitely, absolutely finally tackle. Though maybe not item number one. That’s way out of my comfort zone. But the other things on the list are fine.

Well, mostly fine.

We’ll see.

For now, I say goodbye to the driver, then send my big brother a text. Christian still worries about me, so he’ll want to know I navigated the wilds of the big bad city safely.

Josie: I’m here and all is well.

He doesn’t reply, but I’m not worried since he and his wife are about to have their hands full, which will be doubly hard since hockey starts at the end of this week, and it’s his second season as the team captain.

I drag my bags—bought secondhand at a thrift shop, naturally—up the stoop. After checking the front door code that Maeve texted me, I punch it into the keypad, then head up three steep and cardio-inducing flights of stairs to the fourth floor, searching for B4.

Note to self: no need to join a gym this week.

I find the door—it’s purple, which doesn’t surprise me but does delight me—and I try the code Maeve sent again. It doesn’t work. Which, knowing Maeve, also doesn’t surprise me.

The second I rap on the door though, it swings open inside and there’s a half-blonde/half-brunette tornado. In a mad dash, Maeve’s doing up the final button on a starched white shirt, then stabbing a chopstick through her curls of light brown hair, streaked with blonde.

“Ahhhh! I’m the worst. I’m late for a last-minute catering gig for a Dark Futures exhibit at this gallery I’m dying to get my paintings into—the Frieda Claiborne Gallery. It’s a mile away. Meet me there at ten and we’ll grab food.”

Ten? What, are we still in college? I like to be in jammies at nine-thirty on the dot while enjoying a cheap merlot and debating the best book-to-film adaptations of all time in a Reddit group.

But I smile and say, “Sounds great.”

She’s hugging me in a blur, then racing out the door as I barely catch my breath to call out, “Good luck. You’ll wow this Frieda, I just know it.”

She shudders as she walks backward toward the stairs. “I hear she’s tough.”

“So are you,” I say, as she spins around, but…wait.

I point to the purple door I’m holding open and the keypad on it that I’ll need to use the next time I return to this place. “Maeve, what’s the door code for here? It’s different than the one downstairs.”

She waggles her phone. “It’s long so I’ll text it to you.” She wheels around, then turns right back, lifting a finger. “If you hear a funny noise on the windowsill, don’t freak out. It’s just the pigeons banging.”

Okaaaay. “Didn’t have pigeon sex on today’s bingo card but thanks for the heads-up.”

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