Page 2 of The Boyfriend Goal

“And the showerhead is kinda short, so you might have to, well, duck.”

I make a mental note. “Short shower. No problem.”

She winces, a guilty look in her hazel eyes. “Also, you can’t face forward on the toilet seat since it’s wedged right against the wall.”

I’d hate for her to feel bad when she’s opened her home to me, so I say, “I love acquiring new skills, like peeing sideways.”

“You’re the best,” she says, then blows me a kiss and races down the hall, jumping gracefully over the top step. “Watch out for this one,” she warns and is gone in a cloud of sweet plum perfume and tardiness.

I turn around, take a big welcoming breath, and survey the tiny one-bedroom. Yup. This is definitely the Maeve I met my freshman year of college. Her stuff fucks like horny rabbits and multiplies. Paintbrushes are scattered in the kitchen sink, plants grow wildly from the windowsill, and homemade lamps crafted from old liquor bottles and castaway rhinestones sit on the table.

But it’s home for the next few days till I can move into my own temporary place. I check the clock. It’s four. Which gives me plenty of time to explore the neighborhood before I meet Maeve. That just makes good sense. I like to research everything before I do it. That way I’m always prepared for whatever comes my way.

I need to stop.

Truly, I do. I came to San Francisco for my first job as a librarian, not as a pigeon pornithographer.

But holy balls. Maeve did not lie. Not only is pigeon sex loud, it’s like a freaking pageant. I adjust my phone screen as I record the show. Big Bird over there has been strutting his stuff on the windowsill, cooing and sashaying for Ms. Peck, who keeps scurrying around in circles. Tittering. She is definitely tittering. Then, he hops up on her back.

That’s how pigeons do it? Like they’re forming a cheerleading pyramid? I had no idea, but I can’t look away. The dude is perched there. Now, he’s flapping his wings. And five seconds later, he jumps off.

Talk about a quickie.

“Not impressed, Big Bird,” I say, then peer behind me into the apartment, like I need to check to make sure someone didn’t just watch me record birds doing it.

Nope. It’s just me here. The pornithographer.

Best to get on with my evening. I hit end on my invasion of pigeon privacy and head into the bathroom.

Oh.

I stop abruptly. It’s like the size of a high school locker. But no matter. Maeve is giving me a free place to stay. Who cares if I have to squeeze into the bathroom?

I head to the toilet where, as promised, I have to pee sideways. Fun fact about peeing sideways—your knees bang the sink.

There’s a little scrape now on my left knee.

Fine, my life isn’t quite as perfect as it seemed an hour ago, but a shower will cure that. I strip out of my travel clothes and hop under the hot water, where I pretty much have to do a squat the entire time I’m under the spray. When I get out, my thighs are burning. But bright side and all—this building is a life hack, and I get cardio and strength training here.

The good news is there’s almost enough room in the bathroom to do my makeup.

A half hour later, my hair is dried and I’m wearing my oversized white T-shirt with an off-the shoulder neckline (cut by yours truly), my aunt Greta’s signature scarf to hold back my hair, my black-and-white cat-eye glasses, and a pair of pink fuzzy slippers. My face is lotioned and potioned. In the tiny bathroom, I finish slicking on mascara, then blush, as I google directions to the Frieda Claiborne Gallery while listening to a podcast about the history of San Francisco. The gallery is just down Hayes Street, so it’s not too far away.

I’ll just switch out of this shirt and pull on jeans and a hoodie, then take off. No need to dress up since I’m not actually attending the Dark Futures exhibit. Maeve’s texted the code so I’m good to go. As I head to my suitcase, set neatly by the ratty green couch, there’s a knock on the door.

Hmm. It’s not my place to answer it, but what if Maeve’s expecting something and forgot to tell me? I scurry to the door, setting down my phone to check the peephole. A woman with red hair and freckles flying across her pale skin stands in the hall, frantically bouncing a baby on one hip and balancing a package on the other. And is that a little toddler wandering in bored circles behind her?

“Hey, Maeve. They dropped off your mail for me again,” she says, sounding like sleep has eluded her for a millennia.

Must be her neighbor. I swing open the door.

“Oh. You’re not?—”

“I’m Josie. Maeve’s friend,” I say as the baby whimpers. “But let me take that. You look busy,” I say, reaching for the package, then setting it on the table right by the door inside the apartment.

The woman looks down at the baby with a heavy sigh. “She’s hungry. Eats constantly. But I have to go meet her father for a playdate.”

She doesn’t sound thrilled about the playdate. I bet the playdate she really wants is with her pillow. I so get it. My pillow and I are tight.

---