Page 65 of The Boyfriend Goal

“Maybe I will,” I say.

Then I amend it to definitely when she takes out her lipstick and slicks some on. It’s like she knows what it does to me.

That night, I return home from an exhausting hockey game, where a puck didn’t attack me but the boards did when I slammed into them during the third period. We lost, but I’m done replaying what went wrong. I did that already in the weight room when the game ended, with Christian. As we did push-ups and dead lifts, he went over a few key moments, like when the Phoenix team’s star player kept getting the puck, and how we need to keep guys like that on the outside and away from the middle of the ice. Christian was serious about this mentorship thing.

But I need to put the captain and the loss out of my head, and I’m pretty good at that—at moving on, and taking what I need from a game and leaving the rest behind. I head up the steps from the garage, my shoulders sore, my thighs screaming.

Except when I get to the kitchen, I forget all that. There’s a note from Josie on the counter. I’m a junkie. An addict. I can’t get enough. I grab it, unfolding it in record time, needing my hit.

Dear Wesley,

You knew this was coming, right? Of course you knew. Once you said you didn’t mind my notes, you really only had yourself to blame. I am a note monster unleashed!

And fine, since you never wrote back to my first note and told me five things I should know about you, I decided to write my own damn list of fun facts about my roommate.

Here goes. Five things I’ve learned about you.

1. You were a stripper in a past life.

2. You clearly moonlight as an EMT in this life. (That was hot—the way you showed up with first-aid supplies.)

3. You will be a singer in your next life. (You know all the lyrics to songs. I hear you singing when you’re wearing headphones.)

4. You will never beat the zombies in your video game. Never, ever. (Sorry, you can’t be good at everything! The universe gave you elite hockey skills and teeny, tiny video game talent.)

5. You are still the most generous person I’ve ever known. Thank you for the ride to work. Thank you so very much.

Your friend, Josie

P.S. I’ll send you some ideas for number four! And next Sunday morning is perfect since it’s right before you leave for your road trip.

When I set it down, my skin is hot and my bones are buzzing. From the words, from her knowing the specifics of my schedule, from everything. Without thinking twice, I leave the kitchen, crossing the hallway to her bedroom door, lifting my hand to rap my knuckles on the wood.

But before I make contact, I force myself to stop. Frozen in place, a statue of desire, I stay like that, picturing her in her room. Then, flashing back to an hour ago with her brother. He’s not in charge of my decisions, but what would he think if less than a month into living with his sister, I banged down her door to strip her naked and give her more orgasms than she could count?

More importantly, what would I think of me?

That’s not what a good friend does.

Not what a good roomie does.

Taking a deep, centering breath, I find the will to walk away.

As I’m returning to the kitchen, my phone pings with a message. It’s late, so I grab it right away, sliding open the screen.

My pulse spikes when I see Josie’s name. Is she awake? Did she know I was this close to breaking down the door to her bedroom?

I swallow roughly and open the text. It’s a voicemail. And I’m both psyched and touched. I hit play.

“Hi! I’m probably asleep. I scheduled this voicemail to send at eleven-thirty. You probably have ibuprofen, but I left you two next to the toaster anyway. You should take them after that game. Also, I got you something for next Sunday morning. It’s by the toaster too.” There’s a pause, then I hear footsteps on the recording and I picture her walking around the house while she left this. “Good night…Wes.”

Hardly anyone calls me Wes. But the girl who likes nicknames does now. I don’t even know why, but I love the way it sounds on her lips.

I head straight to the toaster. I ignore the pills, grabbing the canvas bag instead and reaching inside it. After feeling some kind of fabric, I pull it out, then laugh when I shake open the gift.

It’s an apron with lipstick marks all over it.

I’m so fucked.

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