Page 67 of The Boyfriend Goal

Wesley: BTW, you’re the only one who calls me Wes.

Josie: And…?

Wesley: Don’t stop.

Josie: I won’t…Wes.

I almost feel like I could text him all afternoon, but there’s a patron heading toward the desk, so I slip my phone back in my skirt pocket and return to work.

When the day ends, I tell Thalia I’ll see her tomorrow since I offered to take a Saturday shift for Eddie in research so he could go to his husband’s mini-golf tournament. Then I leave, passing the fire station where the guys are washing their truck—again. And doing it shirtless again. I smile again. They wave back, then I catch a bus to a small store in Russian Hill. Everly’s waiting at the door, wearing tailored slacks and a pretty blouse but dressed down with Converse sneakers.

“You look like a cocktail of business and casual,” I say, admiring her outfit.

“I like you. I think I’ll keep you around,” she says.

The part of me—that part of everyone that wants to be liked—does a little jig. “Good. I’m very keepable.”

She gestures to the entrance, waggling her phone. “Fair warning. I’m a little into coupons.”

“Me too,” I say, and we’re clearly new besties as we head inside. She’s another thing I like about San Francisco. I’ll miss her when the job ends in three months. Actually, it ends in two months now, but I try not to think about the end date too much. This was always going to be a short-term gig, and there’ll be other jobs when I get back home. Besides, there’s plenty to keep me busy while I’m here.

Like the list. With a basket on my arm, I pick up supplies for number four—eat dessert for breakfast from time to time—with a little more vim and vigor than I usually employ when I’m picking up supplies.

“You look like you have something fun planned. What are you baking?” Everly asks as I grab cinnamon from the spice aisle with an eager hand.

Should I tell her? It’s not a state secret. “A cinnamon sugar puff pastry. Wes and I are making it,” I add. Nothing wrong with sharing that. We’re roomies and all.

But that nugget seems to catch her attention more than I’d expect, maybe since I called him Wes. She tilts her head. “You guys are baking together now?”

Is it weird to cook with your roomie these days? “Of course,” I say, fighting to stay nonchalant. “Sometimes we cook together.”

And I leave him handwritten letters, and he drives me to work, and I give him ibuprofen, and he buys me books, and we’re working through my aunt’s bucket list for me in our free time. That’s all totally normal, right?

“I guess that answers my next question—how it is living with one of the Sea Dogs,” she asks, a pleased smile shifting her lips. “Sounds like you two get along.”

“We get along great,” I chirp out, feeling like a liar even though we do get along well. But I know I’m covering something else up. And it’s not the burgeoning friendship. It’s the reason I can’t wait till Sunday. It’s the flutter in my chest. The tingle sliding down my spine. The ache I feel when I’m near him.

“I’m so glad there’s no weirdness, like sharing a bathroom,” Everly says as we leave the spice aisle.

“We each have our own,” I say quickly, trying to breeze through this uncomfortable conversation. I know she’s not intending it to be uncomfortable. But it is since I’m keeping a secret from my brother, and in turn, her.

“And he’s not parading around in a towel?”

I wish he were. “No,” I say, but it comes out strangled because I would love if Wes did that. He drove me to work again on Monday. And a third time today. Shirtless both times. So thoughtful.

“I didn’t think he would,” Everly says as we reach the self-checkout. “But you know how they make it seem in the movies. The burly athlete walking around in nothing.”

Flames lick my chest over that image. “He never does that,” I say, and mercifully the conversation ends when two registers free up. We separate, giving me and my lies of omission some breathing room.

After Everly and I both pay and pack our reusable bags, we head to the exit, then to Everly’s car parked by the curb.

Once we’re inside, she drives me home, chatting the whole way. She’s upbeat and friendly, but she still surprises me when she says, “I’ve been taking pole-dancing classes, and they’re so fun. I had a friend who always wanted to do them.” Briefly my mind latches onto those words—had a friend. But quickly, she moves past that, asking, “Would you ever want to go?”

Pole and me? Sounds like I’d get another scar on my chin. Or my eyes. Or my vagina. “I’m not coordinated at all.”

“I’m not either. But it’s so fun,” she says as she pulls up at Wes’s home. “If you ever want to try it out, let me know. It’s a great workout, and…I’d love to do it with friends.”

Her voice seems to wobble a bit there at the end, and I can tell this matters to her.

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