Page 46 of The Boyfriend Goal

“I got stitches and returned to the game to get an assist.”

I roll my eyes but in admiration of his mettle. “Such a hockey player move.”

He just shrugs. “It was the only thing to do.” He tips his forehead to my chin. “Also, pot, kettle. You got back on your bike after you cut your chin.”

My heart rate spikes. He remembers every detail. “I did.” I pause then get out my conversational backhoe and fill in the rest of the story. “I was chasing my brother. So I had to get back on my bike. I was determined to stay on. But I’m not athletic. Like, whatsoever. I tried soccer once, and I stood in the corner of the field wondering if Katniss was going to save Peeta or not.”

“She did. A lot.”

“She really did,” I say. “And even if I got back on the bike, I’m really not athletic.”

“You’re tougher than you think.” He gestures to the kitchen. “I’m making some food. Do you want something?”

“Sure. I can make my own stuff though. I don’t need to take your food.”

“I’m offering,” Wesley says, and I follow him through the house, walking through the living room where the TV screen is paused on a hockey game to the kitchen. He’s set up quite the spread on a beautiful blond-wood charcuterie board with a pretty array of grapes, broccoli spears, daikon radishes, nuts, blackberries, and olives.

“Wow. You’re a charcuterist,” I say.

“I took a class,” he explains.

“There are classes on charcuterie boards?”

“Josie, there are classes on everything,” he says dryly, a little playfully, and the tone makes me feel like maybe we can figure out this whole “living together” thing without every second being awkward.

But also, his comment about classes makes me think about the second item on the list. A kernel of dread swirls in my gut, but I ignore it as I survey the offerings. I half want to tease him about the lack of cheese, but his comment from last night about meal plans tells me not to. “Your teacher would be very impressed. Looks good, but I don’t want to take your food.”

He sighs. “Josie, I’m offering.”

Shit. I’m handling this badly. I meet his gaze. I can tell he’s trying to navigate this whole situation. I’m trying too but failing, so I blurt out a confession: “I haven’t had a roommate since college, and I’m pretty sure both of them hated me from day one.”

He scoffs. “Why would anyone hate you?”

“Because I asked them to raise their beds,” I say, then quickly explain. “We all had different move-in dates. They moved in the day before me into a freshman triple with three elevated beds. When I moved in both of theirs were already lowered and their bureaus and things were spread out. When I asked them to elevate their dorm beds so we could all have enough room to put desks and stuff under our respective beds, they both refused. One told me she was afraid of ceilings. The other said there’d be no room for her things then.”

He sneers. “So they hated you in response to their selfishness?”

“Yes,” I say.

“That makes no sense. Also, why didn’t you tell them that that was bullshit?”

I flash back to my freshman year, to how uncomfortable the living situation was after that. To how selfish they were. To how I dreaded returning to my dorm room every afternoon when I was through with classes. “I didn’t want to make the situation worse,” I admit.

“I’m not like your freshman roommates.”

“I know but I really don’t know how to do this. I don’t want to get in your way,” I say, choosing patent honesty.

He pauses, seeming to consider that. “I get it. And I don’t want to get in your way either.”

“But it’s your house,” I say, then flap a hand toward his bare chest. “Clearly you’re used to walking around half-naked.”

He looks down at his chest like he’s just realized he’s not wearing a shirt. When he lifts his face, he offers me a wry smile. “Maybe I was doing it in solidarity. Of your half-naked attire.”

“By all means then, please stage a march in support,” I say.

The corner of his lips twitches. “If I have to.”

“I insist,” I say.

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