Page 48 of The Boyfriend Goal

I smile, a little evilly. “Actually, I plotted with some other friends and arranged for a room transfer. I traded with a girl who snored. Loudly.”

He whistles in admiration. “Remind me not to cross you.”

We manage the roomie thing easily enough. I’m out all day at work most days and one or two nights a week as well since we’re open at night, and Wesley works most nights. When he is home in the evenings, I try to wander around local bookstores or check out museums not to avoid him, but to be polite. I don’t want to cramp his style. When we do see each other at home, I give him space, and he does the same for me.

But mostly, I don’t run into him since we’re on such different schedules and he’s busy with practice, workouts, and home games most of the first week. By the time the weekend rolls around, he takes off for a stretch of away games for several days.

I have the place to myself after work on Sunday, so I cook and bake, including lavender chocolate chip cookies that I bring to the library and they’re gone in seconds. At night I also read and research the city.

One evening, as I’m on the bus home checking out an online course catalog, my phone pings with a new text—this one from Everly.

Everly: How’s it going? Settling into the city? Living with a hockey player? Don’t trip over any hockey sticks!

The text sends a little zing of happiness through me. I like that she meant what she said the night I met her when she offered survival tactics. I reply right away.

Josie: No tripping yet. So no two-minute penalties either.

Everly: Damn! You know the sport! Impressed.

Josie: It’s hockey by osmosis with me, I swear.

Everly: Whatever it is, it worked. Do you need anything? I’m an excellent tour guide.

Oh, that’s tempting. I slide my teeth across my lower lip, considering. On the one hand, I want to say yes. I’m eager to make new friends. But is that greedy? I have Maeve and Fable. On the other hand, friendship isn’t a thing to be stingy with.

Josie: I love exploring. Also, if you have any recs for grocery stores that don’t charge eight dollars for bread that’d be great. I’m totally not pointing fingers at the PLETHORA of bougie gourmet markets near where I now live. ??

Everly: I got you, babe! Will send some recs. And we’ll go check out the Marina or Russian Hill soon!

We chat some more then make plans to visit the Marina neighborhood. It’s gorgeous there in the fall, she tells me.

When the bus arrives at my stop, I walk the few blocks to Wesley’s place, then go into the silent home since he’s not there again. These nights alone feel like ones when I was younger. When I used to babysit for the Murrays down the street. Once the kids were asleep, I’d wander through their home at night, curious about everything. The books on their shelves. The games on their coffee table. The food in their fridge. That’s how I feel at Wesley’s place as I check out a few party games on the table—Cards Against Humanity-type stuff, as well as video games, mostly involving zombies. His record collection is extensive, and I hardly know any of the bands’ names. But I’m not a music person. There aren’t any books, but maybe he’s a digital guy.

The fridge is full of nutrients. That’s what he eats—food with a purpose.

I try not to be too nosey. I’m a guest after all, so I don’t open drawers I shouldn’t, or paw through shelves. And I don’t go upstairs. Still, my cat-like curiosity keeps rearing its head every time I pass the staircase.

On Thursday night, I stop and stare, my mind spinning in new directions. Is there a dungeon up there in his room? A sex swing? Would I like a sex swing? My chest warms. Maybe I would. Does he have a bed with those straps on it for tying up playmates? Now, my chest tingles.

I’ve read too many books. But even so, wouldn’t that be something, if he had a room full of accouterments? He did seem like the tying-her-up type. A delicious chill runs through my bones at the thought.

But he also seems like the bend-you-over-the-kitchen-counter-and-fuck-you-hard-after-work type.

A sharp, hot blast of pleasure rushes through me.

Once again, I retreat to my room under the stairs and picture our one and only night together. But even though he’s in Detroit or St. Louis or who even knows, I’m quiet as I come.

I bite back my moans. I can’t shake the idea that this isn’t my place and that somehow, someone could be listening.

Or really, that he could.

And that he’d know I was lying when I said I went to Frieda’s to give him a thank you gift.

On Friday night, I’m exhausted from an energizing week at the library, helping patrons. I also came up with an idea for a digital initiative to help enhance the reader’s experience, and Thalia gave it the go-ahead so it’s been consuming my mind. Wesley told me he’s not going to be home till late, so after I clean up my dinner so the kitchen is spick-and-span—I am Super Roomie—I settle into the couch, take out my blank book and my list, then flip through the course catalog from the Community Academy, checking out class offerings, wishing I could skip number two but knowing I can’t. I need to find just the right class for the item about overcoming a fear.

But it’s almost nine and a yawn overcomes me. I stretch then head to my room, grab some jammies, and take a quick shower before bed. I rub five different kinds of lotions and potions into my face, starting with under-eye cream, then serum, then night cream.

When I look dewy as fuck, I’m satisfied. I loop my brown hair into a bun with a scrunchie, slide my glasses back on, and return to the living room, stopping when I reach it, startled.

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