Page 61 of The Boyfriend Goal

“That makes a lot of sense.”

But that’s not all there is to it. There are other reasons. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I also don’t want people to see me differently,” I say, serving up that raw truth. “Or to think I can’t do something or handle something because of a learning disability. Like, what if Everly thinks I can’t prep for a media interview for some reason, or Coach thinks I’d have trouble reviewing plays? I can do those things.” Then I give an easy shrug. “But honestly, I don’t have the kind of job where reading is really a big issue, so I guess I’m lucky.”

“I get that. And we don’t owe every part of ourselves to the world. You don’t have to share it with anyone you don’t want to share it with.”

She’s quiet for a beat, and I can see the cogs turning in her mind. It’s coming. I know it’s coming. Anna tried this tactic with me, and I need to cut it off at the knees or it’ll piss me off. “You’re not going to tell me to listen to audiobooks, are you?” I ask it defensively. I feel it defensively.

Laughing, she shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I don’t think you told me this so I could give you book recs. You told me because you wanted to share.”

“I did. I want you to know me,” I say, as my chest floods with a new emotion—something warm, something soft. Josie understands me and that’s rare. It’s not magic though. It’s not fate. It’s not even chemistry. It’s effort—she takes the time to listen, and puts in the work to understand. But I like to think I understand her a little more each day too. “You’re going to research the fuck out of this, aren’t you?” I ask, teasing her.

She gives me a look like I’ve nailed it. “You know me so well.”

Because she’s let me in, and that’s rare too. I want to treat it like the gift that it is.

On the way home, she pulls a tube of lipstick from her little bag and slides it across her lips as I drive along our block. I steal a glance at her as she presses them together. They’re pink and shiny now, and I’m fucking aroused.

Great. Just great.

When I pull into the garage, I make up some excuse about checking a group chat with the guys. “I’ll be inside in a second,” I say.

She goes ahead, and when my dick settles down a minute later, I follow. She’s on the couch already, waving the list. It’s not like I want to be anywhere else but near her, so I join her. She grabs one of her pens and crosses off item number two, but only half of it. “We both did this tonight,” she says, giving me the pen so I can finish the strike-through.

“We did,” I say, seconding her as I draw the rest of the line.

Together, we look at the list of ten items with three completed so far.

Have a one-night stand with a sexy stranger.

Overcome a fear (take a class you can’t prepare for, baby! Psst—improv class time!)

Make a friend who’s nothing like you. You learn the most from them.

When I give the pen back to her, she taps the fourth thing on the list. “Are you ready for number four?”

I shudder at the thought. It’s a simple item, but a terrifying one too. I draw a soldiering breath. “I’d better be.”

“We can do it next weekend. You have a game tomorrow and also on Sunday, so I’m guessing next weekend is better. Sunday morning?”

A surge of happiness floods me from this detail—she knows my game schedule. But then, I try not to read too much into it. We live together. It’s just good sense to know your roomie’s sked. Strategic too.

“Next Sunday works,” I say.

“Good. We can plan this week.”

“Of course,” I say, amused at how thoroughly she does homework for everything in her life.

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