Page 69 of The Boyfriend Goal

But seeing my brother with his arm wrapped around his wife, and her shoulders lighter from the date, fills my cup. They needed this, and I’m glad I was able to help.

Even though I am so not a baby person.

When I finally make it home to a quiet house, I’m sure I’ll crash right away on my bed. Instead, my mind fast forwards to Sunday morning. To my plans with Wes. I wince when I finally realize why I’ve been watching the clock all day—it feels like I’m counting down to a date with him. I’ve been letting it feel that way. I’ve been bathing in that feeling, sinking into the warm water of foolish romantic hopes.

But it’s not a date. It can’t be one. And the more I act like it could be, the more I could hurt him. He’s on the cusp of greatness while I’m only a girl trying to get out of her comfort zone.

Fact is, I’ve been trying to get out of that zone for a while. It’s been two long years since Greta reached for my hand one rainy day in her little bungalow in our small town in Maine, more tired and frail than she’d ever been before, the days left for her on earth inevitably shrinking, and said, “My sweet girl, I’m going to give you something that I desperately want you to have.”

“More time with you?” I croaked out, tears leaking down my face.

She smiled sadly, shaking her head, then said, “If only I could.” She squeezed my hand as hard as she could, which wasn’t hard at all, then pointed to a blank book on her nightstand. “This is for you. So you don’t spend too much time thinking about me.”

“That won’t happen,” I said.

“But maybe it should.”

Then, she handed me a sheet of paper that was on top of the book. A beautiful, handwritten list of the Top Ten Things I Never Regretted, and she said, “Think about doing it, baby. Sooner rather than later.”

It was like she knew I’d drag my feet. She was right.

I stalled out. I didn’t do it. I didn’t even try. I let it sit in the blank book, undone, untackled. Unseen for most of two years.

I could blame the grief. I could blame my master’s degree. But the blame is all mine—I’m the kind of person who takes her time before she does something.

I started the list without Wesley, and truly, I should finish it on my own. That’s the point, after all. I know how to do things solo. I know how to be invisible. I spent most of my life that way, except for when I was with my aunt.

I swallow past the uncomfortable knot in my throat then breathe out hard, past the residual pain of missing. A pain that’s lessened over time but hasn’t fully abated.

Once the emotions subside enough, I peel myself off the mattress, trudge to the bathroom, and wash my face. When I’m makeup free, I rub in vitamin C serum and night cream till my face is shiny.

I look in the mirror. Square my shoulders. Smile. There. I can do this alone, just like I read books alone. Study alone.

I return to my room and take out the list once more, unfolding it. In the quiet of the house, I stare at the fourth item once again—eat dessert for breakfast. I can’t ask him to join me. Wesley is Mister Discipline. True, he had ice cream the night we met. But now that I’ve seen his meal plan and witnessed the way he treats his body like a temple, I can’t ask him to break his rules again. Besides, the list was supposed to help me get out of my comfort zone.

Wesley doesn’t need to change. I do.

I draw a deep breath and leave him a voice memo rather than writing a letter. “Hey! I was thinking about the list. You don’t have to do this. Any of this. Especially number four. It’s not fair for me to ask you. You don’t need to wake up early or anything. I can totally do it alone! Also, you really should let me pay rent, and if you don’t, I’m going to have to donate the money to your favorite animal rescue or something. Just watch me!” And so I don’t sound ungrateful, I add in a brighter, cheerier voice: “But seriously. Thank you for everything you’ve done so far.”

I hit send.

That’s a start. I can do more though. Just to show him I appreciate all he’s done, I get on my laptop and I hunt for tips on Wesley’s zombie video game. I dive into Reddit. I hunt through forums. I rappel through all sorts of tips on how to improve his gameplay. When I’m done, I send him a list of tips in bullet-point form on how to play better.

There.

It’s a small thing, but at least it’s a thing I’ve done for him—not the other way around.

23

TELL ME TO STOP

Josie

In the morning, I wake up to a handwritten note under the door.

You’re wrong.

Wes

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