Page 58 of The Pocket Pair

“He did.” And I’m antsy to move my stuff into Mr. Silver’s studio so I can work on finishing them. I think Chevy’s helping me in a few days, right before Mari leaves, something I’m trying not to think about. “But it’s not like that’s a solid strategy, just hoping some rich guy will buy a dozen paintings at once without even seeing them.” I sigh, staring down into my bowl. “I’m just struggling to see where I belong in the world, in my life. So, this seems like a good plan for me. For now.”

“And after?” That careful tone is back in his voice.

I shrug. “I’ll come back. And then … I don’t know.”

Give me a reason, Chevy. Come on. Ask me to stay. Or to come back for you. To you.

“Well, you’ve got a place here if you need it,” he says, and it’s close to what I really want, but still so far away.

I want begging, passionate pleading, can’t live without you kind of stuff. Not a general invite to crash in his guest bedroom. Sigh.

He pushes away his empty bowl. “Which reminds me—while I’ve got you sitting here, I want to do something.”

Chevy disappears from the kitchen, only to return a moment later with a notebook and a pencil. He flips the notebook until he finds a blank page. I try not to be too nosy, reading through what looks very much like a daily bullet journal. Chevy, journaling? Interesting.

“Roommate rules,” he says, and while I’m processing this statement, I watch him write those same words along the top of the page in messy, blocky letters.

I shift on my stool. “Have I already done something wrong?”

“No,” he says a little too quickly, and then I remember me running pantsless through the house. At the very least, THAT. I’ve tried to keep my things picked up, but where Chevy is almost clinically neat and tidy, I’m more of the Peanuts’ Pigpen, only I leave a trail of my stuff instead of dust. Chevy brought me a sock the other day he said he found in the pantry. I have no idea how it got there, but also wasn’t at all surprised.

“So what are the rules for, exactly?”

“My freshman year of college, my RA had us all do this with our roommates. It’s more like expectations about things like watching TV at different times, quiet hours, cleaning up after yourself, and, um, having people over. Stuff like that. Didn’t you have to do that?”

I shake my head, but my brain tripped over the last option Chevy mentioned. Having people over. Of course—Chevy wants to talk about rules so he can have a woman here. Now, I’m not shifting on my stool but squirming. I barely touched my food, but I wish I’d eaten even less as my stomach churns.

“Makes sense,” I say, hoping Chevy can’t sense how close I am to needing a paper bag to breathe into.

“We can start with the easy stuff,” he says. “Can we agree on no wild parties? Or loud gatherings past midnight without asking the other person first?”

“Sure.” Like I’m going to have a wild party. Even in college, I wasn’t a party girl. But I’ll take this softball.

Chevy continues with the soft pitches—things like if one person cooks for both, the other does the dishes, and if we’re eating alone, we clean up after ourselves—long enough to lull me into false comfort. So, when he suddenly switches gears, I nearly topple off my stool.

“How about … no nudity in the common areas,” he says, already writing it down. “Pants and shirts required outside of bedrooms and bathrooms.”

This one is totally aimed at me and my pantsless laundry dash the other day. But I’m not the only one who’s broken this rule lately.

“Fine. Let’s add this one—no answering the front door shirtless and with your hand in your pants,” I say, blinking innocently like this is some total hypothetical.

“Okay.” He clears his throat, then eyes me sideways. “And no running through the house without pants on.”

I glare. “You weren’t home when I threw all my clothes in the wash.”

“But you knew I was home when you came out to get them,” he points out.

“I tried to hurry! That’s why I fell over. Because I was trying to get back to my room.”

Chevy taps his pen on the page. “Noted. But from here on out, pants are non-optional.”

“Fine,” I say.

“Good.”

He taps his pencil on the paper, and I tilt my head, reading down the list. Everything but the clothing-required portion is pretty tame, and not really a big deal. But he still hasn’t said anything about bringing over guests. As in, dates. I know it’s coming since he mentioned it, but the idea makes my whole head ache. But I’d rather hit this head-on than listen to Chevy dance around it.

“How about sleepovers?” I ask.

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