Age 25:
From: [email protected]
Lil,
Just so you know…the girl I told you about?
I’m screwed. I don’t want to say too much, but uh…yeah, say a prayer for me. I think I’ve got my work cut out for me. And I am about 60% sure she likes me too. I definitely saw her staring at me while I was wearing a Henley. Keep in mind, YOU are the one who told me about the magic of Henleys, so you’re not allowed to give me crap about it.
How’s your new roommate, btw? Is she single? My best friend has brothers who could use a good woman in their lives.
Have a good night. Do not reply till morning. I know you hate the red unread notification bubble, but you need sleep.
Night,
Shiny
***
You know what I was getting really sick of?
Work. And adulthood. And the inability to wake up one day and fly to Jamaica just because I felt like it. Also that it was virtually impossible for me to say no to my coworkers. Because that meant I had to work later than I should have. Also, maybe I was getting tired of having a hot roommate who was untouchable. Every morning, I’d find her sitting cross-legged on my living room floor. Her hair was always in long, tangled curls, and without fail, she’d be wearing fruit-covered pajamas that had absolutely no right being sexy yet made my heart pound so hard I worried I’d crack a rib.
Not even picturing her in a Coca-Cola polar bear costume could tone down Calla’s hotness. Believe me, I’d tried. And was rewarded with visions of her looking as beautiful as always, snuggled up in white and holding a glass bottle of my favorite soda. She would sell so, so many bottles.
“Morning,” I grumbled out as I locked my gaze on the container of coffee grounds, tunnel vision taking over. Maybe a caffeine fix would temper the fantasies.
Behind me, Calla yawned and dropped her spoon into her ceramic bowl. The sound was so familiar to me these days. It told me that she was having another bowl of my cereal. I almost teased her about how empty the box was, but truth be told, I loved it. I loved when Calla paraded through my kitchen in the middle of the night, searching for Froot Loops. It made her more human. Slight imperfections like that only magnified the teeny, tiny baby crush I was harboring.
Okay, maybe it was closer to borderline fascination, but that was all. I had absolutely no business being “in love” with my best friend’s little sister, despite what Lily argued. So from here on out, I was banning the word “love” from my vocabulary.
And so what if I’d had a couple of inappropriate dreams about her? That kind of thing happened to even the best of us. It wasn’t like I’d stolen Luke’s last piece of gum. And it wasn’t like I saw Luke with spinach in his teeth and didn’t say anything. I’m not a monster.
And technically, I was the one who’d gotten Luke and Layla together, so he owed me more than just a drink name on a menu. Surely he’d let a few simple dreams slide…if he were to find out. God, let him never find out.
“Good morning.” Calla’s light voice tiptoed along the thin ice that was my mood. Working late for the past three days meant I’d gotten very little sleep.
I groaned as I poured coffee grounds into a filter.
“Oh,” she said from her spot on the floor, “could you set aside your leftover coffee grounds? They’re good for Georgie.”
It was far too early for me to try to decode that question.
“Georgie?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Calla said sweetly. “My fig tree. He’s looking a little sad over there.”
She had a plant? She’d been here for weeks, and I’d never noticed. Although, now that she mentioned it, my eyes caught on the hanging plant in a terracotta pot in the kitchen. I sniffled. Cute.
With my second favorite mug in hand, the one that made me look like I had an incredible mustache when I drank out of it, I poured the freshly made coffee.
My most favorite coffee mug, the one with Aaron Judge’s signature on it, which wasn’t actually mine, was still being used as a centerpiece on our coffee table. Calla had placed tiny flowers, baby’s breath as she called it, inside and stuck it next to her clean linen–scented candle. I considered commenting on how she’d moved all her things into the common living areas, because as a grown man who had only ever lived with other men, I shouldn’t find it as comforting as I did.
By no means should I have been grateful for the throw blankets draped along every surface. And coming home to the warm, soft glow of the three-wick candles Calla got on sale shouldn’t be so soothing. Wiping my feet on the mat that had conveniently appeared at my door—the one that said so happy you’re here—so I didn’t track mud into the living room shouldn’t brighten my mood after a long day at work.
I was a masculine, burly man who wasn’t supposed to enjoy such things. So I let her continue. You know, for her own sake.
I turned the corner of the kitchen after a hefty sip of coffee and found Calla sitting cross-legged in her oversized pajamas with a heaping pile of laundry on either side of her. She didn’t notice my presence, so I watched as she grabbed a random T-shirt and folded one side in and the other side out before she tossed it into a new pile. She did this over and over again.
I was by no means a neat freak. I left dishes in the sink sometimes, and my bed was not made twenty-four seven, but this was ridiculous. I was forced to watch in awe, or disgust maybe, as she “folded” every piece of laundry like it was a crumpled-up napkin and sorted them into piles across the floor. The worst part was that while she did it, she hummed tunes that made no sense at all.
One minute she was humming “Beauty and the Beast,” and a few seconds later, she was mumbling the lyrics to “I Believe in a Thing Called Love.” The girl was downright bizarre.
“What are you doing?” I asked, interrupting her as she tossed a shirt that read Hot girls read romance. Side note: I certainly could not deny that sentiment.
Calla jumped but quickly regained her calm position, back hunched slightly and head tipped down. She reached for another article of clothing. “Uh, folding? What are you doing?”
I shook my head. “That is not folding. That is throwing things into piles.”
She took in the mounds of items surrounding her and shrugged. “Seems like folding to me.”
So this was what Luke meant when he mentioned the laundry thing. Guess I should have pushed for details.
“Uh-uh, no. That’s it. Put the Phillies shirt down,” I commanded.
With one brow cocked, Calla glanced up at me, then at the red shirt she was holding, then back at me. “What? It’s not your laundry.”
“No, but I live one wall away from you, and the thought that these are going to be sitting in the closet like this will keep me up at night.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. Then how would you do them?”
I crouched low beside her, only then remembering that I was wearing navy blue pants, a white button-down, and brown leather shoes. I needed to get to work. Chad was on an impromptu vacation, leaving me to finish two of his projects by the end of the week. I had lessons scheduled later in the week too, so I needed every minute I could at my desk.
I straightened up again. “Tonight. You and I are having a folding party.”
She let out a scoffed laugh. “You are insane.”
“No, that”—I pointed at the mess of laundry on the floor—“is insane.”
“Whatever you say.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’m working from here today, so we can have your little folding party when you get home.”
Was it odd that I really, really liked the way she said home? She’d only been here for two weeks, and yet she’d already made this place more of a home than I ever had.
I held back a smile as I lifted my mug to my lips. “I’ll be here.”
It’s just folding clothes, Luke. Geez, would you relax?
