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  He shakes his head as we pick up speed, riding side by side on the path now. “No. Because now you’re kicking it up a notch, and there’s this thing that happens when you pour gasoline on something and then light a match.”

  “Oh yeah?” I adopt a simpleton tone. “What’s that thing that happens? Does it . . . I dunno . . . catch fire?”

  He snorts. “I would smack you upside the head if we weren’t on bikes right now.” Our wheels turn faster as we sail over the smooth concrete path, swerving carefully around joggers and power-walkers.

  As we pass a pack of runners, I pull ahead. “I bet you would,” I call out. “If you could catch me.”

  I spend all of the next thirty miles maintaining a pace that’s a couple of bike lengths ahead of my big brother. When we’re done, my heart beats fast, and sweat slides down my forehead. I dismount where we started, in Battery Park, and he does the same.

  I glance at my watch. “Just enough time for a hearty breakfast before work.” I’ve got an hour until I’m due at Mercy for my shift. Fridays tend to be busy days at the ER. The action heats up, especially on a Friday afternoon. This might be my only meal today.

  “Let’s do it.”

  “Oh, and by the way, that’s exactly how I’ll manage living with Josie—like I did staying ahead of you the whole ride. I’ll just keep pace ahead of any potential complications,” I say, as we make our way to our favorite diner right across the street.

  “Keep telling yourself that.” We lock up our bikes, and head inside to order.

  And that’s exactly what I’ll tell myself when I move in this weekend.

  6

  I point to the curved wooden stand with a hook at the top. “This. Explain this.”

  Josie sets her hands on her hips. “It’s a banana holder.”

  I give her a stern look. “I can read. I don’t need to know what. I need to know why.” I poke the object on the shelf at Bed Bath & Beyond, otherwise known as the Nexus of Unnecessary Things. Pretty sure there’s some kind of vortex or force field right smack dab in the middle of this store attracting all the weird, bizarre, and odd home goods. “Why can’t they sit on the kitchen counter? Or, how about in a bowl?”

  “Maybe the bananas just like to dangle?” she suggests. “Hang free and all?”

  Smacking my forehead, I go along with it. “Aha. That makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m here to help.” She tugs on my shirtsleeve. “But can we please get to the sheet aisle? You can’t sleep on a naked mattress.”

  “That may be true, but I could definitely sleep naked on a mattress,” I offer, and she laughs as we navigate through another sardine-packed aisle in the mammoth store.

  It’s one in the afternoon, and I just moved in this morning. That took all of two hours. Spending my twenties in med school and as a resident gave me very little time for the acquisition of things, so most of my possessions fit in a duffel bag. I have very little. Not even sheets for a queen-size bed. Ergo, I’m spending Saturday at Bed Bath & Beyond, which is a bit like wandering through a Buzzfeed post titled “Ten Things I’ll Never Use.”

  More like five hundred. Wait. Make that five hundred and one, because I just spotted the new number one item on the list.

  “That,” I say as I make a beeline for a shelf of crème brûlée torches. Grabbing a silvery one, I hold it up. “Please say we can have a housewarming party, and you’ll make crème brûlée, and I can stride all proud and awesome into the kitchen,” I say, puffing out my chest and deepening my voice. “And I can light it with a torch, and we’ll all ooh and ahh at the manly fire I made when I lit up a dessert.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “A manly fire?”

  I nod vigorously. “And then you’ll let the guests take turns punching me in the face for being a total douche for owning a crème brûlée torch.”

  She narrows her eyes. “You actually want people to punch you?”

  I’m deadly serious as I answer her. “If I ever own a crème brûlée torch, you have carte blanche to punch me, Josie. You really should.” I drop the torch on the shelf and take her hand, clasping it tightly in mine. “Promise me. From this day forward. Promise you’ll punch me if I ever own a crème brûlée torch, a rotating tie rack, or more than one kind of cheese grater. This is part of our roommate pact.”

  She grips my hand tighter, her green eyes glowing with stark seriousness. “I solemnly swear to pummel you under all the aforementioned circumstances. As proof of our friendship and roommate solidarity.”

  “You’re a saint,” I say, then wrap a hand around her head and tug her close for a quick kiss on her forehead.

  And hello, sweet, sexy scent of Josie. What is this delicious smell? Is it . . . oh fuck me. Cherries. My God, she smells like cherries. Like the perfect summer fruit. Like the naughtiest fruit. And I’ve got to wonder if that cherry scent is her face lotion, her shampoo, or her body wash?

  Body wash.

  My mind is adrift, and the word association begins. Because what goes with body wash but nudity?

  Naked woman in the shower. Washing. Lathering. Soaping.

  Ah, hell.

  Snap the fuck out it, Summers.

  I stuff those images into a far corner in the dark closet of my mind and pull back from Josie, leaving the questions unanswered. I slap on a happy, wholesome smile. “Thank you for your commitment to my non-douchery endeavors.”

  “I’ve got your back,” she says, and pats me.

  Then she points to a cupcake tin. She pants like a dog. “Must. Have.”

  “Don’t you have twenty of those?”

  She nods as she grabs it from a shelf. “Yes. But I need more.” She spins around, and her hand darts out for something else. “It’s an icing smoother. I need a new one. Gah, this aisle is like baker porn.” She smiles gleefully.

  “Baker porn. I like that,” I say, then offer to hold the kitchen goods. She hands them to me, and I tuck them under my arm.

  When we turn the corner toward the next aisle, Josie stops at the end cap. She taps on a big silvery box. “Quick. Waffle maker. This is the true test of our roommate compatibility. Do you need a waffle maker?”

  I peer at her through narrowed eyes, then slam my free hand as if I’m hitting a buzzer on a game show. “And the correct answer is: No. Never. That’s what Sunday brunch is for.”

  She holds up a palm and we smack hands. “You win this round of the New Roommate Show. Because who wants to buy a monstrosity for the kitchen counter to make waffles in once a year and then have no place to put it in our tiny New York apartment?”

  “Not this guy.”

  “And not this girl.”

  Damn, we rock at living together.

  We soldier on through the store.

  On our quest for sheets, we wander through sconces. And seriously, what the fuck is a sconce? Does anyone even know what a sconce is? No, no one does, because it’s not a thing. Then an entire rack of high-end ice cream makers, which forces me to ask—who the hell decided we should make our own ice cream? Have people, I dunno, not heard of Talenti’s, Edy’s, Ben and Jerry’s, or the corner ice cream shop?

  At the end of a maze of aisles and escalators, we arrive at the sheets. I blink and stare. Up and up and up. “Josie, there are literally five hundred kinds of sheets here,” I say, my tone heavy.

  “Choice is good,” she says, tapping her finger on her chin as she checks out the options.

  I survey the rows upon rows of navy, black, white, dotted, and other manly-patterned sheets, and immediately I’m overwhelmed. Why is sheet shopping so complicated? I swear restarting a heart is easier than figuring out the proper thread count.

  I gesture to the mountains of Egyptian cotton. “But each one says it’s better than the last. What happens if I get the soft three hundred? Will I wonder if the five hundred was the softest after all? And is bigger better? Do I need the eight hundred? How do I decide?”

  She grabs a packet of four hundred thread count sheets and thrusts
it in my arms with an authority that’s downright . . . hot. “That’s how you do it.”

  “Damn, woman. You just made the decision like that.” I snap my fingers.

  “You can’t go wrong with white sheets. And they’ll be just the right amount of soft,” she says, stroking the plastic cover of the sheets. My eyes drift to her fingers, and I stare as she runs them down the cover of the sheets. My mind leapfrogs several inappropriate paces ahead to how her fingers might feel running down my abs . . . Or if her belly is just the right amount of soft . . .

  I shake my head. Of course she’s the right amount of soft. She should be soft. Women are usually soft—that’s just a simple fact.

  “I’m sold,” I say, tucking the sheets under my arm with the rest of our haul and ferrying her away from the bed supplies lest any more errant fantasies pop into my head thanks to the free association of Josie, sheets, fingers, stroking, soft skin, cherries, or any fucking other thing.

  As we leave this section, she stops at a giant tub of velvety pillows of all shapes and sizes. “I need a new pillow.”

  I frown in confusion. “For what?”

  She grabs a royal blue pillow with sequins on the edges and clutches it to her chest. “I like pillows.”

  “Are you a pillow-phile?”

  “Total pillow-phile.” Dropping the blue one in the vat, she dips her hand in and riffles around, rooting through a sea of chocolate brown, deep purple, and rich red pillows. Some are square, some circular, some cylindrical. She finds one that’s emerald green and long.

  “Look!” Her face lights up as if she’s discovered a pirate’s booty.

  “What’s the pillow love all about, Josie?”

  Hugging it tighter, she answers, “Pillows are wonderful. We can nap with them, cuddle with them, put our feet on them. Also,” she says, wagging a finger to draw me closer and dropping her voice to a whisper, “they’re boob friends.”

  And I’m a cartoon character knocked senseless. It’s as if I’ve been hit with a frying pan of naughty, and the dirty lobe of my brain has rattled free. “Boob friends?”

  Josie wiggles her eyebrows and backs up into the aisle next to the pillows.

  I follow.

  I’d follow her anywhere right now because she just uttered my favorite word. Boobs. For the record, my second favorite word is tits. Third is breasts.

  She bites her lip, glances from side to side, then draws the pillow right between the valley of the goddesses on her chest.

  I groan.

  Audibly.

  And my dick springs to attention in my jeans, the shameless fucker.

  Then, it’s story time for Josie Hammer, as she launches into a tale. “Once upon a time, I had a stuffed crocodile. He was a small, green creature who lived on my bed, a present from when I was younger and in the middle of a big love fest for the Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile books. I made him talk, and I named him Lyle Lyle, too.”

  “Clever.”

  Her eyes twinkle. “But what was truly clever was how in middle school I discovered Lyle Lyle’s real purpose. You see, he came in quite handy for this early bloomer. When I was twelve and started getting these,” she says, gesturing to those absolutely fucking magnificent globes, “I started sleeping with Lyle Lyle.”

  “You slept with the stuffed crocodile?” I ask, my throat as dry as my dick is hard.

  She nods and hugs the green pillow tighter between her breasts.

  “Why did you sleep with him?” I ask because the answer eludes me.

  She shifts her weight so she’s leaning a bit to the right. “Because when you sleep on your side, the girls kind of fall on top of each other and smash each other. It can be a little uncomfortable.”

  Yeah, like the tightness in my pants right now.

  “I bet,” I choke out.

  “So Lyle Lyle got a job. I enlisted him as a boob friend. I slept with him every night, and he delivered complete and utter boob comfort.”

  That lucky fucking inanimate animal. “I want to grow up to be a stuffed crocodile.”

  Josie’s green eyes widen, then she laughs. “I like you just fine as you, though.”

  I hold up my forearm. “Then consider this. Would this work as a boob friend? Hypothetically, of course. I’m pretty sure my hand would fit nicely between a pair of boobs.”

  She swats me. “If the pillow fails, I’ll rap twice on the wall.”

  “Honestly, you don’t even have to knock. Just come into my room, grab my hand, and slide it between the girls.” My eyes drift to her 36Cs. What? I can tell from looking. It’s a scientific gift of mine.

  “What color are my eyes?”

  Her question doesn’t compute. I snap my gaze back up to her face. “Green.”

  She points to the bridge of her nose. “And they’re here.”

  “Seriously? You were talking about boobs. Pragmatically speaking, I had no choice but to look at the topic of conversation.”

  She gives me an I-caught-you stare.

  I hold up my hands. “This is not a Swedish Fish moment. You brought it up.”

  She lifts the green pillow and bonks me on the head with it. “And your hand offer is noted.”

  “Just trying to be helpful. That’s all.”

  “And I appreciate it. I’m also buying this pillow.”

  When we reach the counter, I pay for the pillow and hand it to her. I pay for her baking goods, too. “Have I ever told you I give amazing gifts? It’s kind of a special talent of mine.”

  She rolls her eyes, but as we leave, she lets go of the teasing and drops a soft kiss on my cheek. “Thank you for the amazing gifts. That was very sweet of you.”

  Later, as we spend our first night together as roommates, I’m weirdly jealous of a pillow.

  But a week or so after that, it’s not pillows I’m jealous of.

  7

  From the pages of Josie’s Recipe Book

  Air-Popped Popcorn for Nights Hanging Out on the Couch

  * * *

  Ingredients

  1/4 cup unpopped corn kernels

  One popcorn popper

  * * *

  Directions

  Place the kernels in the popcorn popper.

  Put the top on.

  Stick that baby in the microwave.

  This is the toughest part. Gather close. Wait for it . . . hit the popcorn button on the microwave. Watch it. When the microwave dings, voila!

  * * *

  Serving suggestion: Dump the popped corn into a bowl, sprinkle with a little salt, grate a small bit of parmesan cheese, and prepare to enjoy the hell out of a snack as you curl up on the couch and watch TV.

  * * *

  Special instructions: Resist placing your feet on Chase’s legs. Refrain from snuggling up next to him. Keep your hands out of that hair. That golden brown, slightly wavy, looks-so-damn-soft hair. You are friends, and you like hanging out with him. It’s that simple, and don’t presume that friendship means you get the chance to touch his hair. Even though you really, really, really want to touch his hair.

  8

  Six things I’ve learned about women from living with one. . .

  * * *

  One

  * * *

  They use a lot of toilet paper.

  Okay, hold on. I don’t mean anything untoward. What I mean is this—it’s like an epic fiesta of tissue in the bathroom.

  “Can you pick up TP on your way home?” Josie asks on the phone one evening as I’m leaving the hospital after an insane day of sprains and broken bones. “We’re almost out.”

  “There’s half a roll,” I say, because that’s good for three days, right?

  Nope.

  I’m wrong.

  “Chase,” she chides as I head down the street. “That’ll be gone in a couple of hours.”

  And I know why. The chick loves toilet paper. She’s like one of those cat memes, where the pussycat’s paws are wrapped around the roll, and she’s gleefully tugging it off the holder. Josie uses it f
or everything.

  She uses it to take off her makeup. She uses it to clean up water on the bathroom sink. She uses it to dust. Yup, she wads up a chunk of TP and wipes down the shelves with it. She fucking unravels it with her little feline paws. She uses it when she blows her nose, which, incidentally, is kind of adorable since she makes a little squeak.

  I pop into the drugstore and grab some TP. I get her favorite kind. Because it makes her happy.

  * * *

  Two

  * * *

  Hair.

  It’s pretty much everywhere. I find brown strands on the couch. I discover pink strands in the sink. And, truth be told, I find Josie’s hair in my own hair. Shhh. Don’t tell her but . . . I use her hairbrush. I don’t know why, but girls’ brushes are evidently way better than combs. They’re just really fucking awesome.

  * * *

  Three

  * * *

  Josie really likes it when I perform manly tasks. I like it when she likes it when I do manly tasks. Sorry if that makes me not PC or whatever. I’m sure I should be defying stereotypical gender roles and knitting her a scarf or planting flowers, but I won’t lie—I vastly prefer when she asks me to lift shit. A few days ago, she wanted to move the coffee table. I happily obliged, and I enjoyed the fact that she checked out my arms when I carried it. The other night, she asked me to open a pickle jar. I strutted into the kitchen, flexed my arms, and made a big show of it.

  “Peacock,” she muttered.

  I wiggled my eyebrows. “It’s really hard to sound like you’re insulting me when you say that word.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ding dong.”

  I shrugged. “Again, not insulted.”