Chapter 3 – pippa
PIPPA
Cat
Ahigh-pitched giggle vibrates through the wall. Somehow Ryan found another hookup to bring home tonight. She’s been laughing like a hyena for the last hour, managing to be loud enough that I can hear it at the other end of the apartment.
Pippa
I haven’t killed him yet. No promises about the future.
I stare at the laptop on the bed in front of me, rereading the last sentence I wrote for the fifteenth time, but the words blur into meaningless black squiggles.
I huff out a breath. I would have been done writing this article an hour ago if not for Ryan’s insanely loud houseguest. Every time I manage to focus on the words on the screen, she laughs again and breaks my concentration.
Ugh. I shouldn’t even be working right now. My hangover is still lingering from the party last night, making me feel sluggish and irritable. I never would have drunk so much if I had any writing to do.
Unfortunately, my editor, Ingrid, called me this afternoon demanding a last-minute filler article before the next issue goes to print.
The writer who was supposed to be working on 8 Rules for Moving In Together got let go, leaving me to pick up the slack, even though I know nothing about the subject.
The only guy I’ve ever lived with is Ryan, who I’m obviously not dating.
Of course, like any good writer, I did my research.
I called all my friends in relationships to grill them about everything that went wrong when they moved in together.
Then, I spent an hour or two on Reddit and TikTok, compiling horror stories and emailing the creators to ask about quoting them.
Thankfully, one of the psychologists I use as a source was able to provide me with some additional background.
I copy and paste one of her quotes into my document and review it.
7. Set Strong Ground Rules From The Start.
“Ideally, you’ll get on the same page about chores and cleanliness from the beginning,” psychologist Ariel Fu advises.
“You might find out that one partner’s idea of cleaning the bathroom might be wiping it down once a week, while the other thinks it should be scrubbed daily.
It’s better to set clear rules from the beginning than to expect things to work out on their own. ”
Couples often regret not setting ground rules about chores, houseguests, noise—
“That’s hilarious!” the woman shrieks.
My teeth grind together so hard, my jaw hurts. Ryan isn’t funny, so obviously she’s just playing up the laughs to get him in bed. That’s the real joke—all she has to do is pull him into the bedroom. All the flirting and giggling is as pointless as a vestigial tail.
The worst part is that, technically, Ryan isn’t violating any house rules. She’s not making any sex noises—she’s just giggling.
Louder than any human has ever giggled in the history of womankind.
I flop back down on the bed. My brain hurts, and my stomach feels all twisted.
I don’t have a problem with this girl—hell, I haven’t even seen her—but I hate that she’s here.
Why did Ryan have to go pick up another girl?
He can’t be so chronically sex-starved that he passes out if he doesn’t get some every twenty-four hours.
My stomach twists again, and it feels a heck of a lot like jealousy. Not of Ryan—ew. But I haven’t had a guy to bring home for a while now. I can’t even backslide and text my last casual hookup, because he found a girlfriend, even after swearing up and down he wasn’t looking for a relationship.
The girl giggles again, and I swear she’s doing it on purpose. Ryan must know that her laughs are breaking the sound barrier, but he’s not asking her to tone it down, even though it’s almost midnight. He must love that he gets to torture me like this. I swear, he has a mental age of eight.
Frustrated, I pound my fingers into the keyboard, spewing it all out on the page.
8. Check His ID.
Is your boyfriend inconsiderate, loud, obnoxious, and mind-numbingly annoying?
If so, you might want to peek in his wallet and make sure he’s the age he claims to be.
You might have accidentally moved in with a manchild.
If he thinks a coffee table is just a display case for his crumpled up empty cans, or that he doesn’t need to shower after lifting weights because “women crave a natural musk,” if he’s never made his bed without his mom explicitly asking him to, he might not have emotionally progressed past the seventh grade.
Break up with him before he breaks your soul.
You deserve better than to settle for some loser who only knows where the clit is from when he watches lesbian porn.
When I’m done, I let out a breath. My body feels a little less tense now that I’ve put all the tension in my head into words.
Except those words aren’t about moving in with your boyfriend.
They’re about my new roommate, and how living with him totally sucks.
In fact, now that I reread it, I obviously wrote the whole article with Ryan in mind.
“Don’t let him put down your job. Don’t accept living in a trash heap.
Ask yourself if the annoyance is worth it.
” It reads less like advice about moving in with someone and more a list of my stepbrother’s red flags.
I groan. I have two choices. Either I try to rewrite the whole article, or I change the subject. Maybe I’m wrong, but my gut tells me that I wrote this for a reason.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I make the changes. There are really only a few words I need to shift, and within twenty minutes, I have an article ready. Not the one I was assigned to write, exactly, but it’s finished.
I change the title to 8 Signs You’ve Moved In With A Manchild and email it over to Ingrid before I can think better of it.
I might not have followed the assignment, but writing hasn’t felt that easy and natural for a long time.
Wherever made me put my frustration with Ryan on the page, it feels right somehow.
Suddenly, the opening notes of Ode to Joy play. That’s my special ringtone for Ingrid, a reminder that I should act happy and not panic when she calls, because she always calls at the most random, inconvenient times.
Like midnight on a Sunday.
Fuck, she must be calling because she’s pissed that I went off-topic. If she tells me to start over, I’ll be up all night trying to fix the article.
My heart races as I pick up the phone. “Hi, Ingrid. What’s up?”
“Pippa! I started reading the article, and it’s great.”
Whoa. I can’t be hearing her right. “It is?”
“You really got raw with this one! I could actually feel the emotion behind the words. It could probably use a few edits to make sure it all fits with your new angle, but I’ll have an editor take care of that tomorrow.”
Relief rushes through me, and I can practically feel the muscles in my back unknotting. When it comes to work, if Ingrid’s happy, I’m happy.
“But I’m calling because I need you to change track. We need something big and flashy to topline the site for the holidays, and Monica’s article about the dark side of The Great Holiday Bake-Off has hit a standstill.”
“What happened?”
Ingrid sighs. “Turns out, there’s no dark side to The Great Holiday Bake-Off. It really is just wholesome grandmas making gingerbread houses in a giant fake igloo.”
I roll my eyes. I could have told her that. Cat and I watch Sequel’s holiday baking competition every year, and there’s no sex, drugs, violence, or drama involved. That’s why we love it.
“Anyway, we need a replacement article. What do you have for me?”
Typical Ingrid. My job is always chaotic, but calling me at midnight, demanding that I pitch her a new article after she already had me writing a different last-minute article is extreme, even for her.
But in a way, that’s what I love about this job.
I’m good at rolling with the punches, getting creative off the top of my head.
There’s nothing like that thrill of victory when I know I got it just right.
Holiday tropes buzz through my head. Reindeer, guys with red noses, Mrs. Claus, that weird Mrs. Claus-themed lingerie Victoria’s Secret sells every year, Christmas trees, partridge in a pear tree—
The idea crystalizes perfectly in my head. Flirty enough for Belladonna, festive enough for holiday lovers. “The 12 Dates of Christmas,” I say breathlessly. “We can feature twelve different holiday themed dates.”
“I like that,” Ingrid says thoughtfully. “That way, we could keep it going till—what’s the twelfth day of Christmas, January 4th?”
I count the days quickly on my phone calendar. “January 5th. And I could get on the Belladonna forums and collect stories from readers about their top holiday dates. A few of the articles could be expanded versions of the craziest ones.”
“No. I want it just like your man-child rant article. Real and raw. That means it has to be you on those dates, Pippa.”
My stomach sinks. Where am I going to find twelve free days to go out during the busiest time of the year? More importantly, where am I going to find twelve guys?
Ingrid must guess what I’m thinking, because she adds, “Belladonna will cover expenses for all your dates, of course. I just want you to dig deep and get raw. Let down your guard and get us in your head, with all the frustration, embarrassment, and insecurities. Now that I know you can do it, I want to see you soar.”
I bite my lip. I can count on one hand how many times Ingrid has been this effusive about something I wrote. There’s no way I can tell her no now.
Besides, wasn’t I just thinking I wanted to start dating again? Maybe try to find something like what Cat and Nate found in each other? I was going to wait until after the Holidays, but this might just be the perfect excuse.
And I mean, if I don’t find the one, who cares? I’m looking for content here, not commitment. If one of the twelve happens to be both, well…that’s between me and my deadline.