Chapter 5
“I don’t understand,” Fox said. “Why do you want him to be a bad roommate?”
I was lying on the floor. With my face buried in the rug. Which needed to be vacuumed. “I don’t,” I moaned. “I don’t want him to be a bad guy. I don’t want him to be rude. I don’t want him to be a jerk, or to be inconsiderate, or to be a rule-breaker.”
“Right,” Fox said in a tone that suggested I wasn’t making any sense.
A light footfall came from somewhere nearby, and Indira said, “Is everything all right?”
“He didn’t die playing Wizard Cheeseburger, if that’s what you mean.” Fox’s voice held dry amusement. “He’s upset because Bobby hasn’t once been an awful roommate.”
Indira’s silence was…pronounced.
“No,” I said, lifting my head and getting a big lungful of non-rug air. “No! It’s not—I mean, yes, but that makes me sound like I’m crazy.”
“Because it’s normal to be upset that your staggeringly handsome roommate also happens to be courteous and responsible and spends his time helping other people.” A bit tartly, they added, “And not learning how to do the Relish Reel so you can defeat Baron McBurger.”
“It’s Count Cheeseburger,” I snapped. “And you only have to learn the Relish Reel if you want to unlock the secrets of Pickle Village.”
“Remind me again why you’re single.”
“Fox, don’t be unkind.” Indira looked down at me, frowning as she pushed back that witch lock of white hair. “What’s going on?”
“It’s just—” And then it all rushed out of me.
“It’s not fair! I mean, yes, he’s handsome.
And he’s in great shape. He’s so disciplined about everything.
He’s smart, and he’s kind, and he’s patient.
Does he also have to be a perfect roommate?
I mean, I already screwed things up with him big time.
And I know I shouldn’t care about this, but it feels like he’s—”
“Got the upper hand?” Indira said.
“Yes! And if he would just screw up once—just once.” I drew a deep breath and tried to smother myself in the rug again. “But he won’t because he’s Bobby and he’s perfect.”
“He’s certainly not perfect.”
Fox cleared their throat. “I feel like I have to remind everyone about his rump.”
Indira paused. And then, in a pointed tone, she said, “He’s not perfect. But I also don’t think it’s healthy for you to want to feel empowered in your relationship with Bobby by identifying his flaws.”
That made me raise my head again. “Well, no. I mean, when you put it that way, it makes me sound like a psychopath.”
Fox made a considering noise.
“I hate feeling like this,” I said. “I hate feeling like I screwed everything up, and he’s never done anything wrong.”
“Maybe, instead of focusing on the past, you should consider the present,” Indira said. “Be grateful for your friendship. Accept that you’re going to spend some time finding your footing after some recent changes.”
I nodded. Then I said, “Maybe I could frame him. Like, what if I planted a bunch of food in his room, and ants got in there, and I could say, ‘Bobby, what were you thinking? Of course ants were going to find these hidden Pop-Tarts.’”
“Is it five o’clock yet?” Fox asked. “I need a drink.”
A rap on the door made me look over. Bobby stood there, eyebrows arched.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Why? Oh. Uh, yes. I was just…inspecting this rug.”
Fox gave a quiet groan.
Bobby tilted his head, but all he said was “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
“Me?”
“No, dummy,” Fox murmured. “The rug.”
That galvanized me. With a glare for Fox, I picked myself up. Dusted myself off. Realized I was stalling.
In the hall, Bobby shut the door behind me. His expression was unreadable. The distant sound of the waves filtered between us, and I tried to remember if I was still breathing.
“I want to apologize,” he said. “I haven’t been a very good roommate.”
The best I could come up with was “Huh?”
“I know we should be taking turns with the chores, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been doing my share.” His grin was surprisingly boyish. “I hate cleaning the bathroom. Like, actively hate it.”
My brain wanted me to ask, What? But I couldn’t quite connect my brain to my mouth.
“And I noticed you cleaned it. Again.” Bobby grimaced. “Even though it’s definitely my turn. So, I’m sorry.”
I was still staring, but somehow, I managed to say, “Are you saying this because you feel bad for me?”
“Am I telling you I hate cleaning bathrooms because I feel bad for you?”
“Never mind.” I took a breath. “Bobby, you’re a great roommate. You do so much to help everyone around here. If you hate cleaning the bathroom, I’ll do it.”
“No—”
“I don’t mind. Plus, it gives me something productive to do when I’m, uh, redirecting my energy.”
Bobby didn’t say anything. Then his mouth tipped into a smile. “I noticed it got cleaned three times the week you were doing that revise and resubmit.”
“How dare you?”
The smile grew into that big, beautifully dopey grin.
Then it softened into something more serious.
“So, there’s this other thing I wanted to talk to you about.
” He hesitated. “We haven’t been hanging out.
” Before I could speak, he hurried to say, “I know it’s my fault.
But I miss it. And I’d like to spend more time with you, as friends, if that’s okay with you. ”
Which was his polite way of saying, If it’s not going to make you freak out again.
I nodded.
“So,” he said, “I was thinking we could get something to eat.”
And now, I realized, was my chance. If I wanted to make a point. If I wanted leverage or the upper hand or whatever you wanted to call it—now was the time. I could say no. I could backtrack. I could quibble about the bathroom.
But it turned out, I didn’t want to do any of that.
“Yeah,” I said, and I couldn’t help my smile. “Sure.”
“Pizza?”
Because I’m nothing if not suave, sophisticated, and debonair, I said, “Awesome, possum.”
And because Bobby is literally the perfect man, he threw a shaka and, with a perfectly straight face, said, “Cowabunga.”