Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
But when I unlock the door and head inside, my home is eerily quiet. Well, her brother did say she kept to herself. He knows her better than I do.
I toe off my sneakers at the door, drag a hand through my sweaty hair, and head for the kitchen to grab a glass of water. After I pour a cup and down it greedily, I turn around, spotting an album on the counter, resting against the blender my dad got me.
It’s a record I’ve been wanting. Plus, there’s a folded-over sheet of paper with my name on the front. My heart gallops for a beat or two. Weird. Must just be the post-run adrenaline. Yeah, that has to be it.
I flip open the sheet of light blue paper. And I stand corrected. It’s two sheets of paper. This girl loves writing notes with pen and paper. It’s long as fuck, but I’m determined, and glad, too, she took the time to put it on two pages.
Dear Wesley,
Something you should know about me is this—when I go to bed after nine-thirty, I turn into a monster. Think Medusa, Grendel, Pennywise the Clown. And then I say things like “this room is the first thing that’s gone right all week.”
I’m sorry!
That was so insensitive of me to say. Clearly this room is not the first thing that’s been good about this week.
Anyway, I’m the worst! My only excuse is the late bedtime.
The room is amazing, and so are you for helping me out yet again. I know nothing about the “Good Neighbors Band” but the guy who runs the record shop on Hayes Street (who incidentally looks like he runs a record shop, what with the shoulder-length hair, leather bracelets, wiry arms, and goatee) said if you like Ben Rogers you’ll probably like the Good Neighbors Band. I hope you don’t have it already!
Anyway, here it is. A thank you gift. The cactus doesn’t count because it’s a prick.
P.S. Since we’re roomies now and this stuff is probably useful, here are five things you should know about me.
1. I love mornings!
2. I am not as neat as you but I promise I will be neater because your neatness is inspiring.
3. I love to explore, and I plan to learn everything possible about San Francisco over the next three months.
4. See 3—I like to learn. It’s basically my entire personality.
5. I also am in a committed relationship with baking. But should I keep tempting food out of the house? I don’t mind not baking for the next three months! I am very adaptable. Which is sort of a sixth thing about me.
Josie
After I take my time reading it, making sure I didn’t miss any words, I set it down on the counter, rubbing my sternum because it feels a little funny. A little fizzy.
No one leaves me letters. Ever. In one week, I’ve received two from her. It’s kind of…adorably old-fashioned. I bet she likes Bridgerton too. Probably old standards like Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald as well. I pick up the album, my lips curving up in appreciation of the gift but mostly the gesture.
Something bothers me about the letter though. The time frame. She’s only here for three months. There’s an expiration date to her presence. But that’s for the best. Really, it is.
I head to the living room to put the record on when the front door swings open.
“Good morning! I picked up fruit,” Josie says, holding a canvas bag, her chestnut hair back in a high ponytail, her jeans painted to the curves of her ass. “You said you had meal plans, and I know you don’t need someone to cook, and I definitely don’t want you to break your plan, but I figured fruit is always allowed, right?”
“Pretty sure,” I say evenly since I don’t want to let on how much I like that she bought me fruit. Or how hard it is to look away from her pink, glossy lips.
“Cool. So, maybe I can pay rent in fruit,” she says, so damn hopeful. She’s making such an effort to contribute that maybe I shouldn’t be so rigid.
“You can pay rent in fruit,” I say, acquiescing.
She pumps a fist. “Yes!”
“But you’re not going to pay rent in cleaning, or cooking, or anything like that. You’re a roommate—not a maid. Also, good morning."
“Thank you,” she says with genuine gratitude, and acceptance, too, that rent isn’t up for negotiation.
She walks toward the living room. She’s wearing a sky blue top that slopes off one shoulder—a very tantalizing shoulder I want to kiss, lick, and bite. She stops in her tracks as her gaze lands on my feet. I’m just in socks now. She kicks off her sneakers next to the table with Prick the Cactus on it, then continues into my home, offering an apologetic glance my way. “Oh, I see you got the album.”