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“I shouldn’t have to set rules. He’s twenty-six. I’ve been complaining about it for almost the entire time he’s lived there.”
“Yes, but Jay’s too used to living his bachelor lifestyle.” She picked up her own drink and curved her black eyebrows upward. “And you’re too used to living the introvert life.”
“The introvert life is the only one worth living. No phone calls, no random drop-in visitors, I don’t have to wear pants…” I trailed off because that wasn’t entirely true.
Now, I had to wear pants.
It just wasn’t the same when I was making pancakes. Pants were restrictive.
“Yes, yes, I know. I stopped dropping by unannounced when you answered the door in a thong and a thin tank top.”
I shrugged. “I looked through the peephole. I knew it was you.”
“It was fucking tactical, and you know it.”
“Of course it was. I don’t like surprise guests.” I grinned. “Which is why it’s so distressing when Robin Hood and his band of merry men descend on my living room to watch football. There isn’t nearly enough space for all their muscles, never mind enough doors to block out their couch-coaching.”
I was being a whiny bitch. I knew it. I also didn’t give a shit.
“Tell me about it. Sean was there last night when we went to the wine bar. I found out when I got home to him being stupid drunk and yelling abuse at an invisible Jason Garrett.”
I finished my drink. “Sounds about right. Jay admitted this morning that he’d had the guys around without telling me. I only knew because they’d drunk all my water.”
Brie groaned, running her hand through her black hair. “They’re such children. They have no respect.”
“And that’s the problem.” I waved three fries at her. “He thinks he’s being respectful, but he’s not. I lost my shit at him this morning so I think he’s starting to realize I can’t keep living like this, but I don’t know what to do.”
Brie waved down our server and motioned for two more drinks. “You could call his mom. She’d have his grandma come around and beat his ass.”
“Yeah, but then that puts me in Betsy’s debt, and I don’t think I have enough money to buy all the Fireball she’d demand.”
We shared a smile. Jay’s grandmother’s obsession with Fireball wasn’t exactly a secret in town, and it’d caused her to remove her shirt in public more than once.
I did not want to be the person who was responsible for that.
The entire town was still getting over the last time. Especially since Betsy, uh, favored letting the girls go free, if you know what I mean.
“Well, at the very least, you need to lay down the law,” Brie replied, slicing her burger in two. “Lay out some rules or something that you both agree with. And, for the love of God, find out if he’s going to stay permanently to get his ass on your lease.”
With a sigh, I swirled a fry through the ketchup on the side of my plate. “I know. But I don’t want him to think I’m forcing him to stay or kicking him out.”
“Just tell him that you need a roommate. That’s why you allowed him to stay anyway, wasn’t it?”
“That and I’m not a heartless bitch who’d put him on the streets.”
“Well, yeah, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have notice. He just thought everything would fall easily for him like it always has.” She shrugged and sat back. “You need a roommate, and he clearly doesn’t want to leave. But you have to make it official and set some rules.”
I tapped my nails against the table. “All right. I’ll give him two options. Sign onto my lease and live here properly with rules, or he has a month to move out. Or is that not enough time?”
“A month is fine. In the meantime, I’ll find you a safe to store your Oreos in, just in case.”
New drinks were placed in front of us, and we both grinned.
Now that was a best friend.
• • •
The apartment was deathly quiet when I got back. I checked the time and saw that Jay would still be at work for another hour, so I wouldn’t see him until some time closer to ten.
If he remembered to stop by the store for my Oreos.
Not that it mattered. I’d wandered to the store on my way back walking home from the bar where Brie and I had met for dinner. I was now the proud owner of three different packets of Oreos, which meant I no longer got to wonder why my shirts were getting a little on the fitted side of life.
Look, writers didn’t wear fitted shirts. We barely even wore pants unless they were sweats or yoga pants. We weren’t here to look pretty; we were here to write until our fingers bled and we cried into our wine.
