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Curling photo booth strips, the sagging cardboard box from their sad attempt at making their own board game in the seventh grade, even a Ziploc of their favorite hometown bagels—formerly frozen—currently dripping all over her bathrobe.
Everything hurt. Clara dropped her chin to her chest.
A single knock sounded on the door behind her.
“Come in.” The chaos on the carpet mirrored the mess she’d made of her life. How poetic.
“How’s the unpacking going?” Josh offered her a chipped mug full of steaming coffee.
Clara created a visor with her hand and turned away, but not before she got an eyeful confirming that Josh’s happy trail matched his dark brown eyebrows rather than the blond curls on his head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I kept hearing these sad little sighs from the hallway. I thought coffee might cheer you up.” He surveyed her perch. “Did you climb on that chair to avoid a spider?”
Clara stepped carefully down. “You’re not wearing enough clothes.” She closed her eyes, but the lean muscles of his bare chest had imprinted on her retinas.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see the list of rules I slipped under your door last night?” She’d spent an hour and a half after dinner writing out provisions on college-ruled paper. She’d even included designated spaces for both of their signatures.
“I thought you said they were guidelines?”
“They are guidelines.” She tried to weave patience into her tone. “And the guidelines say all parties must wear at least three pieces of clothing when entering public areas of the house and/or during direct interaction with another roommate and/or guests.”
Josh stared down at his bare feet. “What about socks?”
“What do you mean, ‘What about socks’?”
“Do they count as one item of clothing or two?”
Clara placed her hands on her hips. “Socks don’t count.”
He sucked in air between his teeth. “Unfortunately, that’s unclear in the literature.”
“A sock is a nonessential clothing item.”
Mischief entered his gaze. “Only until you’re playing strip poker.”
“Thank you for bringing me coffee.” Clara accepted the mug mostly so he’d stop talking.
“No problem. I didn’t know how you take it . . . but we also don’t have any cream. Or sugar.” He grimaced. “But listen, I’ll take you to the grocery store as soon as you’re done . . .” His eyes tracked the mess she’d made of the bedroom. “. . . redecorating.”
Tired of making eye contact with his dusting of golden chest hair, Clara grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find—a huge old sweatshirt strewn across the back of the desk chair—and threw it with her free hand toward his rippling pectorals.
While he pulled it on, she went to grab his copy of the guidelines.
As soon as she entered the master bedroom, Clara had to force herself not to look at the bed. Everett’s bed. The pillow probably still smelled like him. She took a surreptitious sniff from the doorway. Yep, this whole room smelled like Everett. Irish Spring and the vinyl of hundreds of records.
She shook her head and scanned for notebook paper, finally spotting her draft on the nightstand. Josh had already managed to spill coffee on the corner of the document. If only she’d thought to pack her laminating equipment.
By the time she returned to her room, Josh had managed to cover himself. The sleeves of her Columbia hoodie ended at his elbows. She refused to find him charming.
“I figured you made those as a jumping-off point.” He pointed at her sheet. “We should collaborate on the final copy, no?” The struggle with the sweatshirt had aggravated his already disheveled hair.
An unwelcome image of him, tangled in sheets warm from his body heat, floated across her mind. She took a big gulp of coffee, using the bitter taste to rid herself of the unsettling vision. “Oh, sure.” She handed over the paper. Frankly, she’d assumed he wouldn’t care enough to fight her on any of the line items.
Josh sank onto her bed and reached into his wild nest of hair. From somewhere within the depths of his mane, he uncovered a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put them on.
“Some of the stuff you’ve got here works.”
