Kirsten
My cohabitation situation with Josh was on day five. I stayed in Mom’s empty beach house the two days he went to work. It wasn’t ideal. My inventory was at my house and I had to be there to get any work done. The commute was two hours. But he was right—I couldn’t be in my house alone at night. It just wasn’t safe.
Josh and I had developed a sort of routine. We ate almost every meal together, watched marathons of shows, took turns walking Stuntman, and did late-night food runs. I had planned to stay away from him as much as possible, but there was only the one TV in the living room and the coffee table was my unofficial office. And if we both needed to eat, it didn’t make any sense to do it separately. So we just kind of fell in together.
Every morning he’d patrol the yard for evidence of my creeper. It was seriously fucking hot. Then he’d make us eggs and we’d sit at the kitchen table talking until he had to get to work.
He had just come back over for another two-day stretch. I sat on the steps of the garage talking to him. I wore a tie-dyed shirt I’d made at summer camp, like, nine years ago with Sloan. I also wore the matching scrunchie. I’d been digging deep to maintain my homeless-chic wardrobe. It was becoming more and more necessary.
I liked him. I liked him a lot.
He was fun. When he left for his two-day shift, I missed him. Big-time.
This wasn’t good. I needed Tyler to come home.
Josh was telling me about a call he went on, and I zoned out watching him carve an ornate design into the side of a step. I loved that he worked with his hands. It was beyond sexy. I wondered how those hands would feel on my bare skin. Strong and rough.
I thought about that stupid piggyback ride so much you’d think it was foreplay. The press of those back muscles and the warmth of his skin against my breasts. The way he smelled. How easily he’d lifted me. I bet he could do push-ups with me sitting on his back. Then I imagined him doing push-ups over me while I lay on a bed under him.
God. I’m going straight to hell.
I stuck a finger in a tiny hole at the waist of my shirt and made a tear.
Tyler called. Coincidence? Or did he feel the threat from halfway around the world?
“I gotta take this,” I said.
The phone call was like an emergency broadcast test breaking into one of my favorite shows. I’d sit through it because I had to, waiting impatiently for it to be over so I could go back to watching what I was before the interruption.
It sucked that I felt that way.
I liked talking to Tyler. I just didn’t like talking to Tyler when it meant it took away from talking to Josh. I knew this was wrong. I knew it was unhealthy. And I also couldn’t stop myself from feeling this way.
I hit the Answer Call button and got up and went out to the sweltering sunbaked driveway, out of earshot. “Hey, babe.”
“Hi, Kris. What are you doing?”
“Hanging out with Josh in the garage. What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to see you. Eight days.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
Yes. Eight days. Then it would be the Tyler Show I was watching.
“I know. I can’t wait,” I said, forcing enthusiasm. I studied a crack in the driveway and rolled my foot over a dandelion growing from the crevice, smooshing it onto the concrete, bleeding yellow and green.
“Have the cops gotten back to you? Any updates?”
Once the danger had been neutralized by Josh’s presence in my guest room, I came clean to Tyler about the attempted break-in. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”
“And Josh is keeping his hands to himself?” he asked.