Page 105 of Wrong For Me

Leo

Ikeep expecting the other shoe to drop. It just doesn’t seem possible that things can be so…good. That’s not how life usually goes—at least not in my experience.

Up to this point, my life has been about work. The work it took to do well in school despite my messy, screwed up childhood. The work it took to get into a good university, to pay for that university, to go to graduate school and start my doctorate. All the crap jobs I’ve taken over the years, the scholarship applications, the long nights of studying after busting my ass for a full shift. The effort it took to live every day wondering how my mother is doing, and wondering if I had abandoned her when I moved out here.

Nothing with Rose seems like work. Being with this woman feels like the easiest, most natural thing on the planet. And that scares the shit out of me.

From the moment we get home from the conference, we’re pretty much inseparable. I endure an evening of curious looks from her brothers and cousins—worth it to see how much it annoys her. The most difficult thing about that first night in her apartment is trying to be quiet when we have sex in her shower before collapsing in bed.

We drive to school together in the morning, Rose flatly refusing to let me drive her car in spite of my best efforts to convince her—which mostly consist of kissing her neck until she shivers and tells me I’m going to cause a traffic accident if I don’t stop.

School is both frustrating and strangely peaceful. It’s really damn hard to be so close to Rose and not be able to kiss her. At the same time, being able to look up from my work and see her sitting there, playing with the end of her braid, all gorgeous and serious while she studies, fills me with a deep contentment.

By the end of the first day, I know I’m in way over my head with this girl. But I guess I’ve pretty much been that way since the moment I met her.

For two weeks we spend nearly every night together, either at her apartment or mine. The only times I sleep alone are the nights she works at the women’s shelter and a few times when she has the twins, her little brother and sister, over for dinner. She doesn’t invite me to hang out with them, and I don’t press it. I don’t blame her if she thinks I wouldn’t be great with kids. God knows she’s probably right.

We do go out to dinner with Will and Eva. And we hang out with River at their apartment. Once he’s past the whole wanting-to-kill-me-for-hurting-his-sister thing, he’s a pretty chill guy. He likes a lot of the same comic book movies as me, so at least we have something to talk about.

The other nights we stay at my place. Bodhi, of course, adores her. As far as he’s concerned, he has a new best friend. He somehow convinces her to give him her number then proceeds to text her about a hundred memes and gifs a day. When I tell her she can block him, she just laughs.

“I like him,” she says. “He’s good for you. Lightens you up a little.”

The three of us are hanging out at my apartment on Saturday night. In one of their many text conversations, Rose apparently mentioned to Bodhi that I have a secret wish to learn how to cook. So much for the sacredness of the Talk List. Since Bodhi is Bodhi, he ran with it. Which is why I’m standing in our kitchen scowling while the two of them laugh at my Iron Man apron.

“Just one more picture,” Bodhi insists, holding up his phone. “You look so cute.”

“I hate you,” I deadpan, and he gives Rose his best wounded face.

“You see what I put up with? I picked that apron out especially for him and he can’t even be thankful.”

“What a douchebag,” she agrees, sending my supposed best friend into gales of laughter.

“Have I told you how much I love your girlfriend?” he asks me, wiping at his eyes.

“Are we fucking cooking something or not?” I ask. To be honest, it’s a little hard to hold up my grumpy asshole facade. There’s something about the two of them getting along so well that makes my chest feel all warm and tight. But I refuse to tell them that—Bodhi would probably burst into happy tears if I said anything so sentimental.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s cook the shit out of this.”

An hour later, he’s pulling the burned-to-a-crisp chicken-pot-pie from the oven. “I don’t understand what we did wrong,” he says, wiping at his sweaty brow and smearing the flour already covering his skin. “We followed all the instructions.”

Rose grins from her perch on the counter, swinging her legs. “I think you cooked it too long.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I mutter and she grins bigger. “You could have helped, you know.”

“Why would I do that when it’s so much fun to watch you flail around? You have flour on your nose, by the way.”

I stride over and grab her around the waist, pressing my sweaty, flour-smeared face into her neck while she squeals and tries to push me away.

Bodhi sighs. “Do you have to be so cute? I’m already depressed about the meal and now you’re shoving your coupleness in my face.”

“That’s definitely not a word,” Rose says, finally succeeding in pushing me away. She hops down from the counter and pulls out her cell phone. “Thai food?”

We order take-out and Rose and Bodhi insist on turning on some horrible singing reality show. I, of course, bitch loudly the entire time. But there’s a little part of me that can’t help enjoy this—having her here, with my best friend, both of them completely comfortable with each other. Watching shitty reality TV is worth it if it feels this good.

About halfway through the show, Rose’s phone dings with a message. She frowns when she reads it, and doesn’t respond. It dings again.

“Hey,” I ask her after the fifth time. “Everything okay?”