Josh and Hazel's Guide to Not Dating - Christina Lauren Page 0,36

between her and Josh—hey, I can at least pick up a few makeup tips at dinner, right?

According to Josh, my date—Mark—is a former client of his, and Josh has nothing but great things to say about him. Apparently Mark is tall and good-looking and a genuinely great guy. They haven’t seen each other for a while, but Josh is sure we are going to hit it off.

Turns out, Josh is right about all of it: my date is tall, good-looking, and we definitely hit it off, but there is one tiny surprise . . .

Mark is early in transition into Margaret, and thought she was being set up with Josh’s male roommate.

Turns out, Josh called her from his car and the reception was a little spotty along the way. Margaret made sure to clarify that Josh had heard her explain that things were a little . . . different these days, but with Josh’s Bluetooth cutting in and out and clueless to the details he was missing, he assured her with a “Yeah, definitely. I’ll text you with the time and place,” and ended the call.

It might not go entirely according to plan, but we do have a great night and my winged liner has never looked better.

··········

My apartment is ready a couple of weeks before school begins, during the very last humid gasp of summer.

As happy as I’m sure Josh is to get me and Winnie out of his clean living space, I think he might almost miss us.

A little.

I say this because by the last day I think even Josh was surprised by how normal it was starting to feel to live together. Loud? Yes. Chaotic? Absolutely. But also: comfortable. Dare I say easy?

On a typical day, Josh would drag himself out of bed, Winnie trailing sleepily behind him, to find the cup of coffee I’d poured for him on the counter. I would cook some variation of burnt breakfast food, and we would talk as we ate, text all day, and then come home, eat dinner together, and fall asleep watching TV. It was as close to being in a normal relationship as I’ve ever been. I think it’s been good for Josh, too: the name Tabby hasn’t been brought up in weeks.

I’ve always loved my apartment and living alone, but as I walk through the freshly painted door and stop on the new wood floors to survey what they’ve done, it’s impossible not to notice how empty it feels.

Winnie seems to have reached a similar conclusion. Sniffing a path through the doorway she does a quick circle of the front room before stepping outside again, emitting a heavy sigh, and then flopping down on the mat.

“I know what you mean,” I tell her, making my way inside and dropping my bags on the newly delivered couch. Other than this, there isn’t much furniture. A lot of it was ruined when the pipe broke, and most of what could be salvaged was old and not really worth saving anyway. Like every twentysomething I know, I ordered this new one at IKEA, but it seems a million miles away from the soft, worn-in leather in Josh’s living room.

Winnie is reluctant to admit that this is where we’ll be staying. Even after I coax her inside she insists on camping out near the door. Stubborn. I unpack a few things and get the rest of the animals situated, put new sheets on the new mattress and inspect the updated bathroom fixtures and kitchen cabinets. With nothing more than pet food in the house and no real desire to rectify that tonight, I order dinner and work on untangling the box of cords and hooking up the TV again.

I’m at the stage in the technology setup process where I’m whimpering and facedown on the living room floor when my phone chimes from the corner I threw it into not long ago.

It was weird not to trip on your shoes when I got home.

I knew you’d miss me.

Maybe a little.

I mean, who’s gonna use all the hot water every morning?

Lose my number.

I’m kidding.

The house feels sort of empty.

Fondness squeezes at my heart but I push it away before I begin typing out a reply.

Winnie’s being a sad sack and won’t move away from the door.

I think she misses you.

Winnie. Right.

You know how clingy she can get.

How’s the apartment, btw?

I think about that one as I look around the bright, clean living room. Empty walls, a stack of boxes that need to