me conceited because he thinks I assume they’re talking about me (which is true, but I bet they do).
Besides getting a ride from Brandy to Blue Tulip Café to discuss her new boyfriend (an optometrist single dad named Vance who I am rooting for because he’s sweet and she deserves someone sweet), I haven’t felt like hanging out with anyone lately, either. Today we’re feeling particularly antisocial. Nicholas and I are too busy torturing each other to leave our little house of hatred.
It starts with the joke I can’t stand.
We’re on opposite ends of the couch, playing on our phones. (He’s gotten a new one for himself.) I’m reading a news article because I need to stay on top of current affairs. This way if Nicholas starts talking about a subject he just heard about, I can say, “Oh, I already heard that.” It’s an excellent thing to do to someone you despise when the object of your … despisement? … is a pretentious know-it-all. 10/ 10, would recommend.
I mutter and murmur about the news article. When he doesn’t ask what I’m reading about, I just go for it with a gasped “Oh my god.”
“Yes?” He raises his eyebrows questioningly, like I just spoke his name. He often says this when I talk to a deity. He knows I hate it, and I think this gives him life. I’m adding minutes to his life span with my annoyance.
“I hate that joke.”
“Some people find it funny.”
“Nobody finds it funny.”
“Gets a laugh from Stacy every time.”
Dr. Stacy Mootispaw, crusader against khakis and accuser of him never going the extra mile. With as often as Nicholas has mentioned her, I won’t lie to you, when I met her for the first time I was hoping she’d be a grandmotherly type, smelling of baby powder. Twice his age, in self-knitted sweaters with cats on them. A proud furbaby mom with a jolly old husband she loves so much she calls him on every break.
As you might guess, that’s not what Stacy’s like at all.
Her brain moves faster than Usain Bolt. She’s got a million college degrees and could basically do whatever she wanted. The world is her oyster. If she ever gives up the dental game, she could easily model for J. Crew. She’s got the shiniest black hair I’ve ever seen and a dazzling smile that must be half the reason she’s in this particular industry. Perfect figure. Glowing skin so blemish-free, it’s like she’s been airbrushed. She doesn’t wear a stitch of makeup but looks amazing anyway and I hate her for it. People who wake up looking glamorous can’t be trusted.
Rolling my eyes, I go throw a load of clothes from the washer into the dryer, then end up doing a bit of vacuuming and organizing. I guess I’m a housewife now. Or house-fiancée.
“Whew, it’s warm in here. Let’s turn down the heat.”
“You’re just warm because you’re up and moving around.”
“No, it’s definitely warm in here.” I fiddle with the thermostat. It says it’s seventy-two degrees, but there’s no way it’s not at least seventy-five. This thing is broken.
I sit back down and he stares at me, an irritable bear. “Speaking of Stacy,” he begins, and I quash a rumble in my chest. “I got her for Secret Santa. Any suggestions?”
“Toothpaste.”
He gives me a dry look. “Just because we’re dentists doesn’t mean we’re in love with toothpaste.”
“A gift card, then.”
“Mmm, is that too impersonal?”
“Who cares? You’re giving it to your coworker, not your best friend.”
“I want to put some thought into it, though.”
“If you want to put some thought into it, then why’d you ask me for ideas? I barely know this chick.”
“I thought you might be helpful,” he huffs. “You’re both women!”
“Right, and we’re all the same. We all like the same stuff, just like all men like the same stuff. I suppose I’ll take the present I had in mind for my dad and give it to you for Christmas instead. Surprise, it’s a model of the Brady Bunch house!” My dad’s super into collecting memorabilia of older shows like The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family.
“You know what I meant.”
“I know you’re sexist.” I pull a throw blanket over me. “It’s cold in here.”
Nicholas glares. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?” I ask as he gets off the couch and goes to find his coat and shoes. “What’re you doing?”
“What I’m meant to be doing!”
What he’s “meant to be doing” better not be Stacy Mootispaw. I follow him to the door