Page 8

8

My plans for the morning include changing the water in the fish tank.

Krista used to handle this particular chore, but now that I have more free time than she does, it’s on me. Actually, I’ve taken on most of the cleaning duties in the house, and I don’t mind it. My mother was always a stickler for a clean house, so I’ve learned to take satisfaction in vacuuming the floors and scrubbing the countertops until they shine. I even make the bed on mornings when Krista wakes up before me. For some reason, she finds this hilarious and teases me mercilessly about it (something about “Mr. Suzy Homemaker”).

Cleaning the fish tank is one of the more involved chores in our household. I can’t just pour out all the water and then fill it up again, because apparently, that would kill the fish. So I have to extract twenty percent of the water—no more, no less. Oh, and I can’t pour tap water in to replace it, because that would also kill the fish. I have to mix the tap water with a dechlorinator. After that, I have to remove the debris from the bottom of the tank using a siphon.

It’s a ridiculous amount of work, but at the same time, I can’t let anything happen to Goldy. She’s our practice child , and if we let her die, that seems like an ominous harbinger for the future. (We call the fish “her” because it goes with the name, but we have no solid evidence to support the idea that she’s female.) After I’m done with Goldy’s tank, I’ll go to the gym and work out. I feel like I have to keep moving all the time these days, or else I’ll sleep all day and lie awake all night.

While Krista is in the shower, I head downstairs to clean the fish tank. I’ve got all the supplies ready, but then I get weirdly mesmerized by the sight of Goldy swimming back and forth across her small tank. Before I know it, I’ve been standing there for five minutes, not moving.

“What the hell happened to me?” I ask Goldy.

Goldy swims in a circle until she’s facing me.

“What if I never get another job? What if I lose the house?”

Goldy looks at me. She doesn’t have much to say on the matter.

Okay, now I’m having a conversation with a fish. Maybe my blood sugar is low. I need to eat some breakfast.

When I get to the kitchen, I am startled to find Whitney there. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. She’s lived with us for two days now, and it’s her right to use our kitchen. But I’m still getting used to this stranger occupying my house.

Also, Whitney isn’t dressed. I mean, she’s not un dressed, but all the other times I’ve seen her, she’s been wearing regular clothing or once a bathrobe when I caught her coming out of the shower. But now she’s wearing a skimpy tank top with what looks like a pair of tiny pajama shorts.

Also, I can see her nipples through the tank top. Which is bad news, considering I’m wearing boxer shorts.

“Good morning, Blake,” she says cheerfully as she stares into the fridge, oblivious to how cold it is in there.

“Hey, Whitney.” Don’t look at her erect nipples. Don’t look at her erect nipples. “Did you sleep well?”

She turns from the fridge empty-handed. “Wonderful. The bed is super comfortable.”

It should be. We paid enough for it.

She picks up an apple from our fruit bowl, inspecting it for bruises. “Is this apple mine or yours?”

“I think it’s mine, but you’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks. I’ll go shopping soon.”

I slip past her, trying my best not to brush against the thin fabric of her pajamas. I reach over the kitchen counter and grab a box of Frosted Flakes. There’s no time for a power breakfast right now. I’ll make myself a bowl of cereal and get the hell out of here.

“Oh, I love Frosted Flakes,” Whitney comments.

“Yeah?” I grin at her despite myself. “It’s my favorite cereal.”

She takes a bite from the apple in her hand, and a bit of the juice spills down her chin, but she wipes it away quickly. “It makes me nostalgic to look at the box. I ate it every day from ages six through nine.”

“Every day?”

“Well, I had to. If you collected enough box tops, you could mail them in for a secret decoder pen.”

“The secret decoder pen!” My eyes light up at the shared memory. “I remember that! Did you ever get one?”

“Damn straight.” She flashes me a smile with a hint of a dimple on her left cheek, which keeps my attention away from her nipples. “When I want something, I never let anything get in my way.”

I bob my head. “Same.”

“Anyway, I miss Frosted Flakes!” She eyes the box with a look of longing. “I haven’t eaten anything that crunchy and coated in sugar in years.”

I hold out the box to her. “Hey, go for it.”

She hesitates. “I don’t want to steal your cereal. I’m already using all your dishes and eating your apple.”

“You’re not stealing it. I’m offering it to you. You can’t just have an apple for breakfast. And anyway, nobody should be deprived of grr-eatness.”

That gets a laugh out of her. She has a nice laugh that sort of matches the rest of her: sweet, clean, and friendly. As much as I hate the idea of needing a roommate, I don’t entirely dislike Whitney Cross.

In fact, I sort of like her.