“If I must,” I grumble, putting on a good show of being pissed off. “Rule four: No using my Sequel account. James installed a proprietary tech on mine that always gives me the perfect recommendations, and I’m not letting that get fucked up with your girly shit.”
She scoffs. “Fine. I’ll make my own Sequel profile. It’s not that big a deal.”
“You only say that because you don’t have your own proprietary tech.”
“Rule number five,” she says, ignoring me. “The apartment stays at least somewhat clean. I don’t mean you have to dust the windowsills or iron the curtains. I just want to be able to make a sandwich without dealing with overflowing garbage and gross crusty dishes in the sink.”
I expected this rule. It’s no secret I’m a slob. It’s not like I mean to be—I just always end up getting distracted by something more interesting, like watching old Phil Hellmuth games or going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about cryptids.I mean, come on. Tell me you wouldn’t rather learn about Mothman sightings than do the dishes.
It’s fine. I’ll just hire a maid. A really, really hot maid. Fuck, I should’ve done that a long time ago, actually.
Pippa sticks an accusing finger in my face. “You have to do the cleaning yourself. No hiring someone, because I don’t want to walk in on a half-naked woman in an apron every other day.”
Damn. I should have known Pippa would figure out my plans. “What if I don’t make her wear an apron?”
“No hired cleaners, or else I’ll turn your Sequel profile into nothing but romcoms and clown murderer documentaries,” she sneers.
“Fine, I accept that rule,” I concede nobly. “No trash heaps, but for rule six, I expect you to clean up after your cat. I draw the line at changing the kitty litter.”
“As if I’d let you anywhere near Waffle,” Pippa scoffs. “I’m adding on rule seven: you have to be nice to her, or I’ll end you.”
“I’ll be nice to her if she’s nice to me. She hissed at me again when I came home last night.”
“She’s a cat. You’re a human. You’re supposed to have a higher level of consciousness, even if I’ve never seen proof.”
“That’s not fair though! You don’t get a fourth rule. Three each, that’s what we said.”
“Call Cat,” Pippa says furiously. “See if she fights me on a rule protecting Waffle. Now, as much fun as this was, I’ve had way too much Ryan time for how hungover I am. I think we’re done here.”
Grabbing her mug of coffee, she storms back to her room, slamming the door behind her.
“Well, at least nobody stabbed anyone,” I mumble to myself. “That’s got to be a win.”
Overall, in the game of house rules, I think I won. I protected my Sequel account, I made sure Pippa wouldn’t stick me withany pet care, and I ensured that she wouldn’t be able to monologue about what a player I am to any women I brought home. Sure, she got one extra rule, but it’s negligible. It’s not like I was really going to kick Waffle or anything.
Having eaten all the bacon, I’m in the middle of contemplating eating a second glazed donut when Pippa emerges from her bedroom. In one hand, she’s got a string of twinkle lights. In the other, she has a pathetic little green plastic Christmas tree. She sets it in the middle of the living room coffee table.
Looks like I’ve got a chance to make things even more even.
“Rule number eight,” I declare. “No decorating my apartment.”
Pippa gapes at me. “Seriously?”
“It’s only fair. Four rules each.”
“Come on! It’s the holidays, and these are the only decorations I salvaged for my move. You’ll barely even see them.”
I shrug. “Rules are rules, Pips. You know that.”
“Your heart is two sizes too small, you Grinch,” she spits.
“That’s funny, since I’ve got something else that’s two sizes too big?—”
“Wasn’t there a rule that we couldn’t talk about sex?””
“The rule wasyoucan’t make fun ofmysex life,” I clarify. “I can say whatever I want.”
I can practically see the steam coming out of Pippa’s ears as she stomps back to her bedroom.
