“You really think a 100% authentic foam mattress with cooling feature would only cost a hundred dollars,” I say, laughing.
“Stop it,” she says, swatting at me. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny. What does 100% authentic foam even mean?”
“I don’t know,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. “I guess I’ll just return it and buy an actual mattress. Goodness, what a mess.”
“You can take my bed until the new one comes. I don’t care.”
“No,” she says firmly. “This is my fault. If I wasn’t so cheap, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I’ll just swing by the store tomorrow and grab an inflatable one to sleep on until it gets here.”
“Okay, but I really don’t mind.”
“I appreciate it, but it’s fine.” She begins typing in the search bar and hits enter. A dozen or so links to top-rated mattresses pop up. I watch as she scans them, biting her lip.
“Buy yourself a nice one. You deserve a good night’s sleep.” She shifts her eyes toward me. “Or, I can buy you one if you’re worried about the money.”
“Absolutely not. This one looks nice and it’s not very expensive.”
“Wren, the models don’t even look comfortable on that thing. Look at that guy; he’s grimacing.”
She giggles.
“If you don’t want me to buy it, I understand, but buy yourself something nice,” I encourage her. “Like this one.” I move my hand to the mouse pad, and our fingers brush. I freeze, and so does she.
“Sorry,” I say, as she pulls her hand away.
“It’s fine.” She smiles. “Which one were you going to say?”
“This one.” I click on a nice mattress that is moderately priced. “It’s not the most expensive option, but it has good reviews and doesn’t look like it’ll cause you to need a chiropractor.”
She hesitates.
“Buy it,” I urge, and, to my surprise, she adds it to the cart and begins to check out.
“Just to clarify, this is not a mattress topper,” she says, when she gets to theconfirm your orderpage.
“It’s a mattress,” I verify, and she presses the purchase button.
“So, now that that’s taken care of, what’s for dinner?” she asks. “I’m starving.”
My heart sinks.
“I was going to make pesto chicken pasta, but I dropped the pesto jar when I got home. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no big deal. Accidents happen,” she says. “Did you get anything else?”
“I didn’t,” I say, desperately trying to come up with an alternative idea, and then it hits me. “Would you want to go to Waffle House?”
“Yes,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “Let me throw on a sweatshirt and some shoes. Waffle House sounds perfect.” She jumps up, and when she returns, she’s still wearing her pajama pants, but she’s thrown on a black sweatshirt and tennis shoes.
“What’s Va–lar–is,” I ask slowly, trying to pronounce the word across her chest.
“It’s a fictional city in a book I like.”
“Hmm, I’ve never heard of it,” I say. “Would I like the book?”
“Do you like books?” she asks.
