“Don’t fucking get mad at me for setting standards.”
“Just . . . pull . . .” I give the mattress a shove, and once again, I knock Posey away, but in the process, I lose grip of the mattress, leaving it tilting on its own. “Shit,” I say just as it starts to tip over. “Grab it,” I yell as I stumble forward but trip over some of the reusable bags we didn’t put away.
“I can’t,” he yells back.
We watch in horror as it tips all the way over, right onto the console table and flat onto Sherman.
“Noooooo,” Posey yells as the plant topples to the floor, and with a loud crack, the pot breaks. Wet soil scatters all over the floor along with a smushed plant. Posey falls to his knees and holds up the dilapidated bonsai tree. He glares up at me, clutching the plant to his chest. “You monster.”
I grip my forehead, staring at the mess. Fuck, I don’t have time for this.
“Don’t you have any remorse?”
Feeling panic start to take over, I step back and press both hands to the top of my head. “Fuck, we won’t get this done in time.”
“He was so innocent.” Posey strokes the plant.
“Can you stop that,” I yell, my chest filling with anxiety. “Fuck, what are we going to do? We don’t have time for this.” I shake my head. “This . . . this was a bad idea. I . . . I have to call her, tell her she can’t come. I can’t do this. I can’t—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Posey stands from the floor, holding the bonsai tree by the broken trunk. “You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out!” I yell. “I just broke the bonsai tree that I never wanted in the first place, soil is everywhere, and I don’t have a goddamn vacuum to clean it up. Blakely will be over here in forty minutes, she doesn’t have a bed to sleep on, and the curtains will be fucking wrinkled! Not to mention, what the hell am I going to do with a girl in my apartment? I don’t know how to act around her, talk to her . . . not fucking stare into her gorgeous eyes every chance I get. She’s going to think I’m some sort of stalker. And I’m not a stalker. This is your fault. You’re the one who made me do this. You’re the one who—”
“Okay, okay. You’re on the verge of what some might call a mental breakdown. And I’ll tell you this, pointing the finger won’t solve the problem.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and says, “This is why we’re a band of brothers. I’m just going to shoot over a quick text and all will be right with the world.”
He types away on his phone. I watch his face scrunch in concern as he types, and I take in the mess. There is no way we’re going to get this done. No fucking way.
My phone chimes with a text, and when I lift a brow at him, he winces. “Shit, was that to the group chat with you in it?”
I pull my phone out of my pocket and read his text.
Posey:You guys, we’re at DEFCON 1 over here. Holmes is about to wee himself from nerves. We need help. Taters, please grab a juniper bonsai tree and have it here in twenty minutes. Pacey, we need a vacuum cleaner like ten minutes ago. Get it here. Hornsby, we need two nightstands, preferably a white oak or black iron. You also have twenty minutes.
I glance up at him. “I’m not going to wee myself.”
“Say that to your quivering legs.”
“The curtains look like shit,”Silas says as all five of us stare at the room we haphazardly put together.
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask. “Fuck, should I take them down?”
“No,” Pacey says. “You don’t have blinds, so she’ll want curtains for privacy.”
“Told you they needed to be ironed.” Posey leans against the wall, arms folded.
“You are literally not allowed to say anything to me anymore.” I point at him and move out of her bedroom and into the living room, where the soil has been vacuumed by a brand-new vacuum courtesy of Pacey. Sherman has been replaced. Posey stupidly said he feels more attached and bonded to the new one. I punched him after that comment.
My air mattress is blown up, but not made with my sheets. I didn’t want her hearing the air mattress being blown up, but I didn’t have time to put the sheets on. I’ll have to do that later.
The stupid candle is on the book on the coffee table as well as a figurine of a hockey player that Eli insisted I have after Posey bitched about my apartment being too bland.
So . . . that’s what I have in my living room. A fucking sofa, TV, coffee table, candle with a book, and a hockey player figurine. It looked better without the extra shit. Now it looks like I’m trying too hard and the other things are out of place.
Not to mention, New Sherman, or Sherman as we’re going to refer to him from here on out, looks stupid as the only thing on the console table.
It all looks stupid. Everything.
The curtains.
