I wake at midnight, one, two, and three. By four o’clock in the morning, I think I’m too tired for the sound to startle me. I sleep right through it.
But eventually—I am shoved awake. No cuckoo’s needed. “You kissed Fran.” Rosalie stands in front of me, arms crossed. That’s when I read 8:14 in the morning.
I blink my tired eyes, squinting in the daylight. But I say nothing. Yes, I kissed Fran at the game last night. Rosalie was there. She saw that chaste, simple kiss. Which means I don’t have to admit to a thing.
“Last night. In this house. You kissed her—for an hour or more.”
It was definitely an hour or less—the cuckoo made sure of that.
“You’re kissing her?” she says, her pitch rising.
“How did you?—”
“She crawled into my bed last night, giddy as a second grader, and told me all about it.” Her hands fling, shoving my shoulder, before landing on her hips. “What are you doing, Cal?”
I sit up, push the afghan Fran gave me last night from my legs, and hold my head in my hands. “I don’t know. It wasn’t planned. It just sort of happened.”
Rosalie’s face turns beet-red in two seconds flat.
“I know that makes me scum. You specifically asked if I was scum, and I assured you I was not.”
“So—do you like her?”
“I do.” I shake my head. “But I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m just—not.”
She shakes her head. “Then keep your lips off my best friend.” She stomps one foot and grinds her teeth. “And you aren’t scum. You’re a nice guy, Cal. So don’t make me kill you.”
I wait for Rosalie to leave before searching through Fran’s cupboards and finding bread, jam, and a toaster.Perfect. Easy breakfast. Little chat. And then I’ll be on my way.
With a plate of freshly toasted bread covered in tub margarine and raspberry jam in hand, I tap on Fran’s bedroom door. “Fran? I need to head out.”
There’s scuffling and thudding behind the closed door, and then—Fran, hair mussed, sweatshirt half on over her T-shirt, along with one slipper on her foot.
“Sorry, I—” She frantically flattens the right side of her hair with her hand. “I overslept.”
“We had a late night. You’re fine.”
“Not that late,” she says, her hand still incessantly combing while her hair continues to fly upward. “But then I did go talk to Rose for a bit?—”
“I heard.”
One hand in front of her mouth, she gasps. “She did not yell at you. Did she? Did she yell at you?”
I clear my throat and give the smallest of nods. “I think I deserved it.”
“You didn’t. Believe me, you didn’t. I’d kiss you right here. Right now.” Her eyes bulge. “I mean, I wouldn’t because I haven’t brushed my teeth. But I’m saying you have nothing to apologize for.”
“We can leave it at that. Thanks, Fran.”
“Sure.” She flattens her palm over the right side of her head and simply leaves it there. “You’re going.”
“I am. But I brought you some toast. And I wanted to say goodbye.”
“Oh,” she says, and the disappointment in her tone is killing me. All the woman needs to do is ask me to stay, and I will.
“I have a paper due anyway.”
“Your research paper?”
