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I roll my eyes.

“What?” he says with a grin. “It’s a quirk I have. I don’t think I’d get the same depth of appreciation if we just skipped two entire seasons.”

“You’re making fun of me,” I say, a little disappointed.

“I’m not! The Housewives are a phenomenon. I’m happy to watch, but I want to watch from the beginning.”

“Okay, I’m going to order snacks. What’s your address?”

“What snacks do you want?” he asks, pulling out his phone.

“All the snacks.”

He nods. “You got it.”

A few minutes later, I jump when the door buzzes.

“Can you pause it?” he asks. “While I get the door?”

“You stay there. I know what happens after this. I’ll get the snacks.”

Before he can argue, I get out of bed and head to the door. I wait by the elevator, expecting to be handed a paper bag of popcorn and candy.

When the elevator doors open, there are two men inside, each carrying armfuls of bags.

“Ben!” I call out. “How much did you order?”

“Can I help?” he says from right behind me. “I thought you might need a hand.” He scoops up one of the delivery guys’ bags and takes them to the kitchen, then comes back, tips both guys, and takes the bags I haven’t managed to grab.

“How much did you order?” I ask him again.

“All the snacks. That’s what you wanted, right?”

I groan, because I don’t want to let him know that ordering everything on the menu is giving charming vibes.

We unpack everything onto the kitchen counters. There are six different types of ice cream, popcorn, and every kind of chocolate and candy.

“This is my favorite,” I say holding up a bar of crunchy chocolate. “But two mouthfuls and it’s gone.”

“We can order more,” he says.

“We should definitely order more, given our commitment to getting diabetes.”

He chuckles, and I feel it in my chest.

“So, back to bed?” he asks, when we’ve put all the food away.

“Yeah, but we can change what we’re watching, put on a movie or read or something?”

“I’m good with these New York women. But we can read if you’d like. How much time do you allocate to each activity?” he asks, as he follows me back into the bedroom.

I laugh. “We don’t allocate time. We do what we want, when we want to do it.” He gets into bed and presses play, while I grab my nail polish remover, some cotton pads and a hand towel from the bathroom.

“I chipped the polish on my big toe,” I say. “Will the smell bother you?”

He shakes his head, more focused on the screen than anything I’m doing. “Are that one and that one friends? I’m not sure the one with the cookies really likes the one with the husband and the dog.”

“Well, color me surprised. You nailed it.” I press a cotton pad to the open bottle of nail polish remover and tip it upside down.