If he was nothing but a loser pothead, my cottage wouldn’t always be spotless, my laundry wouldn’t always be washed, folded, and put away, and my fridge and pantry wouldn’t always be magically stocked with food. Sure, it’s mostly because Bodhi always has the munchies and will literally have a breakdown if we’re out of Red Vines licorice or chips and guacamole, but still. If he was nothing but a loser pothead, dinner wouldn’t always be on the table when I walk in the door or brought up to me at the bar when I’m working a late shift.
And sure, I never know what kind of a new job he’ll come home with from one week to the next, but I like that about him. I like that he won’t just settle for a 9-to-5 job that makes him miserable because it’s what society says he’s supposed to do. I like that he won’t spend one penny of the giant sum of money he made all those years caddying for Palmer until he finds something important and worth spending that money on. And I’ve threatened him on more than one occasion that he is never allowed to use that money on me. He earned it before we were together, and it’s his, and it has nothing to do with me. And being the good listener that Bodhi is, right when I’m starting to panic about paying bills, he finds a swingers’ convention that needs a games moderator, or someone wanting surf lessons, and the rest of the money I need for bills is magically deposited into my bank account the next day. I might not want any of the money he earned before me, but this man lives with me now, and sleeps in my bed, and shits in my toilet, and I find his dirty socks all over the fucking house because that seems to be the one and only thing he can never clean up. Hell yes, he needs to help pay these bills. I do not house freeloaders, no matter how good they are with their penis.
He has broken more items in my cottage running around on one of his sugar highs or playing catch with Owen that I’ve finally realized I’m just not meant to have nice things. But he takes care of me, makes me laugh and not take things so seriously all the time, is a great listener, and gives great advice. Yes, he can be childish as fuck the majority of the time and can drive me up the goddamn wall some days, but not when it counts. For the first time in my life, I feel defensive over a guy I’m dating. The guy I thought would be a one-night stand six months ago who’s been sleeping on my couch ever since.
Okay, fine, so he only sleeps on my couch when I break up with him when he really annoys me, which is only like, three times a month. What the fuck ever. This is all his fault for making me have feelings and shit. He’s the first guy I’ve ever dated who lets me be me without making me feel bad about who I am. He understands I’m always right and it’s my way or the highway, and it actually turns him on when I stomp my foot and order him around.
He doesn’t puff out his chest and try to act like just because he has a penis he needs to make all the rules. He doesn’t have a giant ego that can’t handle being with a strong, independent woman, and when I ask him to pick up tampons at the store, his only reply is “What’s the flow situation today on a scale of light to this looks like a crime scene, and do we also need chocolate?” And if I even think about how excellent he is at giving orgasms, I’ll probably black out. I know I’m a bitch. I know I’m prickly and mouthy and generally hate people and I’m not the easiest woman to get along with, but for some reason, Bodhi likes that about me. And that scares the shit out of me, because it actually makes me think I want disgusting things with him like weddings and babies.
My eyes well up with tears when I suddenly have the same vision I’ve been having way too much lately of Bodhi slipping a hemp ring on my finger—because what else would Bodhi slip on my finger?—which just makes me growl again and add in a foot stomp for good measure until the tears subside.
“Is this actually you having a freakish mood swing right in front of me, or are you going to blame it on a brain tumor again?” Birdie asks with a quirk of one eyebrow.
“Tiny Tim the Tumor is the only reason I’ve been so off lately,” I remind her. “I’ve had fevers, a sinus infection, blurred vision, dizziness, and I keep daydreaming about weddings and babies. I am broken, and the only plausible explanation for my brokenness is that I’m dying of a brain tumor, and it all started the night of the damn blowjob proposal. Bodhi gave me a tumor.”