Full Package

And I know why. The chick loves toilet paper. She’s like one of those cat memes, where the pussycat’s paws are wrapped around the roll, and she’s gleefully tugging it off the holder. Josie uses it for everything.

She uses it to take off her makeup. She uses it to clean up water on the bathroom sink. She uses it to dust. Yup, she wads up a chunk of TP and wipes down the shelves with it. She fucking unravels it with her little feline paws. She uses it when she blows her nose, which, incidentally, is kind of adorable since she makes a little squeak.

I pop into the drugstore and grab some TP. I get her favorite kind. Because it makes her happy.



* * *



Two



* * *



Hair.

It’s pretty much everywhere. I find brown strands on the couch. I discover pink strands in the sink. And, truth be told, I find Josie’s hair in my own hair. Shhh. Don’t tell her but . . . I use her hairbrush. I don’t know why, but girls’ brushes are evidently way better than combs. They’re just really fucking awesome.



* * *



Three



* * *



Josie really likes it when I perform manly tasks. I like it when she likes it when I do manly tasks. Sorry if that makes me not PC or whatever. I’m sure I should be defying stereotypical gender roles and knitting her a scarf or planting flowers, but I won’t lie—I vastly prefer when she asks me to lift shit. A few days ago, she wanted to move the coffee table. I happily obliged, and I enjoyed the fact that she checked out my arms when I carried it. The other night, she asked me to open a pickle jar. I strutted into the kitchen, flexed my arms, and made a big show of it.

“Peacock,” she muttered.

I wiggled my eyebrows. “It’s really hard to sound like you’re insulting me when you say that word.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ding dong.”

I shrugged. “Again, not insulted.”

“Pickle-jar-opening show-off.”

I tapped her nose. “Bingo.”

“You’re insulted now?” She pumped a fist. “Excellent.”

I frowned. “You’re trying to insult me. I’m so sad,” I said, then I reached into the jar and ate a pickle.

She patted my belly. “Pregnant?”

I shuddered. “Horrors.”

“Oh, please. Like that’s the worst thing in the world.”

I gave her a sharp stare. “It kind of would be.”

I’d rather be firing the trigger on the baby, not carrying it.

Like I said, I prefer manly tasks.



* * *



Four



* * *



After a long day at the hospital, which pretty much describes every day at Mercy, it’s nice to have someone to come home to. And I’m not just saying that because Josie makes absolutely killer air-popped popcorn.

But she does. This popcorn is delicious, and we munch on it all the way through a binge fest of Ballers, Vice Principals, and Veep on HBO. When we reach the end, I rattle the bowl then pretend to hunt for more, sniffing the inside of it.

“You’re like a dog,” she says. “The dog who licks his food dish when he finishes just in case there’s a nugget he missed.”

I drop my face into the red bowl and lick.

She grabs it from me and sets it on the coffee table. “I’m cutting you off.” She puts her feet on the coffee table. Then she shifts a little and moves them onto me.

I stare at her feet. Her toenails are painted sapphire blue. Her feet are little and slender. My eyes land on the top of her foot, and they nearly pop out of my head when I spy the bounty. “You have really beautiful veins in your feet.”

She gives me the biggest side-eye glare in the world. “What?”

I stretch forward, grab her foot, and hold it up. “Look at this. It’s fucking beautiful,” I say, running my finger along the top. The vein there is thick and blue. “I could draw so much blood from here.”

She blinks. “Are you a vampire?”

“No. I’m just an aficionado of all the systems in the body. You could give blood from your fucking foot.” I yank it toward my mouth.

She squeals, wriggling as I pretend to gnaw on her arch. “You’re crazy.”

I let go, dropping it across my thigh. “What other glorious life-giving veins are you hiding? Let me see your arms.”

“Is this some kind of doctor porn?”

I nod, and my eyes are surely sparkling. “You have the cupcake tin and icing smoother. Hell, I saw the way you eyed that rolling pin, too. You had your fun. Let me have mine.”

“Fine.” She shrugs off a little flimsy sweater and sticks out her arm.

I wrap my hand around her wrist and roam my eyes up and down her arm. “This,” I say, tapping a vein in her forearm. “You could save countries with this limb.”

“Are you really serious?”

“Yes. This is a world-class vein, Josie. This is like a diamond mine. Man, if I didn’t already think you were the cat’s meow, just seeing your veins would seal the deal. Please tell me you’re a blood donor.”

She nods. “Of course. Want to take mine some time?”

I draw a sharp breath and close my eyes. “Don’t get me excited.”

When I open my eyes, she kicks me in the belly. “You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

She sits up and asks, “What was the hardest part about being in Africa?”