When he starts complaining about the number thirteen on our door being painted pink, I do my best to ignore it. It’s literally just a fucking color, but according to him, a house full of guys doesn’t need a door with any bit of pink on it. “You going to let me in?” He’s smiling, so obviously in a good mood. “Sure. What’s up?” “I had some free time and figured it’s been a while.” That’s true. I haven’t seen him since the baseball season ended. Since before I decided I wasn’t going to play anymore. Or started fucking a guy.