You Deserve Each Other (You Deserve Each Other, #1)

by Sarah Hogle

I’m watering the Charlie Brown tree because I have love to give and nowhere meaningful to dump it. This tree needs me. I’ll feed him and sweep away his dead needles and he’ll grow to be the best and biggest tree in the yard. He’ll give pollination-birth to a hundred new trees, which I’ll string with tinsel. He’ll be the patriarch and general of my new tree army. His name is Jason. Right now he’s my number one priority on this earth.

“Go ahead and wear pajamas to dinner, Naomi. You think that would bother me? You can go out dressed as Santa Claus and I wouldn’t care.” Now I genuinely am insulted. “Why wouldn’t you care?” He raises his eyes to mine. “Because I think you’re beautiful no matter what.”

No one wears Snoopy and Woodstock pajamas to a steakhouse unless they’re Going Through Some Shit.

But according to my phone it’s fifty-three degrees with RealFeel of forty-eight, and I’m not cut out for a life of consistent exercise.

“Not that car. I traded it for Leon’s clunker. It’s a stick shift, Nicholas. I don’t know how to drive a fricking stick shift! Bad things happened and I left it in the middle of the road. Now I’m in a Kmart parking lot.”

I wring my hands. Nicholas is on the phone, which makes him feel close, so it’s okay to freak out now. He’s going to remain calm no matter what. We’ve always been balanced that way: when one of us loses it, the other can’t. Whoever didn’t call dibs on instant hysterics has no choice but to keep it together.

He’s walking across the road right toward me, wearing the coat I call his Sherlock Holmes coat. It was expensive and the nicest gift I’ve ever gotten him. He wears it from the very beginning of autumn until the very end of spring, with a scarf looped beneath the wide collar. The fact that he hasn’t burned it yet and danced around its ashes seems aggressively kind in my current frame of mind. His face isn’t grim or smug, but neutral save for the tiny crease between his eyebrows. Concern.

“Of course not. If it were broken down, you’d just fix it yourself,” he says, giving me a sly sideways look. “Uh.” “Or maybe not. Wouldn’t want Dave from Morris Auto to start missing you.”

My mouth is dry. “It’s a stick shift.” “I know. I can drive a stick shift.” The world tilts. “What? Really?” “Mm-hmm.” The amusement is faint, but it’s there.

I can imagine. Deborah Rose has never exited any establishment without introducing herself to the manager.

I try again. “It feels great to be running away from Sunday dinner, not gonna lie.” He almost smiles. I can see it flirting at the edges of his mouth. “It’s a shame we didn’t get to show my parents your new car.” “You would hate that.” “I’d record their reaction on my phone. Messing with them could be fun, Naomi, if I were in on the joke, too. You forget, I know better than anyone what it feels like to be smothered by Deborah Rose.”

Talking has gradually relaxed my body. Coming down from the high of going full Ricky Bobby running from nonexistent fire has left me with a headache that I’m not making up this time.

“Go get the burritos and I’ll be nice to you forever,” I say. “Go get them yourself and I’ll be nice to you forever.”

“Don’t you want to see how the Jeep drives? You’ll like it better than the Saturn.” His lips twist. “Much, much better than the . . . ah . . . what kind of car did you trade it for?” “It’s a monster, and I love it like it’s my child. Besides, I can’t go anywhere because I’m still shaken up.”

“What are you making?” he snickers. “Farfaccine.” “That’s not a thing.” “It’s my favorite food ever. I talk about it all the time; not my fault you don’t pay attention.”

Nicholas glares, then dumps his prepared breading into my saucepan. “Hey!” “It’s going to suck, anyway.” “It is not.” “Your pasta’s overcooked. And you forgot to stir.” “Fudge.” I hurry to drain it. There are clumps stuck to the bottom of the pot. Gluten-free anything is already atrocious. Boiling it just makes it worse. While I’m fussing with the pasta, the marinara-ketchup combo starts spitting. I rush back and stir, then throw in some seasoning. I’m a regular Alex Guarnaschelli.

Nicholas is still hunting for a mozzarella replacement. It’s no use. We have nothing. He gives up and eyes my pasta with resignation. “Farfaccine, eh?” “A traditional Italian dish passed on from grandmother to grandmother.” It smells like raw sewage. “Maybe if it were creamier?” he says helpfully. “Looks a little dry.” We’re out of milk, so we do something dubious here and dump in half a cup of coffee creamer. It does look better afterward, even if the foul smell intensifies. Nicholas gets cocky and adds a sprinkling of pink Himalayan salt.

“It’s going to be a drill next, what with all the Butterfingers you eat. Storing them in your cheek like a chipmunk and letting them slowly erode your molars. You’ll be in dentures before you hit forty.” “You’ll be right there with me, pal. You and your Skittles.” I can’t believe we’re still eating. We’re going to end up in the emergency room. “My tongue is numb. Is that normal?” “I can taste this in my sinus cavities. Taste. Not smell.”

I dig out a can of La Croix and we split it. The taste pairs horribly, so it’s right on theme. “We should mark today on the calendar and memorialize it by eating this travesty every year,” he remarks.

“I’ll copy down the recipe. Cinnamon, bread crumbs with egg in them. God, did we really use coffee creamer?” “We’re artists. No one understands.” He slurps...

Nicholas finds me in the kitchen on Monday morning heating up farfaccine in the microwave. He falls against the doorjamb laughing, straightening his cuffs. He’s heading in to work. Today, the Junk Yard will only stay open from noon to three, and Brandy and I are the only ones scheduled. Brandy texted this morning to say that Melissa’s quitting, and I feel like we’re the kids in Willy Wonka’s factory, dropping off left and right. “You’re eating a bowl of food poisoning, Naomi.” “I’m hungry. Don’t judge.”

I like the Nicholas who drops everything and runs when I’m freaking out at the side of the road. The one who wraps his coat around my shoulders and eats a bowl of food poisoning with me.

At any rate, I ended up sticking one of them under Nicholas’s mattress. The lump was just unobtrusive enough that I didn’t think he’d realize there was a lump, just that his back felt achy in the morning. If I’d hidden both shakers, Nicholas would know something was up, so I kept the ugly pepper baby on the kitchen table and threw a potholder over it.

When I picked him up and gave him lots of pets and nuzzles, Nicholas’s voice ran through my head: Don’t get any ideas. I got lots of ideas. My ideas had ideas.

According to the Internet, he is probably a mix of Jack Russell terrier and beagle. I decided to name him Whopper Jr. and I loved him more than any human I’ve ever known. When Nicholas came home, he found me carrying Whopper Jr. in one of Nicholas’s nice work shirts, which I’d fashioned into a baby-wearing sling. He said “Oh my GOD, where did you get that,” and I said “You’re a daddy! He looks just like you,” and Whopper Jr. sneezed on the pinstriped shirt-sling. It was so cute.

When I started to laugh, he got even madder. “DENTAL HYGIENE IS NOT A JOKE, NAOMI.”

Fucking hell. “Clean the lint trap or I will seriously, literally murder you,” I threaten. “With an axe.

I’m so busy dreaming of teaming up with my parallel-universe self for evil purposes that I don’t notice he’s backed over the baby evergreen poking crookedly out of the earth. The Charlie Brown tree. Jason. He plows forward over Jason and backs up again. Weakling branches snap and crunch. It’s twenty-two degrees and I’m standing in the yard in a tank top and an old pair of Nicholas’s boxers that I laid claim to long ago. Yesterday’s mascara clumps in my eyelashes and my cheek is wearing the pattern of my wristwatch. We belong on Jerry Springer. I inhale half the oxygen in Morris and bellow: “NICHOLAS ROSE, YOU UNFORGIVABLE LITTLE SHIT.”

“I didn’t break your phone on purpose! You know how much I LOVE THAT DUMB FUCKING TREE.”

“And yet you’re blowing up at me instead of, say, the person who’s been calling your office all day?” I pop a bonbon in my mouth and give him a look like Yeah, I make way more sense than you.

Being the bigger person gives you permission to put my feelings second every time. I have to be understanding. I have to be patient, and keep my mouth shut while you coddle her. So I’m going to change tactics, because continuing to do what I’ve been doing while expecting different results is stupid. Debbie’s playbook works. Being a whiny pain in the ass works. Maybe I should start calling the front desk, too.”

“Nicholas,” I say when he steps off the porch. Each blade of grass is an iceberg in miniature, crunching under his new work boots. I’m going to be the most honest I’ve ever been with either of us, out loud. Right now. “I love you eighteen percent.”

He’s so still, I think a strong wind might knock him over. “There’s no such thing as loving someone eighteen percent.” “Yes, there is. I’ve done the math.” “You can’t measure love.” His voice sharpens on the last word before twisting. There’s mockery running all through it now. “But if we’re going to play the numbers game, then I guess I would have to say that I tolerate you eighteen percent, Naomi.” “So you don’t love me, then.” “I didn’t say that.”

It’s. A. Canoe.

I’m in a lawn chair on the bank of our pond, snapping pictures of Nicholas. He’s maybe fifty feet out, in his plaid earflap hat and Ghostbuster coveralls, trying to put a bobber on his fishing line. If Freud were sitting next to me, he’d probably deduce that stressors (i.e., me) have caused Nicholas to backslide into childhood to re-create his brightest moment in the sun. He’s going to catch that bluegill again and hold it up proudly for the camera. Everyone will clap.

“Aren’t fish hibernating at this time of year?” He pauses. “That’s not . . . fish don’t hibernate.” “I think I’ve heard they do.” “Shh. You’re making me talk and I’m going to scare all the fish away.”

Nicholas stands in the empty canoe, wind slowly spinning him, utterly decimated by this turn of events. I stand, too, cupping my hands around my mouth. “How’s it going?”

“What the hell are you doing?” I exclaim between vicious bursts. He got himself stranded. Actually stranded. And now he has to swim back to shore. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. My body wants to give up, it’s so weak from laughing, and I lean on my chair for support. As Nicholas nears, my vision sharpens and I make out the ferocity in his eyes. His boots and clothes must feel like anchors, but he’s swimming toward me with aggressive swiftness. Oh, shit.

I’m backpedaling. “I would’ve helped you!” I call. “You should have stayed put.” It’s true, I would’ve found a way to help him. After letting him sit there for an hour and posting a video of it online.

squeal, ducking and crossing my arms like a shield in front of my face. He picks me up and throws me over his shoulder and my first thought is holy wow. He’s stronger than he looks. Maybe it’s adrenaline strength.

“Nicholas Benjamin Rose, I swear to god I will call the police if you don’t put me down right now.” “Right now?” he teases, sliding me forward a centimeter. He’s going to drown me. “Not literally right now! On the ground! Put me on the ground!” I kick, but the movement just propels me forward. He’s going to drop me on my face.

I scream. He laughs, setting me upright. “You ass!” I yell, slapping his arm. Nicholas laughs harder. My hair is the North Pole and I’m traumatized for life. “That’s freezing!” “Imagine how I feel.” “It’s not my fault you jumped in the water, you idiot.” He turns and saunters away. “Shouldn’t have laughed at me.”

I snarl and jump on his back, bringing him crashing down to the ground. I’m not cognizant of what I’m doing, just that I must destroy this man. I reach out on either side of us and gather armfuls of dead leaves, furiously scooping them over him. “What are you doing?” he asks, facedown as the leaves scatter over the back of his head. His chest seizes, and then I go bump, bump, bump, jostling up and down when he starts laughing. “Are you trying to bury me?” “Shut up and stop breathing.” Nicholas howls with laughter.

Tears leak down either side of his face as he laughs, cheeks pink, breath pluming up in white puffs. It hits me how much I like his laugh. His smile. His smile is ordinary when taken in on its own, but combined with the adorable laugh lines, the light that glows in his color-changing eyes, it’s remarkable.

He grins wider. “What?” “You’re a fopdoodle.” We both laugh. “I saw it on the Internet somewhere,” I insist. “It’s a real word.” “Your mom’s a real word.” “Your mom’s a real bad word.” He lets go of one of my hands so he can wipe his eyes. “Touché.” Then he asks, “What does fopdoodle mean?” “I assume it’s a fop who doodles.” “Naturally.”

“I thought, wow, what a pretty view. You’d be able to see all the stars over the forest. I’d imagined putting an armchair right there, so I could sit and admire the view. I like that room. I’d put, I don’t know, maybe a nutcracker on the mantel or something. I don’t know.” I shrug to downplay it. I sound insane. A nutcracker? Really? These are my gripes? I’ve been hyperfocusing on such minuscule details.

“I swear to god, Nicholas, if I hear that woman’s name come out of your mouth one more time, I’m gluing your lips together. I’ll drag you outside and throw you back into that stupid pond, butt-naked this time. I’ll go down to your office and chain myself to your wrist so you never get any private interaction with her. If you try to give her diamonds,

Nicholas is laughing. “Is this funny to you?” I’m shrill as a siren. “Little bit,” he admits, trying to hide a grin.

The longer we touch, the more confused I am, until I begin to think I’ve got my facts flipped. I think I hate him eighteen percent.

One thing needs to be cleared up right now, though. “You’re never giving anything to Stacy for as long as you live,” I inform him.