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

by Sarah Hogle

“I don’t like your dumb How to Train Your Dragon tie.” He’s so proud of that tie, because it features Toothless the dragon. A clever pun when you’re in the teeth profession. Rage burns a red rash across his cheekbones. “You take that back.”

toned—the sort of body you could see mastering a piano as well as running across a rugby field. Currently, I’m not privileged enough to enjoy the benefits of his nice, elegant body, so men who were not previously my type are all hot to me now. I’m in a bad way. Boulder-size men with ZZ Top beards and face tattoos. Balding mad scientists. Count Chocula. The silhouette from Mad Men’s credits. If this drought goes on any longer I’ll be lusting after the featureless figure on men’s restroom signs.

I’m watering the Charlie Brown tree because I have love to give and nowhere meaningful to dump it.

do, however, carefully choose a bumblebee-yellow shirt that washes me out. I tug my hair into an unflattering low ponytail, bangs sticking straight up like I’ve been electrocuted. I don’t bother to dab concealer under my eyes. As a matter of fact, I dab some faint purple eyeshadow there. I look like a pilgrim with cholera.

It’s adorable how he assumes I’m in here making myself pretty instead of smearing a pentagram on the floor in my own blood and casting hexes on him.

foot.” “Why did you leave your car?” “I don’t know! It all happened so fast. Give me time to think of a better excuse.” “I’ll be right there. Go back to the car.” I don’t go back to the car, but I do tiptoe out from behind the building and stand at the side of the road. There are flashing lights—a police officer and a tow truck. Oh lord, I’m going to jail. Someone spots me and points, and my instinct is to crouch down. There’s nothing to hide behind, so I’m crouching for no reason whatsoever. Forget jail. I’m getting a padded cell.

My first thought is to make spaghetti. He doesn’t like my spaghetti? Then I’ll cook enough for a banquet and let it overflow from every Tupperware container we own. Nicholas watches me retrieve a box of spaghetti noodles. “I see you’re still mad about the spaghetti thing.” “Not mad.” Just holding on to it forever.

S T it. Unfortunately, Whopper Jr. turned out to be Brownie, who’d escaped his backyard. The next day (after the dog and I bonded all night and I took over a hundred pictures of him wearing hats and sunglasses, sitting in baskets)

I’m not sure whose gasp is loudest—mine, hers, or Harold’s. Actually, Harold’s isn’t a gasp. He’s choking on his cake. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Deborah snaps, thumping him between the shoulder blades. “Chew! Don’t you know how to chew?”

“Very mature. Back in the forties, they went around calling people Dick because they didn’t know someday you would laugh at it.

I’m pretty sure I hear Harold say, “I’m not running even if a spaceship did take him.”

“Thanks for the vitality boost,” he says. “It came in handy when a three-year-old bit my finger.” He shows me an indentation of tiny teeth on the tip of his index finger. “I hope you bit the kid back.” “Her mom wouldn’t turn around long enough for me to get away with it.”

There’s a GoFundMe to make a movie about Pizza Rat, called Ratachewy. You should look into that.”

He winks, and then he’s gone, in his Jeep that’s going to crash, with a contagious illness and either too much or not enough caffeine.

He’s so cute even when he’s wrong.

I’m holding a glittering nine-pound ball I got from behind the counter. I use children’s bowling balls because my strengths lie in the mental arena rather than physical. I’m also not above requesting bumpers.

don’t have a preference for the day of the week,” he replies, “but I’d rather not get married in the morning. My hair looks best when it’s had a few hours to breathe.” I nudge him, and he makes a show out of combing his fingers through his brown waves. He’s only half joking; his hair is indisputably peak-glorious in the latter half of the day.

Nicholas thinks he doesn’t like bangs, which goes to show he doesn’t know what he’s talking about, since he keeps falling in love with me whenever I have bangs.