The guys somehow just short circuit my brain whenever I try to make alternate plans. I have to admit, it’s not bad living here. They are kind of messy, but not filthy or anything. We take turns cooking dinner Sunday through Thursday, weekends are pizza or on your own. They don’t party very hard. Fletch takes his classes more seriously than Shane, but homework and studying are part of our everyday life. And I don’t think either of them will kill me in my sleep like my last roommate, so I guess it’s working out.

Except for the part where I don’t cook very well. It’s not like the guys are Michelin chefs, but they at least have a rudimentary understanding of basic meals. Despite my academic success, I have no idea how to boil pasta, I guess.

The package is less than helpful. “Cook until done” is not going to win any Nobel Prizes in dinner making. Uncle Google will know. I pick up my phone and search, but now I need to know if we want it al dente or ...or what? Al un-dente?

“Smells delish, little sis.” Shane says as he enters the kitchen and pulls a beer out of the fridge. “When’s dinner?”

Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?

“I don’t know. As soon as I figure out if the noodles are done. Do you know?”

“You gotta throw them at the wall.”

Right. I should have known better than to expect a serious answer from Shane.

“I’m being for real.”

I’ve been here a week, and it’s not possible to know when he’s teasing or truthing. So I just look at him and shake my head. “I’m supposed to throw a pot full of boiling water and spaghetti at the wall?”

He squares his jaw and looks to the heavens for help. “Throw a noodle at the wall. Not the pot. Not all the noodles. Just one. If it sticks, it’s done.”

I look back at my phone. Huh, he’s not teasing. That’s a thing.

We fish in the pot for one noodle, and I fling it at the wall. Success! Shane high-fives me, and I carry the pot to the sink to strain the water.

“I’ll clear the table. We can eat like civilized people at a table tonight.”

My heart clutches. I left my stuff out when I went to stir the sauce. My notebook is probably open.

“No! Wait!” I turn from the sink, but my glasses are steamed from the noodle water, and I can’t see him.

Please don’t let him—

“You’re using the scientific method to get laid, little bit?”

—see my notebook.

I tear my glasses off and cross the room. “Give it back.”