I close my eyes and although the chair isn’t exactly comfortable, I’m tired enough that I almost fall asleep to the ambient noise of the hotel lobby. Nick’s voice jolts me into consciousness, interrupting my daydreams about pizza slices and burgers and hot, salty French fries.

“So, uh . . . there’s a problem.”

I sit up from my slumped position and study his face. His eyebrows are knitted together in concern, not furrowed in anger like they were on the convention floor. I stand up and we’re face-to-face. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “I guess the room I thought I reserved yesterday didn’t go through and now . . . we don’t have two rooms.”

I stare at him, waiting for him to continue.

“We have one room.” He sounds out the words slowly, like it’s my fault for not understanding this preposterous and unbelievable situation. “And all the other ones are occupied.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. Two beds, right?”

Nick’s lips are pressed together in a straight line. “One bed.”

I begin shifting away from anger and into crisis management mode. “Okay, have them send up a cot and—”

“They’re out,” Nick says slowly, “of cots.”

“Wait,” I say. “This sort of thing happens in real life?”

This is one of Annie’s absolute favorite romantic comedy tropes: when two people are forced to share the same bed (or sleeping bag, or whatever). Usually it’s people who hate each other but have sexual tension simmering beneath the surface of their anger. Like in Leap Year, when Amy Adams is stomping around Ireland and Matthew Goode is always angry at her but, of course, they end up at a B&B where they have to pretend to be married and share a bed. Or in What If, when Zoe Kazan’s and Daniel Radcliffe’s friends leave them stranded and naked on a beach and they have to share a sleeping bag. It’s one of those situations I always roll my eyes at because there’s no way this ever happens; I mean, how many times has a real live person been forced to share a bed with someone?

Well, at least one time, because it’s happening right now. I get the feeling that wherever Annie is, she’s laughing.

Nick shakes his head. He looks embarrassed, which isn’t an expression I see on him often, not even when I’m making jokes that are NSFW. “You stay here tonight. I’ll just . . . I’ll go find another hotel for myself.”

“Nick, no,” I say, my vehemence surprising even me. “Get real. We’re two adults here; I don’t think we need to put an entire building between us.”

“I’ll sleep in the chair,” he says. “Presumably there’s a chair in this room.”

I wave him off, standing up and grabbing my bag, all traces of my earlier anger evaporated. “Whatever. I’ll sleep in the bathtub. I have a near-legendary ability to sleep anywhere.”

And a near-legendary, at least among Annie and our other high school friends, tendency to talk in my sleep. Which might be a problem if I’m sharing a room with Nick, but I’m not about to banish him to another hotel.