“What else do you have to do tonight?” I prompt.
“Nothing,” she says glumly. “My roommate is spending the night at her boyfriend’s, so I was just going to watch TV anyway.”
“So do it here.” I grab my cell phone. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“Um…mushrooms. And onions. And green peppers.”
“So pretty much all the boring toppings?” I shake my head. “We’re getting bacon and sausage and extra cheese.”
“Why bother asking me what I like if you’re not going to order any of it?”
“Because I was hoping you’d have better taste than that.”
“I’m sorry you find vegetables boring, Garrett. Why don’t you give me a call when you get scurvy?”
“Scurvy is a deficiency of Vitamin C. You don’t put sunshine or oranges on pizza, sweetheart.”
In the end, I compromise by ordering two pizzas, one with Hannah’s boring-ass toppings, the other loaded with meat and cheese. I cover the mouthpiece and glance at her. “Diet Coke?”
“What do I look like, a pansy? Regular Coke, thank you very much.”
Chuckling, I place our order, then put in the first disc of Breaking Bad. We’re twenty minutes in when the doorbell rings.
“Wow. Fastest pizza delivery guy ever,” Hannah remarks.
My stomach is not complaining in the slightest. I head downstairs and grab our food, then pop into the kitchen to grab paper towels and a bottle of Bud Light from the fridge. At the last second, I grab an extra bottle in case Hannah wants one.
But when I offer it to her upstairs, she vehemently shakes her head. “No, thank you.”
“What, you’re too much of a prude to have one beer?”
Discomfort flickers in her eyes. “I’m not a big drinker, okay?”
I shrug and crack open my beer, taking a deep swig as Hannah rips a piece of paper towel off the roll and pries a gooey vegetable-covered slice out of the box.
We settle on the bed to eat, neither of us speaking as I turn the show back on. The pilot episode is amazing, and Hannah doesn’t object when I click on the next one.
There’s a female in my bedroom and neither of us is naked. It’s strange. But kinda nice. We don’t talk much during the show—we’re too engrossed by what’s happening on the screen—but once the second episode ends, Hannah turns to me and gapes.
“Oh my God, imagine not knowing that your husband is cooking meth? Poor Skylar.”
“She’s definitely going to find out.”
Hannah gasps. “Hey. No spoilers!”
“That’s not a spoiler,” I protest. “It’s a prediction.”
She relaxes. “Okay, good.”
She picks up her Coke can and takes a deep swig. I’ve already demolished my pizza, but Hannah’s is only half done, so I steal a piece and take a big bite.
“Ohhhh, look who’s eating my boring pizza. Can anyone say hypocrite?”
“It’s not my fault you eat like a bird, Wellsy. I can’t let food go to waste.”
“I had four slices!”
I have to concede, “Yeah, that actually makes you a total pig compared to the girls I know. The most they ever eat is half a starter salad.”
“That’s because they need to stay rail-thin so guys like you will find them attractive.”