“Yeah, I was fraternity president my junior and senior year. HOO-RAH.”
Then he proceeded to holler his fraternity chant for the entire bar to hear. I think he thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like I was in on the joke. I wanted to press a red button and exit through the roof. Ian’s eyes locked with mine over the table, and it felt like he knew exactly what I was thinking. He could tell how uncomfortable I was, how much the situation made me squirm. We both proceeded to fight back laughter. My face turned red with exertion. He had to bite his lip. In the end, I caved first and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom again so I could crack up in private.
Ian’s date later told him she was concerned I had an overactive bladder.
By the time lunch rolls around at school, I’m ready for a break. My journalism classes are interspersed with on-level senior English classes. It’s not my favorite part of the job, but it’s the only way Principal Pruitt can justify keeping me on full-time. The students in these classes are already checked out, blaming their late homework and poor quiz scores on senioritis. I type the illness into Wed MD to prove it isn’t a real thing. They don’t look up from their cell phones long enough to listen.
Most of them wouldn’t be able to pick me out of a lineup.
Last week, one kid thought I was a student and asked for my Snapchat.
Ian doesn’t have this problem. His classes are filled with overachieving nerds, the kids who’ve already been accepted to Ivy League schools but still feel the need to take 27 AP classes. Most of them intimidate me, but they treat Ian like he’s their Obi-Wan.
“Tell us more about the tongue strip, Mr. Fletcher!”
“Bill Nye’s got nothin’ on you, Mr. Fletcher!”
“I wrote about you in my college admissions essay, Mr. Fletcher. I had to pick the one person who’s inspired me to pursue learning the most!”
I sit down for lunch in the teachers’ lounge and puff out a breath of air, trying to move the few strands of hair from my forehead. They are evidence that I’ve tugged at my ponytail in distress too many times this morning.
Ian slides into his designated seat across from me and his positive energy clogs the air between us. It could also be his delicious body wash.
“Let’s see it,” he says.
“It’s not my best haul.”
I’ve got a cheese stick, pretzels, grapes, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
He has a multi-layer turkey sandwich with avocado and alfalfa sprouts, sliced watermelon, and almonds.
Without a word, we start the exchange. I take half his turkey sandwich. He takes half my PB&J. My cheese stick gets divided in two. I let him keep his nasty almonds—they aren’t even salted.
“Let me have some of your pretzels,” he says, reaching over.
I slam my hand down on the bag, effectively cracking most of them in half. Worth it.
“You know the rules.”
His dark brow arches. “I have chocolate chip cookies from one of my students back in my classroom. His mom baked them as a thank you for writing him a rec letter.”
In the blink of an eye, my threatening scowl gentles to a smile. My dimples pop for added effect. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I turn my bag of broken pretzels in his direction.
Even though the teachers’ lounge is packed, no one sits at our table. They know better. We’re not rude, it’s just hard for other people to keep up with us. Our conversations involve a lot of shorthand, code, and inside jokes.
“All-staff go well?”
I try for my best local news anchor tone. “Ian, is the food in our cafeteria healthy?”
He groans in commiseration.
“Yeah, then I had another student try to threaten to expose our relationship.”
“You mean the one that doesn’t exist?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. All right!” Mrs. Loring—the drama teacher—shouts near the fridge, cutting through the noise in the lounge. “Guess what today is…”
“The first of the month!” someone shouts enthusiastically. “Confiscation Station!”
For the next few seconds, there’s an overwhelming amount of applause and chatter. Confetti might as well be raining down from the ceiling.
“Okay. OKAY! Settle down,” Mrs. Loring shouts excitedly. “Does anyone have late entries?”
Ian stands and withdraws a crumpled note from his pocket.
People clap like he’s a hometown hero returning from war.
“Snatched it up during first period,” he brags.
A few female teachers act as if they’re going into cardiac arrest as they watch him cross the room. Mrs. Loring holds out her mason jar and he drops it inside.
He reclaims his seat across from me and suddenly, it’s time for The Reading.
On top of the fridge in the teachers’ lounge sits a medium-sized mason jar, into which we drop notes we’ve seized from students during class. The moon waxes and wanes and that jar fills up. At the first of every month, Mrs. Loring interrupts our lunch for a dramatic reading.
It might sound cruel, but don’t worry, we keep the notes anonymous. No one knows the source except the confiscator. As a result, Principal Pruitt doesn’t really care about our ritual. It’s good for our morale. Think of it as team bonding.
Mrs. Loring swirls her hand into the bowl like a kid searching for candy on Halloween, and then she comes up with a neatly folded note.
I turn to Ian, giddy. Our gazes lock. Last year I sat in while he did an experiment with his students. He burned different elements to show that they each produced a different color flame. Calcium burned orange, sodium burned yellow. The students were amazed, but then so was I, because when he burned copper, it produced a dark, vivid blue flame—the exact color of Ian’s eyes. I’ve kept a little bowl of shiny pennies on my nightstand ever since.
Mrs. Loring clears her throat and begins. She’s the best person for the job. There is no half-assing on her part. She’s a classically trained actor and when she reads the seized missives, she affects different accents and performs with a convincing earnestness. If I could, I’d bring my parents in for an evening showing.
“Student #1: Hey, did you see that [name redacted] sat by me during first period?”
“Student #2: YES! I think he likes you.”
“Student #1: We’re just friends. He’s not into me like that.”
“Student #2: C’MON! YOU JUST NEED TO GO FOR IT! Next time you hug, push your boobs up against him. That’s my secret weapon.”
A smattering of snorts interrupts the reading before Mrs. Loring restores order.
“Student #1: Let’s say that actually works—what if it changes everything? What if it messes up the friendship?”
“Student #2: Who cares? We’re about to graduate. You need to getchasome.”
“Student #1: Okay, sleezeball. I, for one, actually think it’s possible to have guy friends without banging them all.”
“Student #2: You’re delusional. It’s only a matter of time before best friends of opposite sex morph into LOVERS.”
The bolded final word, read with overblown dramatics, produces uproarious laughter. But, at our table, there is conspicuous silence. Crickets. The note parallels my life too closely. I fidget in my chair. Heat crawls up my spine. I’ve broken out in hives. Maybe I’m having an allergic reaction to Ian’s turkey sandwich. In fact, I wish I were—anaphylactic shock sounds wonderful compared to this. It feels like someone just transcribed the thoughts of the little angel and devil on my shoulders.
I hate this game.
I hate that Ian is trying to get me to meet his blue-flame gaze, probably trying to make some friendly joke.
When lunch is over, I’ll stand and make a break for it. I’ll decline his invitation to accompany him back to his classroom for cookies, and when we part ways, I’ll try hard to keep my tone and my gaze calm. He’ll never know anything was wrong.
I’ve had to tread lightly for
the last 1300 days. Ian and I have a relationship that depends greatly on my ability to compartmentalize my feelings for him at the start of every school day and then slowly uncork the bottle at night. The pressure builds and builds all day.
It’s why my dreams are filthy.
It’s why I haven’t dated anyone else in ages.
This whole tightrope walk is getting harder and harder, but there’s no alternative. For 1300 days, I’ve been best friends with Ian Fletcher, and for 1300 days, I’ve convinced myself I’m not in love with him. I just really, really like pennies.
2
I A N
Sam and I have been friends for a while now—so long, in fact, that I know she isn’t into me. Here are four times she’s made that perfectly clear:
She once told me she feels nervous whenever we’re too close. “You’re the bull and I’m the china. You could probably sit on me and squash me to death.” The last guy she dated was short enough to fit into her jeans.
She goes for boring business types, guys who spend their first month’s paycheck on an expensive frame for their MBA certificate.
I once overheard her on the phone swearing to her mom that we were “never, ever, ever going to be more than friends.” It sounded like a Kidz Bop version of Taylor Swift.
Oh, and there was the Halloween party last year when she dressed up like Hermione and I tried to kiss her and she laughed in my face…and then puked on my shoes.
Today is Wednesday, which means Sam is already at my house when I get home from soccer practice. I’m the head coach of Oak Hill’s men’s JV team. We’re undefeated, and Sam’s never missed a game even though sports aren’t really her thing.
“Please say you’ve already started dinner, Madam Secretary,” I say when I walk in and drop my bag.
“It’s in the oven, Mister President.”
She’s at my kitchen table, hunched over with her back to me. I can’t tell what she’s doing until I get closer and lean over her shoulder.
She’s sprinkling glitter onto poster boards, adding the finishing touches to bright neon signs. They say, GO OAK HILL SOCCER and COACH FLETCHER IS #1! Construction paper and glue and markers litter my table. It’s a complete mess.
“Are those for the game tomorrow?”
“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.
She’s caught me staring.
Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.
“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”
I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.
“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.
I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.
“Looks good.”
“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”
She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.
We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.
Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.
“Did I just get a match?”
I check. Some guy named Sergio sent her a message.
“I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”
She huffs out a sigh of annoyance and marches over to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”
My dick stirs and I ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now.
“Well I’m not sure this Sergio is up to the task. He looks like he waxes his eyebrows.”
“So? That sounds like a great first date idea. Mine are overdue.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her, so she deflects.
“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”
I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”
She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”
“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”
“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”
I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”
One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”
Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…
Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”
“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”
She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.
SERGIO: Hey QT br />
SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.
“Ian!”
“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”
She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”
I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.
Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.
Maybe I should start using dating apps too.
It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.
She groans in annoyance.
“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”
She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.
“What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”
“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”
“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”
“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”
“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”
Who does?
She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”