Not So Nice Guy

  “Ian…please…”

  “I want to taste you.”

  She’s panting.

  So close.

  Her breaths are shorter and shorter.

  Her legs are trembling.

  I’m imagining her on that bed, pink and wet and so very good at listening.

  “I’m so close, Ian.”

  “Imagine how well we’ll fit, Sam. Imagine how easily I’ll fill you up.”

  “Ian…I’m—”

  The rest of the sentence dissolves and so does she.

  She’s fisting her sheets, about to come undone just from the sound of my voice.

  “I’ll be so gentle at first, but you know what? I’ve been lonely way too long and I need to fuck—hard.”

  I know she’s seconds away from letting me hear her come and then—suddenly the line goes dead.

  She hung up on me.

  Damn.

  I smirk.

  Another man might feel deprived, but I don’t.

  This is just the beginning, and she should know that.

  I text her a few minutes later when I know she’s lying on her bed, the residual waves sending shivers down her body. She’s flushed and panting, trying to reclaim her breath. I know she’s freaking out over what just happened, but I’m not.

  IAN: Next time we’ll do that in person.

  7

  S A M

  It’s the morning after THE PHONE CALL and I’ve developed some kind of PTSD. I don’t answer Ian’s wakeup call, mainly because I don’t need to. I’m already awake and in my kitchen, scrambling eggs. On my counter, there’s bacon, fresh blueberry muffins, sliced fruit, coffee, and orange juice. I look like a mom on a sitcom. Any minute now a teenage boy will stroll in with bedhead. I’ll tell him to sit down for breakfast and he’ll say, Mom, UGH, I’m late for school! I’ll throw a granola bar at the back of his head as he walks out the door.

  I have all this food because I woke up and decided I needed a hearty breakfast. I need to get my strength up for the day ahead. No low blood sugar for me, not if I intend to be a strong counterpoint for this new version of Ian. Ian 2.0: sexy devil, husky phone-sex operator.

  Last night I let him lure me into some weird scenario in which we weren’t Ian and Sam, best friends. We were just playing a role: Ian and Sam, horny teenagers. Plausible deniability.

  I wish I could call in and take a personal day, but they don’t exactly give teachers a million days off. I refuse to waste one because I’m scared to face Ian. I doubt he’s scared to face me. No, not after that text message he sent last night. It’s clear he’s the one holding the cards.

  I pull the text up again, just to confirm I wasn’t dreaming.

  Yup, there it is.

  I shiver, lock my screen, and go back to shoveling food into my mouth.

  My outfit is picked out strategically. When I stroll into school an hour later, I’m wearing a dress that could easily be worn in a historical reenactment at Plymouth Rock. The black garment goes down to my lower calves and buttons all the way to my neck. The frilly white lapel adds a nice, colonial touch. It’s actually my funeral garb, which is appropriate because last night, my old way of life with Ian died.

  Teachers stop me in the hall and ask if we’re supposed to be wearing costumes today. “Shit, it’s not Dress Like a Literary Character day, is it?” They’re not even pulling my leg; they’re genuinely confused. I decide I can unbutton the top a little. My cleavage is still completely concealed, but the circulation in my neck is able to return.

  I turn the corner into my classroom and spot Ian waiting for me. He’s sitting in my chair, feet propped up on my desk. I jump a mile in the air. My Tupperware falls to the ground and the lid pops off. Muffins spill out.

  “Jesus, Ian!”

  He’s calm and bored when he replies, “Funny, you said the same thing last night.”

  My eyes go wide and I whip my head back and forth down the hall.

  “You can’t say things like that! Are you crazy?!”

  I fall to my knees and start shoveling muffins back into the Tupperware. Ian doesn’t bother helping, just watches me with an amused little smile.

  When I stand back up, he tilts his chin in my direction. “What a dress. Did you wear it for me?”

  “Are you asking if I’ve thought about you since our phone call? Because no, I haven’t. I forgot you existed.”

  “You look like an American Girl Doll named Chastity.”

  “And you look like you’re trespassing. Why are you in my classroom?”

  He stands and saunters over, reaching around me to shut the door.

  Alarm bells ring, both from the fact that he has me cornered against the door and because he felt the need to close it in the first place. I reach back and twist the door handle, but his hand hits the wood beside my head, not hard, but he exerts enough pressure to keep me from opening it.

  Slowly, I glance up into a pair of familiar blue eyes that are currently doing wholly unfamiliar things to my body. My stomach is clenched. My fists are clenched. My jaw is clenched. Everything is rigid and coiled tight like a spring. I’m liable to strain my spleen or something if I keep this up.

  I think he’s going to try to pick right up where we ended last night. My suspicions ping louder when he steps closer. Our bodies barely brush.

  God, he really is tall and foreboding. There’s a reason I’ve never dated a guy as big as he is. He’s the horse and I’m the jockey—except jockeys get helmets and whips. I have nothing to defend myself from him, just muffins.

  He raises his hands, and my eyes pinch shut.

  I’m being completely irrational. I know that, but like I said, his size is intimidating. I should have opted for some kind of platform heel this morning, maybe stilts. Even a pogo stick would allow me to be at his eye level for milliseconds at a time.

  Something hits my chest, and it could be a bomb for all I know. Seconds tick down and we could both explode. I relish the idea—I’d love to be put out of my misery.

  “Open your eyes, Sam.”

  His tone is teasing and light. It’s the way Ian 1.0 used to sound, so I pry one eye open and then the other. I glance down.

  He’s pressing a blue Gatorade bottle against my chest.

  An innocent little sports drink.

  “Relax.”

  “You’re not going to kiss me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  My eyes stay glued on the bottle. “I don’t know. I can’t feel my feet and first period is going to start soon.”

  He steps back and shakes his head. “Drink up. You look thirsty. And did you forget? No first period today. We have to go teach that sex-ed course.”

  Every single junior and senior fills the bleachers in the gymnasium. Ian and I are standing to the side, waiting for the principal to introduce us. This is going to be an absolute shitshow. On their way in, the students were supposed to drop an anonymous question pertaining to sexual education into a shoe box. I’m holding it in my arms and it’s hefty. These teenagers are curious little bastards.

  “Do you have the penis?” Ian asks.

  I hold the banana up. It’s a week old and speckled, rather sickly-looking, actually. Maybe I’ll also use it to demonstrate the dangers of STDs.

  “Do you have the condom?”

  He tugs it out of his back pocket. The words MAGNUM and RIBBED FOR HER PLEASURE leap out at me like a blinking neon sign.

  “You’re kidding.”

  He seems confused.

  “You just brought that over from your stash?” I ask, sounding like a mouth breather.

  “That’s what you said to do.”

  I don’t have time to question him because our names are announced over the microphone and then we walk onto the basketball court to a lot of applause and conversation. It takes minutes to shut everyone up and grab their attention.

  The first half of the course is by the book. Principal Pruitt asked us to outline the most common STDs and transmission pat
hways while an accompanying slideshow plays on a projector behind us. Every new image brings a chorus of groans and covered eyes. One kid passes out and has to be carted to the nurse’s office.

  “Icky!” a girl shouts from the front row.

  “Yes,” I respond solemnly. “Neurosyphilis is icky, and deadly. Now, that brings us to the next part of the course: a demonstration of proper condom application techniques. Ian, the prophylactic, if you please.”

  He smiles and shakes his head, tearing open the rubber while I hold the banana outstretched in front of me. I let him explain the best way to unroll it as he’s obviously more experienced than I am, a fact I try not to dwell on. After that, Principal Pruitt takes the banana and parades it around the gymnasium so everyone can see it. He’s Vanna White’s forgotten stepsister.

  Next, we start on the shoe box questions. Ian dips his hand in, grabs a folded slip of paper, and hands it to me, and then I read each one aloud.

  I was hoping for deeply mature questions, and I don’t get a single one.

  “What is the average penis size?” I read aloud, provoking snickers from the audience. “Oh, well, yeah…why don’t we have Ian answer this one?”

  He isn’t even a little embarrassed as he replies confidently, “Guys, don’t be so preoccupied with that sort of thing. Most women aren’t. It’s made out to be a big deal in pop culture, but the vast, vast majority of you will fall somewhere around 6 inches by the end of puberty.”

  He turns back to me and my eyes say, What about you, Mr. Magnum?

  He sighs and reaches in for another question.

  I make a critical error when I read it aloud before first reading it to myself. “Mrs. A is hot and…” My voice fades out as I crumple it up. “Okay. Very funny. Ian, next.”

  He passes me another question quickly while shooting the boys in the audience a menacing glare.

  “Is it possible for a woman to have more than one orgasm during a round of sex?” I read aloud. This question feels deeply personal and I hate that I’m blushing as I reply, “Off the top of my head, the answer is yes.”

  The question gets discarded quickly and I shoot my hand out for another one, refusing to meet Ian’s bold gaze.

  “Can you get pregnant from dry-humping through your Nike shorts?” My face scrunches and I turn to Ian. “I don’t think…actually, they’re sort of porous, aren’t they?”

  Ian groans and yanks the slip of paper out of my hand. Then he leans over and speaks into the mic, “No. No, you cannot. Still, wear a condom—problem solved.”

  Three-fourths of the way through the questions, I look up and spot a boy in the front row of the bleachers looking shell-shocked. His eyes take up half his face.

  “Oh shoot,” I curse under my breath. “Hey, Johnny, can you go sit out in the hall? Your mom didn’t sign your release form for this.”

  Principal Pruitt rushes forward to usher him out. “Just forget everything you saw today, buddy.”

  There’s no doubt we’ve created lasting scars, for the kids and for ourselves.

  After another thirty minutes of prolonged torture in which I do a poor job of answering questions, we’re done, and Ian walks me back to my classroom.

  There’s nothing to say, so we stay perfectly silent.

  We’re alone in the hall. I’m hugging the shoebox full of leftover questions against my chest.

  I have no clue what we used to talk about. Did we ever have things in common or was I delusional? I can’t think of a single thing to say to him that doesn’t include the Gatorade or our phone call from last night. Oh, duh!

  “What a nice spring day it is,” I say wistfully.

  We pass a window and it’s pouring outside. Tree limbs fly this way and that. A small tornado tosses screaming livestock here and there.

  “Yep. Nice,” Ian says with a knowing smile.

  “All right, fine, let’s just go back to not talking at all. That’s easier.”

  “I’m giving you time to calm down.”

  “Calm down!? CALM DOWN?!”

  His eyes slice over to mine and he raises a brow. Right. If we passed by a mirror, I’m sure my reflection would horrify me. My hair is probably standing on end, light-socket chic. My eyes are shadowed and wide. I’m minutes away from getting stuffed into a padded room.

  “Last night was probably hard for you,” he continues.

  Yes, phone sex was such a trying experience. I’m fatigued just thinking about it.

  “And I know you want to pretend like it didn’t happen so we can go back to normal…”

  Yes, yes. I cross my fingers and toes hoping he’s about to say what I think he is.

  “As friends.”

  Right.

  As Chandler would say, That would be perfection.

  “But—”

  “Samantha! Hey Sam! Wait up!”

  We both turn in sync to find Logan jogging down the hall in our direction.

  “Hey,” he says, coming to a stop and propping his hands on his hips when he reaches us. He’s not even breathing hard. If I tried to jog down the hall, I’d have a cramp in my side.

  “Oh, hey Logan. What’s up?”

  “Not much. Sup Ian.”

  Ian’s grunt is aggressive. I frown and try to catch his eye, but Logan speaks up first.

  “I was wondering if you’d had the chance to read my little…poem yet?”

  My face scrunches in confusion. “Poem?”

  He grins, and he’s not the ogre I thought he was. He has nice arms, a kind smile, hair that’s been trimmed recently. “Yeah, I included it with a teddy bear…for the choir fundraiser thing?”

  I’ve only received a couple red roses, no bears. Ian has the monopoly on those.

  “Sorry Logan, I didn’t get any poem.”

  “Sam, we should get going,” Ian interjects. “We’ll be late for next period.”

  Logan shrugs good-naturedly. “It probably got lost with all the others. You’ve got quite a few admirers this year from what I hear.”

  What in the world is he talking about?

  “Oh…um, huh.”

  Does he realize I’m spending tomorrow alone? Chaperoning a high school dance? I’d win a Most likely to cry herself to sleep on Valentine’s Day contest handily.

  “I won’t let that deter me though.” He grins. “Did you do something different with your hair today? Looks great.”

  I reach up and touch the loose, wavy strands, taken aback by the sweet compliment.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be Logan?”

  He laughs, clearly mistaking Ian’s question for politeness. “This is my off period. Anyway, Sam, if you’re free—”

  His voice trails off as he meets Ian’s eyes. Something there warns him to quit while he’s ahead.

  “Free?” I push.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “She’s not,” Ian says sharply.

  I grimace. “I’m supposed to volunteer at the carnival in the morning and then I have to chaperone the school dance.”

  He rocks back on his heels. “Oh, gotcha.”

  My heart is crumbling for him. He had the courage to ask me out in front of Ian and I don’t want to turn him down outright. “But maybe on Sund—”

  Ian wraps his arm around my shoulders and redirects me down the hall. “Say goodbye now, Logan.”

  “Oh. Uh…bye. Wait!” Ian doesn’t wait. “Okay! I’ll talk to you later, Sam. Maybe we can try to work something out another time?!”

  I’m not given a chance to reply because Ian turns a corner and takes me with him.

  When we’re out of earshot from Logan, I wiggle out of Ian’s hold.

  “What the hell was that?”

  He shakes his head and directs me into my classroom. For the second time today, he closes the door behind him. We’re alone and he’s pacing like a caged lion. I feel the need to flee. I want to crack a window and stick my head out and heave in gulps of air. The rain would pelt my face, but it’d be worth it.

  I
nstead, I walk to my desk, uncap my Gatorade, and take a long swig. When I swallow, I remember something.

  “Do you think he really sent a bear and it just got lost in transit?”

  Silence.

  “Ian?”

  “Possibly. You know how those choir kids are.”

  No, actually I don’t. Is he suggesting they’re criminals? They spend their time binge-watching Glee and singing acapella versions of Taylor Swift. They’re harmless.

  “It seems all of your bears arrived on time,” I point out.

  “Huh.”

  He hasn’t stopped pacing.

  “You’re being weird. What do you know that you’re not telling me?”

  He turns in my direction and props his hands on his hips. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s his Superman pose, and today, in his pressed white shirt rolled to his elbows and his black slacks, he could easily pass for Mr. Kent.

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll laugh when I tell you.”

  That means I definitely won’t.

  “Tell me what?”

  His eyes narrow, focused out the window behind my head. His features have taken on a stern edge as he replies, “I paid off one of the choir kids to intercept your gifts and deliver them to me instead of you.”

  What. The. Hell.

  “Why?”

  Maybe I didn’t take his supposed bear fetish seriously enough. How certain am I that he donated those bags to the children’s hospital? They could be tucked away in his closet, a tiny plush pleasure shrine.

  “Why not?” He shrugs, unbothered by my anger. “Maybe I didn’t think you should be subjected to Logan’s terrible penmanship.”

  “Real answer.”

  “That is the real answer. His poem was shit and his handwriting was even worse—scribbles, really.”

  “Don’t try to be cute now.” I’m angry—pissed. “I can’t believe you did that. I’ve spent the last two weeks feeling like shit because you were getting piles of gifts and I was getting diddly squat. I felt like a lonely loser.”

  “Sam—”

  He tries to step closer and I hold up my hands to block him. I know it’s a useless endeavor. If he wanted to reach me, my arms would bend like spaghetti noodles.