Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend
: Chapter 22

“Last day of school, baby!” I smacked Amelia on the butt as I ran into the kitchen from the front door. Then I did a lap of our tiny apartment, Rocky Balboa style.

“Woot!” She grabbed her phone and clicked through a few screens. Soon, the theme music to Rocky played over her cell’s speaker. “And, surprise, you should be receiving a call next week about the community manager position interview.”

“What?” I jumped up and down. “So soon? That’s great!”

Finally.

Jeez. I felt such relief. After all the ups and downs with those videos and my social media accounts, the hard work was paying off.

She shimmied to the music. “You should celebrate!”

I felt so pumped, so ready for the summer. “I think I will!”

In addition to the awesome news about the upcoming community manager interview, my school’s Parent-Teacher Organization had agreed to let me do a summer auction for the science fair materials as long as I secured all the items myself, wrapped it up before the start of the new school year, and didn’t solicit any parents to donate anything or buy anything. I’d submitted a bunch of grants, but I didn’t want to take for granted (Ha! Pun intended) that any of them would get funded.

Now I simply needed to replace items for the auction. Over the summer. Without asking any parents for help. But I’d figure it out!

Amelia turned as I jogged past again and gave me a high five. “You should make a fancy dinner tonight.”

“Wait, don’t you have plans with Elijah?” I studied her attire: black dress, silk wrap, stockings.

Amelia walked to the kitchen table and grabbed her purse. “I’m about to go. But I don’t need to be here for you to make fancy food.”

“You’re right. I think I will.”

“And see if Byron can come over and share your fancy dinner.”

I stopped running and instead danced in place, punching the air. “You know what? I think I will.”

What the heck, why not? After dyeing my hair on Friday, Byron had left, not staying for a gluten-free feast. I’d let him go, not taking his need for space personally. Serena had come over and we’d roused a dozing Amelia for a game of Stardew Valley while they admired my new hair.

But Byron and I were officially friends now. We’d spent time together almost every night this week even though we hadn’t recorded any new videos. Another fundamental shift had occurred in our interactions—a really good shift as far as I was concerned—and I attributed it not only to our honest conversations that night, but also to my physical avoidance of his body.

The notion had occurred to me last Saturday over breakfast while reading an article about imprinting via touch and smell. When Byron and I had met up later that day, I’d put my theory to the test and kept my distance. Success!

My heart still hammered out of my chest whenever he entered the room, my neck grew hot, and my stomach swirled. But something about erecting this boundary, promising myself I wouldn’t touch him, and maintaining physical distance between us, significantly dulled the sting of both my biology and my feelings. It was as though moving him into an off-limits category made our interactions easier, and this mental shift was supported by the new physical boundary.

Tenable friendship boundaries for the Win!

“And then while he’s here, you might as well film another challenge video.” Amelia fiddled with the gold bracelet at her wrist. “You should try to amass as many followers as you can before the interview, get as close to 500k as possible.”

I nodded in time to the music, liking this idea. “I think we will.”

There were still six videos left to do, half of which gave me heart palpitations each time my thoughts strayed in their direction: the Toxic Dance Challenge, the Leggings Challenge, and the Kiss Your Crush Challenge. How ironic that the last of these had gone from being 100 percent disingenuous to 100 percent accurate.

“And then hang out with him. Watch a movie. Whatever.”

“I think we will.” I raised my hands in the air.

“Maybe have some sex.”

“I think we w—” My feet stilled as soon as I processed her words. Arms dropping, I glared at my friend. “Very funny.”

As I’d predicted, Amelia had been teasing me all week about Byron, making suggestive remarks, placing a lingerie catalog on my nightstand. I loved her, but she was making me bonkers.

“That wasn’t a joke.” Amelia hiked her purse higher up her shoulder. “Seduce him. It’s finally summer. Now is the time to get on it.”

“If you have some information to share, some concrete insight into Byron’s feelings that would inspire me to take action, please do share it.”

“For God’s sake, take a chance. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Grunting, I turned away from her and paced over to the bags I’d left by the front door. She clearly didn’t comprehend the situation.

Even before last week, even when I’d been flailing around, trying to put up boundaries that didn’t work, Byron had started to feel like an essential person in my life, and so much more than just a good friend. He’d become a top-tier important friend, one I would mourn for a long time if I lost him. I refused to gamble with or do anything to jeopardize our friendship.

As much as I continued to crush on him every time he opened his brilliant mouth, I would not risk this relationship we’d built unless I was absolutely, 100 percent, without-a-single-doubt certain Byron wanted and craved and daydreamed about me just as much as I did about him.

But absent that? Nope.

“You are being a scaredy cat,” Amelia called after me.

“MEOW.”

She made a sound of pure frustration. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to risk it all if you want to live a full life. I can’t give you a shortcut. You need to learn how to trust all on your own, without being certain. Uncertainty in a relationship continues after the I love yous. You must learn how to operate on faith if you want it to last.”

I hated how well she knew me, but—on this point—I was immovable.

“Are you listening to me? Take this first step blindly or you’ll be paralyzed whenever you encounter a stumbling block. Nothing is ever certain. There is no concrete flooring in matters of the heart. It’s all sand.”

“You mean quicksand,” I grumbled, lugging my belongings to the couch and removing the contents. It was weird to have this conversation while the theme to Rocky played in the background.

“I’m just saying”—her eyebrows arched and she shrugged—“there are condoms in my top drawer. Take as many as you need.”

I exhaled a short laugh and waved her away. “All right, get out of here, funny lady.”

“I won’t be home tonight or tomorrow night, so please consider making some risky choices while you have the place to yourself,” she said, and then she was gone, taking the Rocky music with her.

Knowing Amelia, she’d probably play it on repeat during the entire walk to Elijah’s.

Bags now completely empty, I picked through the items I’d brought home, sorting and categorizing materials I hadn’t gone through yet in my haste to clean out my classroom, and I debated what to make for dinner. I had chicken in the freezer that needed to be cooked, but tonight didn’t feel like a chicken night. It felt like a king salmon night, with saffron butter sauce, braised asparagus, and a good bottle of pinot noir. Yes.

These were all things I could get from Pike Place while also visiting Serena at her tea booth.

Decision made, I grabbed two reusable shopping bags and started for the door. This wasn’t a dinner that fit inside my budget, but if everything went as planned, the community manager position would not only allow me to pay back my student loans, but it would also enable me to actually save money. Maybe I’d be able to afford a place of my own in the city. Nothing fancy, a simple studio would suffice. But then Amelia could move out without worrying I’d be left in a lurch.

These were the thoughts running through my head when I opened my door and found Byron standing on the landing, his hand raised as though poised to knock.

“Oh!” I stepped back, grinning at this pleasant surprise. “Hey!”

He lifted two shopping bags. “I’m here to make you dinner.”

“You are?” We hadn’t made any plans. Last night, after leaving the art museum, I’d said I would call him this weekend, and that’s where we’d left it.

His eyes moved over my shoulder before returning to mine. “May I come in?”

“Yes. Absolutely.” At first I stepped to the side and out of his way, but then thought better of it. If he walked past, he might accidentally brush against me, or touch me, and I simply could not have that. So I held the door open with my fingertips until he crossed the threshold, and then I turned and walked ahead of him. “You must’ve been reading my brain waves. I was just about to text you to see if you wanted to come over for dinner. And then I was going to hop a bus to Pike Place.”

“I just left there.”

I stood on the family room side of the counter while Byron filled the kitchen side, removing items from bags, handing over a bottle of wine for me to open, and pulling ingredients from our pantry. We fell into easy conversation as he showed me what he’d brought for dinner, which included cod, asparagus, and a flourless, gluten-free chocolate cake from Nuflours.

“And scones for tomorrow.” He lifted a white paper bag, showed it to me, and then placed it next to my teapot to the left of the range.

“You thought of everything.” I removed the foil wrapping from the top of the wine bottle. “And this is eerily similar to the dinner I had planned. Except for cod, I was thinking salmon. But black cod is my favorite, so no complaints.”

“Great minds think alike,” he muttered, the entirety of his attention focused on prepping the garlic.

The wine open, I eyed the small space in the kitchen and how much of it his body—just by virtue of being himself—had claimed. “Hand me two wineglasses and I’ll pour. What can I do to help? Do you want me to mince the garlic?”

“No. Sit. Relax. Talk to me.” Byron spun while he spoke, retrieving pots and pans, knives and cutting boards, and finally two wineglasses for me to fill.

“Let me see. I have some good news.”

He glanced at me, lifting an eyebrow. “Let’s hear it.”

“I don’t know if I’ve told you about this, but I need to replace a way to fund the science fair. I brought it back three years ago, and it’s been so great. And the way I do it, the kids complete their entire project during class time, the parents don’t have to buy any materials or get involved. You should see the students’ faces when they present their posters.” I clasped my hands over my chest, remembering their precious excitement. “It’s like being back at a scientific conference, except every experiment is interesting and none of the presenters are blowhards.”

He laughed, not looking up from the asparagus he cut. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes! One kid did this experiment on the amount of glucose in different kinds of apples, hypothesizing that the sweeter the apple, the more glucose. It was darling, and so relevant, and now we know the answer.”

“I’d like to see his methods. How did he define sweetness?”

Pulling out a stool, I sat and leaned my elbows on the kitchen peninsula. “We did a survey in the class, all the kids sampled apple slices and rated the sweetness. It was double-blind.”

He laughed again, lifting his eyes to mine this time. “No way.”

“Yes way. I cut the skins off, so you couldn’t tell what the outside looked like, placed the pieces in Petri dishes labeled A, B, C, and so forth. And I funded the whole thing—the apples, the Petri dishes, the posterboards, everything—using my Academic Olympics fundraiser.” I heaved a sad sigh. “But the Parent-Teacher Organization wants to use that fundraiser to help buy new computers for the lab this year.” My gaze returned to his and found him studying me.

“Please don’t tell me you’re paying for it yourself.”

I mock-glared at him. “No. They gave me permission to do an auction over the summer.”

“Nice. So the parents will pay for it.”

Tilting my wine to the side, I studied its color. “Well, no. I can’t ask parents to donate items or buy anything. But I’ll figure it out.”

“And that’s good news?” He sounded skeptical, like he didn’t understand why any of this would make me happy.

“Yes. Absolutely. Prior to today, I thought I’d have to rely on grants to pay for it or have to cancel it.”

“What? No.” He frowned. “You can’t cancel it. And arranging an auction with the odds stacked against you is a complete waste of your time. I’ll donate the money.”

I scoffed. Loudly. “No, you won’t. I didn’t tell you about this so you would give me the money.”

“Yes, I will. I’m not giving you money. I’m giving it to the science fair.”

“No.”

“You don’t tell me what to do.” He smirked, setting the asparagus aside, a lilting dare edging his voice and making sparkles twirl in my stomach.

I gripped my glass tighter, standing from the stool and pacing to the family room, putting distance between us. “I’m not taking your money and I don’t want you offering it, not ever again. Okay?”

Byron leaned his hands on the counter, his lips pressed together in a line, and he considered me for a long moment beneath scowling eyebrows. “Listen, Fred. You have proven repeatedly that you are more than capable of taking care of everything yourself. Congratulations on never needing anyone. Just like I am more than happy living my life in complete seclusion, never needing anyone. But, given the option to change our situations, why wouldn’t we?”

I opened my mouth, poised to ask a question, but I wasn’t quite following his logic or what his point was.

He straightened, crossing his arms. “Look at it this way: is it difficult for you to spend time with me?”

“No.”

“There you go.”

“There I go? There I go what?”

“It’s just as easy for me to donate money so the kids can have their science fair. I donate a percentage of my income every year anyway. I’ll ask my manager to change the allocation so that some of it comes to your school. Same thing.”

“It’s really not.” How could he not see the difference?

Byron stared at me over the rim of his glass as he took a sip, his eyes narrowing as he set it down. “Actually, you know what? You’re right. Your time has more value than money. Money is money, one twenty-dollar bill is worth the same as any other. But your time is unique to you. It can’t be exchanged for someone else’s time. There is no substitute.”

“So what you’re saying is, my time is priceless?”

Taking up the knife again, Byron smashed the garlic clove with the flat side. “Whatever transcends pricelessness, your time is that.”

“Nice try. The flattery is adorable and appreciated, but I’m still not going to allow you to—nay!—I forbid you from donating your money to the school.”

“You forbid me?” Amusement behind his gaze, his voice dropped an octave.

“Yes,” I said with forced stiffness. When he looked at me with this particular expression, it always felt like a caress, and it always got me hot. I didn’t think the effect was purposeful—in fact, I knew it wasn’t since he gave Amelia a similar look when he thought she was funny—but I couldn’t help my body’s reaction to the look any more than I could control its overall reaction to him.

He nodded once and turned. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” Butter now in hand, he returned to the cutting board and concentrated on removing the wrapper.

I squinted at him. “What do you mean, fine?”

“I won’t donate my money to the school.”

“And you’re not allowed to bid on any of the auction items either. Promise me.”

“I promise I will not donate my money to the school, for the science fair or any other reason, nor will I bid on any of the auction items. Happy?”

I nodded, but . . . Was I? Was I happy? If I’d simply accepted his help, I’d be done. No need for an auction. No need for another project this summer. No need to run around, visiting local businesses, trying to convince them to donate items.

Despite my errant thoughts, I said, “Very.”

His eyebrow ticked up, but he said nothing. I doubted I’d convinced him. I hadn’t even convinced myself.