Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

He once told me he’s never imagined himself with a redhead because his mom has reddish hair. HELLO, MOST GUYS HAVE MOMMY ISSUES! LET ME BE YOUR MOMMY ISSUE!

He’s only ever dated tall broody model types with wingspans twice as long as mine. They’re like female pterodactyls.

Oh, and then of course there was that one time I forced myself to dress up as slutty Hermione (his weakness) for Halloween and tried to seduce him. He told me I looked more like frizzy-haired Hermione from the early years and less like post-pubescent Yule Ball Hermione. Cue quiet meltdown.

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.

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.

-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.

“Is she into chocolate?” What the fuck kind of question is that? Are there people walking around this planet who don’t like chocolate?

He nods, taking in my information with a big smile. This guy really thinks he’s going to get Sam—my Sam.

I want to feel bad for the guy, but I don’t. You know what’s hard? Try having a crush on her for three years and then come talk to me.

I’ve decided to finally pursue Sam, but I haven’t had the courage to actually get to the pursuing part.

They spend their time binge-watching Glee and singing acapella versions of Taylor Swift. They’re harmless.

I know her favorite things (citrus-flavored candy, especially if it’s sour) and I know what she hates (strangers who breeze by without a thank you when you hold the door open for them). I know what kind of guy she needs (me) and what kind of guy is all wrong for her (Logan).

I’m not a saint. I’m a guy who’s in love with his best friend, a woman who seems to eat her cake but also keep it in a hermetically sealed cryopreservation tank for all eternity.

“Everyone at school wants you,” she whispers, eyes wide. “You’re mine and you don’t even know it. I’ve never told you.”

“Why do you think I ordered those rings, Hot Lips?” He smirks. “We’re going to have to get married.”

If he’s not kidding, then he’s on crack. IAN IS ON CRACK! Somebody warn the anti-drug froyo guy.

I found our officiant on Craigslist. He’s technically a rabbi, but when I explained our situation, he agreed to marry Sam and me in the museum. Fine by me. I don’t really care how we get married. If we somehow get converted to Judaism in the process, so be it. Shabbat shalom.