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.

“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.”

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.

-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.

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.

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

“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’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.”

“Sam, we aren’t friends with benefits. I want to make that perfectly clear. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.” I laugh. “Well I hate to break it to you, bucko, but we’ve already screwed up. Phone sex and a blowjob before our first date? As Shakespeare said, Shit’s fucked, yo. No point in trying to correct it now.”

“Mommy, come look! She’s sitting on his lap! Is he Santa Claus?” Ian hauls ass out of there before the police get called.

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

“Realistically, what would change?” he says, still staring ahead. “We already share a meal service subscription and a Netflix account. In fact, if you won’t marry me, I’m going to change my password.”

He shakes his head, determined. “I’m not going to give you time. Don’t think. Oreos or M&Ms?” “Oreos!” “Summer or fall?!” “Fall!” “Tator tots or French fries?!” “Both!” “Do you want to marry me, yes or no?” “YES!”

“GO!” the rabbi shouts, yanking the certificate out of my hand. “I’ll drop this in the mail for you guys! GO! HURRY!” I grab Sam’s hand and take off toward the exit across the room from the security guards. She trips over the hem of her dress before she reaches down and hoists it up to her knees. “Why are we running?” she shouts, but I don’t slow down. “Ian!” “Hurry, c’mon. The museum has a strict policy against unsanctioned ceremonies!” “What?!” “It’s like $20,000 to get married here. We aren’t millionaires!”

“I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher. It’s Ian, calling me from the kitchen. I smile and reach over for the phone. “When did you have the time to change my ringtone?” “Last night after you drifted off. You were snoring.” I groan and sit up so my feet dangle off the side of the bed. “Tell me the truth—what’s the point of these songs?” “Haven’t you guessed?” “I think you just like to torture me.” “No. I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel.” I think back on the last few I can remember. I just thought they were cheesy songs. Now, I realize I should have read between the lines. “They were all love songs by dynamic duos, just like us.” “Awwwwwww! Ian Fletcher, you big softie!” He hangs up on me and shouts from the kitchen for me to get my butt out of bed. He loves me big time.

My students immediately notice it, one in particular: Nicholas. “Good morning, Ms. Abra—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR HAND?!” “Nicholas, deep breaths.” He fans his face like he’s going to pass out. “It’s a wedding ring,” I admit calmly. “Go Ms. Abrams!” another student hoots from the back of the class. Nicholas sends them a death stare then flings his glare back to me. “How could you do this to me? I was going to wait for you!” I ease him down to his seat, just in case he’s about to lose consciousness on me. “Well, Nicholas, Mr. Fletcher and I—” “Mr. Fletcher?! So he’s the homewrecker!”

A perky soccer mom with a blonde ponytail and a pearly white smile reaches for my arm, intercepting me before I reach the door. “Hey, I was going to tell you…” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Between us girls, if you’re into whipped cream, you really ought to try some chocolate sauce warmed up just a little—not too hot though.” She winces. “Learned my lesson the hard way with that one, ha! Oh, by the way, I think you teach my son—Nicholas?”