Not So Nice Guy

by R.S. Grey

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.

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.”

“Just don’t drag it out. Our entire time as friends has been a tease, foreplay. It’s been like five-play or six-play.”

How about we just do a nice slow-jam make-out while R&B plays in the background?” I ask. “Spotify has playlists for every occasion.” “No.” “Okay, what about a light massage, oil optional, with an accompanying cool jazz playlist? I have one of those too.” “Not happening.” “We could just hold hands in silence? Does Spotify have a silence song?”

“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.”

She was too shy to let me poke around the last time we were here, but now I get my fill of teenage Sam. Her walls are painted lime green. CDs line an entire bookshelf. There are band trophies and UIL journalism awards arranged on top of her dresser. Where other girls would have a framed picture of a boy band, she has a photograph of Jean-Luc Picard on her nightstand. I love her.

“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!” Then I jump across the car and kiss him so hard he falls back and crashes against the window. The kids in the rap car holler at us to get a room.

One second, he’s my best friend, and the next he’s the not so nice guy, the man who handles me like he’s barely resisting the urge to devour me whole.

“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!”