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Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. That’s how I know I’m dreaming—my mouth isn’t that skillful. In real life, I’d chip a tooth on his zipper.
Ian likes to wake up with the milkman. He belongs to a gym and he uses that membership every morning. His body fat percentage hovers in the low teens. I belong to the same gym and my membership card is tucked behind a beloved Dunkin’ Donuts rewards card. It leers out at me each time I make a midday strawberry frosted run.
The only #gains in my life come from binge-watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on Fixer Upper.
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.
to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”
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.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m at the starting line of a marathon and the pistol was just fired, but I’m not ready to run. My laces are untied. I haven’t stretched. For three years, I’ve sort of just been walking around in track shoes, calling myself a runner.
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.”
“You’re killing me here.” “I just want to know who I married,” I say, in a daze, focused on the sharp contours of his abs. “You know me,” he says wistfully.
