Not So Nice Guy

“What version is that?” The edge of her mouth tips up.
“The nice guy—or rather, the not so nice guy. You walked right by me in the hallway yesterday. You skipped out on lunch in the teachers’ lounge. You know I overslept on Monday because you didn’t call me?”

“You wore a suit.” “You wore a dress.” “We both look like we’re going to prom.”

It’s time to break out the big guns: Signor Armani.

Still, I know I’m being a jerk. Her face was the saddest thing when I brushed her off in the hall yesterday, but what does she expect? 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.

“Oh, Tennyson? He’s a quack.”

I go home and I lie awake in my bed and I try to ignore the terrible feeling that my friendship with Ian will never be the same after tonight, that I’ve already started to lose him. The thought shreds my heart.

It’s very simple, really: we have a bird in the hand. You and I make an excellent duo. You’re my best friend. Really, actually, now that I think about it, you’re my only friend. Everyone we used to hang out with has either moved away or had kids, but not us. We’ve never grown up or settled down. We still have time for West Wing Wednesdays and trivia nights and that one month where I wanted to take up rollerblading and I made you walk beside me and hold my hand.

“I could make it up to you now,” he suggests, holding out his hand. My heart tap dances against my rib cage.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
Why?!
“Because I’m like that silly mouse from the children’s story. If you give a Sam a dance, she’s bound to ask for a kiss. If you give her kiss, she’s going to want…”

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).

“Sam…Samwich…Sam and cheese.”
Each of my nicknames feels like he’s plucking my heartstrings. He bends so we’re face to face.
“I did it because it’s time you and I stop dancing around the obvious, this thing we have between us.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You’re right. I’ll make myself clear.”

“I need your help.”
“With what?”
“I was having a tough time motivating my guys at the beginning of overtime, so I promised if they won this game, I’d dye my hair blue.”
My attention whips back to him. “What?!”
He’s wearing a small teasing smile as he stares out the front windshield.
“Just temporarily. I already bought some stuff that should wash out within a week.”
“You’ll look ridiculous.”

Ian and I became friends three and a half years ago, close to 1300 days if some loser out there was keeping count.