Not So Nice Guy
Page 22

“Yup. Sam had it too, even worse than I did. Never heard anything like it before in my life.”
I resist the urge to stomp on his foot.
Principal Pruitt looks deeply concerned. “Now that you mention it, you both look like you’ve been through the ringer. Did you guys share food or something?”
We swapped some saliva—does that count?
We’re given orders to rest and hydrate and take it easy tomorrow.
When they’re gone, Ian opens my car door and folds me down inside. “Food poisoning? Really?”
“It was the only way to explain our ragged appearance.”
He reaches over me and starts my car.
“Can you drive?”
“I don’t know. What if I get pulled over? I’m not drunk, but I sure as shit can’t walk a straight line right now. Did you drug me?”
He’s covering the door and leaning down, filling the entire doorframe. “I hate the way your brain works sometimes.”
The dig cuts deep. I can’t change who I am no matter how hard I try.
I stare straight ahead, out the front window.
“Why can’t you just let this happen without sabotaging it?”
“I’m not sabotaging it,” I insist, offended.
“Okay, then let’s go out on a date tomorrow night.”
“I can’t.”
He shakes his head, pissed. “Good night Sam.”
NO! Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he understand that I want to preserve what we have? That people fight their entire lives to find a friend like we have in each other? We’re soul mates who shouldn’t risk mating. Soul buds. Soul pals?
“Wait!” I wrap my hand around his forearm. It’s so muscled and sexy, I lose track of what I was about to say. When my gaze drags back up to his angry scowl, I remember. “Don’t be mad at me.”
He’s never been mad at me. I didn’t realize it’s my worst fear until this moment.
“I’m not. Sam—” He cuts himself off and heaves in a deep sigh. Then he steps back and grabs the door. “Go home.”
And I do. 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.
Ian and I don’t talk at all on Sunday. It’s the worst day I’ve had in a long time. I mope around the apartment and stay in my pajamas. I grab for my phone every time I hear a phantom ring. I watch a PBS special about jellyfish and remember the time I got stung at the beach and Ian swooped me up in his arms and carried me out of the water like a hero.
Monday morning, my wakeup call never comes. I sleep straight past first period; that’s how much I’ve come to rely on Ian. Fortunately, Principal Pruitt assumes I’m still recovering from food poisoning, so there’s no need to explain my tardiness or the fact that they had to pull in a sub to cover for me. During lunch, Ian avoids the teachers’ lounge and I’m forced to converse with other people. It’s so annoying. I have to complete my sentences and everything or they get confused. Ashley asks me how the Valentine’s Day dance went and I’m so paranoid, I snap my gaze to her and ask her what she means.
Her face scrunches in confusion. “Just, like, was it a total bore or what?”
Oh.
I tell her it was fine, eat the rest of my lunch in two bites, and then scurry right back to my classroom. It’s not exactly a smart move. After all, it’s the scene of the crime. The desk we made out on should be removed from rotation and enshrined. Students have sat at it all morning, oblivious to the fact that Ian rocked my world in that exact spot not 48 hours ago.
I’ve thought about him a lot since our kiss, obsessed over him. As proof, my mind can warp any topic right back to him. While my students take a test, I look out the window of my classroom at the cloudless blue sky…Ian blue. After class, I overhear my students dissecting last night’s Game of Thrones episode and wonder if Ian watched it without me. I scroll past a funny meme on Reddit and resist the urge to text it to him.
I never wanted to tell Ian how I felt because I was scared of our friendship crumbling. I didn’t want to have to experience life without Ian, and it turns out my fears were valid because this fucking sucks.
One of my students comes up to me after sixth period, after most everyone has filed out. Her name’s Jade. She’s sweet and she takes my class seriously. I like her.
“Ms. Abrams, could I get your advice about something?”
I’m in no state to be doling out advice, but her eyes are hopeful and I’d feel terrible turning her down. “Sure thing. What’s up?”
“Well, I was wondering…I have this best friend, Truman. He’s in your fourth period. Anyway, we’ve been best friends since like sixth grade, but I think I want it to be something more.”
I blink at her question.
Is this a joke?
“What are you talking about? Did someone put you up to this?”
I can tell from the trembling of her lower lip that she has no clue what I’m talking about. “Sorry. I can talk to someone else—”
“No. Sorry, ignore that. What’s going on?”
She tells me the facts quickly and it’s like I’m talking to a younger version of myself. The conversation feels like a weird therapy technique. I wonder if it was her note that was confiscated and read aloud in the teachers’ lounge the other day.
“Do you think I should go for it?” she asks. “Y’know, tell him how I feel?”
I don’t hesitate before confidently replying, “Do not, under any circumstances, tell him how you feel. Take your feelings to the grave.”
“The grave?!” Her mouth drops.
Too morbid?
“Okay, just take them to college. You don’t want to ruin that friendship.”
“It’s just—we were reading that Tennyson poem in your class the other day, the one that ends with ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”
“Oh, Tennyson? He’s a quack.”
“But you said they made him a lord because of the strength of his poetry.”
“Did I say that? Well, the point is, why would you risk what you have right now?”
“I think it could be something even more.”
“More?!” I want to shake her. “Why do you need more? Isn’t your friendship great as is? Isn’t spending time with him your favorite part of life? Why would you want to go and screw that up?”
There are fat drops of water collecting in the corners of her eyes. I realize I’ve been shouting.
She turns and runs from the room, backpack nearly taking her down as she swoops around the corner.
Well, my work here is done.
Except, the next day, I see her and Truman holding hands in the hall. Truman leads her over to her locker and then cages her in against it for a kiss. If I had a foghorn, I’d blow it in their ears.
Fortunately, Ian is on hallway duty and he breaks up their display of young love before I can.
He tells them to save it for after school, or better yet, for when they turn 25, and then he turns and our eyes catch. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in two days. There’s emotion clouding his usually friendly gaze. His trademark easy smile is gone. His dark brows are furrowed into a line.
It’s all my fault.
I have to suppress the urge to run and fling myself into his arms.
Be my friend again, please! I want to shout.
His smoldering gaze warns me away. Even more, it says, That could be us. I could pin you to a locker like that if only you’d let me.
At least I think that’s what it says. I don’t have much time to translate it because he passes me by quickly, without a word. My breath whooshes out of me and it feels like I’ve been shot.
“Ian!” I shout after him impulsively.
He shakes his head and keeps walking. “I have to get back to my classroom.”
I’m so emotionally frustrated—and so sexually frustrated—I could scream. In fact, I do. A tiny freshman boy runs past my classroom door, probably trying to get to his class on time, and I don’t hesitate to shout, “No running in the halls!”