by Sara Ney
Oh my God. What the hell did I just do?
“What was that?” Spencer’s eyes are as wide as saucers, fingers pressed to the spot on her skin where I pecked her.
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” She looks slightly injured by the apology.
Was that the wrong thing to say? I have no freaking clue anymore, but I do know kissing her on the fucking face was a horrible idea.
“I wasn’t thinking, it just happened. Like kissing my mom goodbye.”
Those wide eyes widen more.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Phillip?”
“Yeah?”
Please don’t punch me for talking out of my ass.
“Stop talking.”
I stop talking.
The dog, bless his soul, nudges the back of my knee with his nose, a push toward the girl standing on her front porch, biting down on her bottom lip.
She’s waiting for me to do something. Either turn around and walk back down those stairs, or…
…kiss her again. But this time like I mean it.
Don’t do it, Bastard—you have a bet to win. Kissing her would be cheating, and then you’ll have to lie to your friends—and to her—which only leads to more lying.
The truth costs nothing, but a lie could cost me everything. And if I kiss her, that will cost me everything, too. No season tickets, no all-terrain vehicle, no timeshare.
But maybe I’d win something bigger—her.
Stop romanticizing losing, you loser.
What about all that bullshit about living in the moment people preach about? You only live once, etc., etc. I practice self-control on a daily basis, denying myself—junk food, and new relationships, apparently.
But wouldn’t kissing her make things awkward tomorrow at to work?
It’s going to be a tension-filled mess regardless—and at least we work in separate departments.
Spencer waits, hand now on the doorknob of her house. “Phillip?”
Nope. Not going to do it.
So caught up in the moment and our thoughts, neither of us noticed Humphrey and his slow stroll. Round and round and round the doggo must have walked, until the leash connected to his collar is wrapped around both our legs.
Spencer and I were standing close enough for the dog to confine our calves together. I move my left leg, attempting to shake it—but it’s tangled.
I move a bit closer to Spencer because I have to in order to remedy the situation.
“What the…” She looks between our bodies at the twisted disorder. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he did this on purpose.”
That’s a distinct possibility. I don’t trust this dog—he’s shady as fuck.
“You know, this awkwardness is worse than the time Bill Menzer asked to kiss me at the movies in eighth grade. There was no one else in the entire theater.”
My mind momentarily leaves the tangle we find ourselves in, the dog panting happily at my feet. “What did you tell him?”
“I said no,” she scoffs. “He was being a huge pussy about making his move, and that was a turn-off for me.”
Oh Lord. Is she indirectly calling me a pussy because I kissed her on the cheek and not on the lips? Her faux-innocent, too-big smile confirms it.
Oddly enough, her smug attitude is turning me on.
“Don’t be a pussy, Phillip,” she goads. “Or do. Whichever.”
“Was that a challenge?” I try to shuffle my feet.
Humphrey grumbles his displeasure: Stay put, human.
“Absolutely not. If a man is going to put his lips on mine, he better mean it.”
She’s so close I can smell her hair and perfume, and the takeout we had for dinner. “You’re being really dramatic.”
“No, you are.”
Why is she so infuriating and argumentative? There is only one way to end this bickering so we can get on with our lives and I can stop obsessing over it, and that is for me to kiss her.
Obviously.
Plus, my little matchmaker approves.
Moving in, I slide my hand around her waist, over her jacket, the little gasp of surprise—and delight—spurring me on. So far, so good; she hasn’t kneed me in the balls.
Yet.
“Well look at you taking charge,” she teases, face tilting up, mouth inviting. “And just to be clear, this kiss means nothing.”
“Don’t steal my lines.”
“I’ve kissed plenty of people—this is just us being curious.”
No, this is us, tied together by a dog leash, wanting to make out on your front stoop, and I’m not sure why we’re still talking.
Chances are, if you asked Spencer, she’d say this dallying was my fault.
“Spencer?”
“Huh?”
“Stop talking.”
She stops talking. Slowly, I cover her mouth with mine, her soft lips puckering. One kiss. Two. I draw back to regard her before kissing her again, our bottom lips pressed firmly together as our tongues introduce themselves.
Warm. Wet. Wanton.
Nice.
Comforting?
The kiss of a new friend.
It’s cold outside, so steam rises with our every breath, drifting into the night sky. A car drives by and Humphrey grunts at it—not a protective sound but an excited one. He would chase the damn thing if he had the stamina for it.
He pulls on the leash, pushing at the back of my knee again with his snout, impatient and now frustrated by being part of the jumble. Makes strange snorting-sniffing-sneezing sounds in his throat. Dramatic and unnecessary.
Humphrey howls, once. Twice. Channeling his inner wolf.
Fuck.
Spencer breaks the kiss and looks down. “He’s over it already.”
Fucking dog is both a matchmaker and a cockblocker.
“He’s an asshole.” One who always thinks he’s in charge. “There’s a time and place for the howling, and he hasn’t mastered the art of knowing when that is.” So socially awkward.
“Aww, don’t say that—look at those puppy dog eyes.”
I look. “Yeah, yeah.”
Bending at the waist, I attempt to walk Humphrey in the opposite direction, round and round our legs, Spencer’s boobs knocking into my chest when the dog jostles us.
“Why is his leash so long?” she wonders out loud with a giggle and a shiver.
“I try to give the rat bastard freedom.”
“It seems like he either wants to nap or cause chaos. There is no in between.”
Now that he’s been sprung free, the dog lumbers down the concrete steps, jerking at the blue lead impatiently.
I step back. “Guess I better get him home.”
This fur monster has the worst timing—or maybe he just did me a colossal favor.
“Good night, Phillip.” Goddamn I love the way she says my name. “Thanks again.”
I make my way down the steps, shooting her a wave over my shoulder, stopping when Humphrey demands to sniff a tree trunk. And every single one of the wood chips surrounding it.
“Hey Phillip?” Spencer calls, and I turn to see her standing framed by her front door.
“Yeah?”
“It doesn’t have to be weird at work tomorrow. So—don’t make it weird.”
Me? I’m not the awkward one here. “I wasn’t planning on it. I was just going to tell you not to make it weird.”
“Oh please.” She tosses her ponytail, and even from here, I can see it shining. “It’s only weird if it meant something.”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
I don’t have time to find out because the dog is tugging and tugging and tugging on his lead anxiously, now wanting to run toward home.
“Right. Only if it meant something.”
“And we both know it didn’t.” She gives a definitive nod. “Because you don’t date.”
“Right.”
I don’t date.
1
4
Humphrey
I don’t know who the girl was, but I liked her. Can you believe that? I liked her and she hasn’t given me a single treat!
I made sure to give her a thorough sniff when she was on the ground at the house, lying down specially so I could kiss her face. I loved that about her.
I like how she scratched my ears and under my collar. I liked the sound of her voice and how she didn’t scold me. I like how she talked in that high voice, even if I have no idea what she was saying.
Boy is carrying me again; I wasn’t in the mood to hike and gave him the signal that I was done with the business of walking. He knows me so well, it’s like we’re the same person, even though if I were him, I would always carry snacks for me.
I sure do like when he carries me.
I sigh, drooling slightly as we trot along, having done my business and relieved myself. He had me cooped up all day, then there was no time for him to notice the spot where I peed next to the room where he stores my leash, but he’ll see that later.
Oh well!
When Girl was chattering, I could feel Boy’s hold on me getting tighter; she must have said something he didn’t like, but my doggy heart was pounding so wildly from all the love I could have burst with joy.
Boy adores me so much.
We moved along at a snail’s pace; Boy walks much slower when he’s transporting me, his breathing as loud and labored as mine, especially when I see a squirrel.
We dropped Girl off at a dark house that looks a lot like the one I share with Boy; Girl pointed to it and stalled in front while I eyeballed the steps. They were concrete and cold, and I wasn’t in the mood to climb them.
Then they ignored me, giving me no choice but to walk and walk and walk around them so they’d stop talking and press their faces together—until I began howling, forcing the attention back onto me.
I sigh.
Boy sets me on the ground with a grunt, rubbing my back. When he removes his hand, I protest.
“Humphrey, knock it off,” he sternly warns, finally out of patience. “I’m losing patience with your bad behavior.”
Fine. No more howling.
“You’re a pain in the ass, do you know that? Do you?” Boy says as we turn and make our way home. “For once in your life, could you behave yourself?”
Words pour out of his mouth, but I ignore him. Besides, I only recognize half of the noises he makes—the other half I don’t care one lick about.
“I swear, I’m going to send you to boot camp so you learn some manners.”
No he won’t.
“I mean it this time, Humphrey. You have to learn to listen.”
No I don’t.
“Blah blah blah ziptty blah blah do don’t blah,” he rants as we walk side by side, and I gaze up at him happily, content.
My rear wags as I meander along, sniffing my way home.
15
Spencer
I brought in a cake today.
I told him I wasn’t going to make it weird, so I did the one thing he wasn’t going to misinterpret: food.
The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, though I’m in no way trying to get to his heart. Pfft. Me? No.
Fine. Yes.
I am—is that so wrong?
The kiss we shared last night was so-so, and I blame the dog; there wasn’t any possibility of it deepening or getting passionate—not with Humphrey heaving and sighing at Phillip’s feet.
Clam-jammer.
Phillip is late, which is no surprise. He could have a meeting, or he could be stuck in traffic, or perhaps the blasted dog was misbehaving.
I use the time to finish up my project, earbuds in, their noise-canceling feature on, soft music playing in my ears. I’m lost in my own world, shifting boxes on the grid on the screen. Tweaking colors. Sizing graphics up and down until it’s perfect.
So perfect I think it might actually be done.
Sitting back in my seat to inspect it from a distance, I cross my arms and tilt my head, scrutinizing the design in an attempt to be unbiased, with a critical eye, as if I weren’t the designer who just spent twelve hours piecing it together.
It’s bold. Contemporary. Modern and clean.
Just like the company I work for. It isn’t my personal style, but in my gut, I know I’ve hit a home run with this.
“Holy shit, that’s good,” says a deep voice from behind me, getting closer to my back. “Is it done?”
“I think so.” I spin in my chair and get my first look at Phillip of the day: plaid shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, brown boots. Brown belt. It’s a preppy, nerdier look than I’m used to from him, but masculine, sleeves rolled to the elbow.
I’m a sucker for well sculpted forearm.
He proceeds to set his things down on his desk, as he has every morning before, in the same methodical order: laptop slides out of its black sleeve. Computer glasses get set on top. Then, he pulls out and unwraps the computer cord, plugs it into the wall, other end into the side of the laptop. Opens the top. Adjusts the screen so it reflects less light.
Phillip pulls out the desk chair, shifting it to be positioned at an angle. Pulls out a water bottle, setting it to the left of the computer. Headphones. File folders and a pen.
Day after day, he goes through the same routine, one I’ve gotten used to and appreciate. It’s comforting.
Cute.
I smile.
Then—he sees the cake.
I’m not saying I’m a genius or anything, but the look on Phillip’s face when he sees the round, buttercream confection resting on the desk is priceless. Has me burying my face in the collar of my shirt to hide the smile.
“Sorry for your loss,” he reads out loud through the square, clear window of the box. “Sorry for your loss. Very funny.”
“I thought it was perfect for your last day before losing me.” I pause, pretending to study a cuticle on my index finger. “Let’s be honest, you’re going to be super bored next week.”
He humors me with a smile. “That’s probably true.”
“Not probably.” He will be.
I’m no expert on the subject, but I know when a guy is starting to develop feelings for me. The way Phillip studied me last night, unsure about whether or not he should make a move—every thought inside his body was displayed on his face. The furrowed brow. The downturned mouth. The tension in his broad shoulders as he looked down at me, at my lips.
Today he looks like a preppy lumbersexual, and I want to jump his bones.
God. That’s something my mother would say about my dad.
I gag in my mouth a little at the thought of my parents banging.
“You must have been up all night—when did you have time to make this?”
Is he serious? “Aww, you’re so cute—I bought the cake this morning then used a frosting pen to put the quote on it because I’m brilliant.”
“You are kind of clever.”
“Only kind of?” Even to my own ears, it sounds like I’m flirting. Should I dial the flirting down or turn it up? Decisions, decisions.
“Clever and intelligent—lethal combo.”
“What about clever, intelligent, and beautiful?” I tease before I can change my mind.
“That too.”
Question: if I call myself beautiful and a man agrees, is that as good as him actually calling me beautiful without being prompted? Or is he humoring me? Or am I overthinking this?
Answer: yes to all those things.
While Phillip continues getting situated, I text Miranda to be on the safe side.
Me: Random question, are you busy?
Miranda: I’m always busy, but never too busy for you.
Me: That. Was. The. Sweetest.
Miranda: I know.
Miranda: What do you need, babe?
Me: If I call myself beautiful and a guy agrees with me, does that mean he thinks I’m beautiful or is he being polite?
Miranda: Probably both. But I’m
not a dude, so how the hell am I supposed to know? Why, did Phillip call you beautiful?
Me: No, he called me clever and smart, then I made a joke, like, “And beautiful too ha ha” and he was like yeah.
Miranda: Why are you obsessing over this?
Me: He’s leaving my office today and it’s bumming me out. I thought maybe he’d ask me out.
Miranda: Spencer, it is nine in the morning.
Me: It gets worse.
Miranda: How?
Me: I brought him a cake.
Miranda: A CAKE? WHY?
Me: Okay first of all, stop yelling. Second of all, it’s a going away cake and it’s hilarious. He likes it.
Miranda: I will never understand you.
Me: HE LIKES FOOD.
Miranda: OMFG. Stop.
Me: Sorry. I feel so middle school about this whole thing.
Miranda: Well you haven’t liked a boy since eighth grade, so this all makes sense. You’re relationship-ly stunted.
Me: I am not, you sasshole. Stop making up words.
Miranda: But that’s how words are created—we make them up.
Me: Can we not stray from the point?
Miranda: Knowing what your point is would be incredibly helpful in that endeavor…
Me: Why are you like this?
Miranda: I was born this way. **flips hair**
Me: Bye.
Miranda: You’ll come back—you always do.
Me: BYE.
16
Phillip
“Who has you scowling?”
Spencer has had a frown on her face for the past few minutes.
“Who were you texting?” I blurt out, unable to stop seeking information about her, curious. “Who pissed you off?”
Please don’t say your boyfriend.
Not that I would care. If I thought for one second she had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t have kissed her. I wouldn’t be obsessing—this daydreaming about her is not going to win me a bet.
Don’t be a fucking dumbass, Phillip. If she had a boyfriend, she would not have let you kiss her last night. She would have told you to fuck off.