The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

  “I’m touched.” He purses his lips when I sway on my feet. “Hell, you shouldn’t even be walking around.”

  His arm wraps around my waist, his other arm snakes under my thighs, and then I’m airborne, all six feet of me. As simple as that, as if I’m no heavier than his bag.

  Because arguing has left me weak and whiny, I rest my pounding head against his shoulder and enjoy the novelty of being carried.

  “Don’t scold,” I say as he puts me down in my bedroom. “I was getting the door.” I give him a pointed look which he ignores in favor of pulling back my sheets. The bed swims before my eyes, glimmering like an oasis in a sea of misery. But I’m so hot, the flannel PJs I’d thrown on to answer the door suffocate me. Hesitating, I glance at Gray. “I can take it from here.” The floor tilts.

  Gray’s arm slips around my shoulder. “Sure you can, Special Sauce.” Cool blue eyes study me for a moment, and then he starts to ease my pajama pants down my hips.

  “Gray!” I make a furtive attempt to hold onto them.

  He pauses, looking up at me with brows lifted in confusion. “What? You’re burning up. And you have underwear on, right?”

  “Yeah. But—”

  “It’s not any different than seeing you in a bathing suit.” He gives me another look, grinning now. “Unless you’re wearing naughty panties?”

  “You sound way too hopeful there, bud.”

  “I always hold out hope for sexy underwear. Step.”

  I do as told, way too aware of my bare legs and the fact that I’m sweating like a farmer. But he’s right. I’m wearing basic boy briefs that cover me more than a bikini would, and frankly, I’m too sick to put up a fuss any longer.

  Gray turns into Mr. Brisk Efficiency, neatly pulling off my shirt and not even looking at my bra as he handles me into bed and covers me with cool sheets. With a sigh, I sink into the bed, and Gray closes the curtains against the harsh daylight.

  I drift in and out as he leaves the room then comes back to give me painkillers and a glass of orange juice. His care has my heart clenching within the walls of my aching chest.

  “Thank you,” I rasp past the needles in my throat. “You don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, I do. I would never leave you like this.”

  Gray takes my glass, then rounds the bed to the other side. Without pause, he unbuttons his jeans, and I try not to gape as they slither down his long legs and expose thighs that are truly magnificent. No, I will not check out his package, nicely held by a pair of blue boxer briefs. Before I can utter a word, he’s sliding in and gathering me up.

  I’m not prepared for it, or the feel of his hands against my bare back. The touch sends little shivers over my skin but I snuggle in closer, wrapping my arm around his torso and resting my head on his shoulder with a whimper.

  The only man who’s ever given me comfort is my dad, and that was in the form of awkward pats and general fussing with thermometers and medicines. Nothing like this. This is Gray. Strong, solid Gray, who smells like happy dreams. It feels good. So good that tears threaten.

  “I hate being sick,” I mutter against his chest to hide my fit of emotion. “It sucks.”

  His big body shifts and he makes a sound that I know means he’s smiling. “Sucks big.” His long fingers trace idle patterns along my back. “Poor, non-baby Mac.”

  Closing my eyes, I let my hand wander. Despite my fever, my fingers are cold. I find a swath of Gray’s warm skin, exposed where his shirt rides up on his side. Gray lets out a small yelp, his flesh jumping away from my touch.

  “Hell, Mac. Your hand is ice!”

  “I know.” It sounds like a whine. “It needs warmth. Gimme.”

  His abdomen twitches as I rub it, seeking his heat.

  “Stop that!”

  “Ticklish?”

  He twitches again. “Yes.”

  Intrigued, I explore the bumps and ridges that define his torso. I’ve never touched a body like his. A gross injustice that needs to be remedied because I’ve clearly been missing out. “Jesus, Gray, I can’t get over how cut you are. What do you do? Live at the gym?”

  “Daily workouts and five hundred sit-ups a night might have something to do with it.” There’s a smile in his voice.

  “Overachiever.”

  “More like doing my job.” He ducks his chin to look down at me, his brows rising. “Are you complaining?”

  Hell no. “Just feeling inadequately squishy.”

  “I love your softness,” he says in a low voice. Slowly, his hand eases along the dip in my side, up and down, stroking me as if I’m the best thing he’s ever touched. It’s so lovely that I shiver, and he stops as if he’s just realized what he’s doing.

  I ought to put space between us, but I can’t. Not when his body feels so solid, his skin smoother than silk. God, I could run my hands over his rippled abs all night and not tire of it.

  But Gray sets his hand over my roaming one. “Cut it out, Mac.” His voice is rough, almost pained. “You’re killing me here.”

  I didn’t think I could possibly burn any hotter, but I do. Trying to ignore the rush of embarrassment flowing over me, I duck my chin and burrow into his side—because I can’t let him go right now, even if my life depended on it. “Sorry.”

  His hand relaxes, and he gives me a little squeeze. “It’s just… You’re touching my stomach. I’m gonna react,” he adds with emphasis.

  His meaning hits me full force and I freeze, my heartbeat thumping in my ear. Does he mean…? The supreme urge to let my hand drift down and investigate is so strong that my fingers curl into a fist against his skin. It doesn’t matter if he’s hard as a post. The fact that he stopped me makes it clear that he doesn’t want to be.

  And I cringe. I’m being so damn inappropriate, it isn’t funny. I’m like some creeper. Gah. It’s bad enough that I’d basically talked myself to orgasm on the phone with him. Oh, God, I can’t think of that now. I’ll curl up and die.

  In vain, I search to say something other than, Your body is irresistible to me and I had to stroke it. I fall back on, “I’m sorry. I’m… I don’t know, twitchy. Did I mention how much I hate being sick?”

  His laugh rolls over me. “Once or twice.” Almost absently his thumb draws a slow S over the back of my hand. “I get it. You want to move, but it hurts. You want to get up, but you’re too tired.”

  A sigh escapes me. “Tell me a story.”

  “Oh, God, like The Three Bears or something?” He sounds horrified.

  “No. Ass.” Smiling, I poke his side, and get a nice yelp out of him. “About you. Something to take my mind off the fact that I hurt everywhere.”

  “My poor little Special Sauce.” His big hand spreads over my hip, a comfort and a brand on my heated skin. “All right.” He’s silent for a moment. “When I was seventeen, I shit myself.”

  A shocked laugh breaks free. “Gray! That’s disgusting.” I laugh again. “What kind of story is that?”

  “The kind that will stop you from thinking about being sick, and me from thinking about you stroking my stomach?”

  Well, that kills my laughter. Me and my damn roaming hands. “So, you were saying… About your lack of bowel control?”

  He snorts, a good-natured sound. “I had the stomach flu. Something fierce. But, back then, I was also a starting offensive lineman—”

  “Of course you were. Like I said, overachiever—”

  “Hush.” He gives my butt a light smack. “Anyway, I had it in my mind that I’d suck it up and play, do it for the good of the team. Man, it was bad. I could barely stand. My guts were cramping up in pain. And then a big fucking defensive end smashes into me.” He pauses, and I feel him cringe. “He literally knocked the shit out of me.”

  I bite my lips to keep from snorting. “Oh, Cupcake.” And then I lose the battle and laugh, hard. “Just…no…”

  Gray’s body shakes as he presses his lips against my forehead, his breath coming out in gusts as he clearly tries to cont
rol his laughter, and then it hits me: He’s trying not to jostle me. Deep inside my chest, my heart makes a tiny flip.

  “Want to know the worst part?” he asks after a moment.

  “There’s something worse?”

  “Our uniform pants were white.”

  “God.” I clutch his lean waist. “Cupcake.”

  “They called me Stain from then on.” He makes a sharp, quick snort. “Some of those fuckers still call me that when I go back home.”

  “Fuckers,” I agree vehemently.

  He glances down and his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I would think you’d have been one of the first in line to call me that.”

  I press my grin against his pecs. “Can I?”

  “Not if you want to live,” he says darkly.

  “With the way I’m feeling now, chances of living are touch and go.”

  Instantly, his body stills, and his hold on me grows more secure. “Don’t say that, Mac. Not even as a joke.”

  And then I remember his mother. Horror has my heart skipping a beat, and I cling to him. “You’re right, it was a stupid joke.”

  His lips brush the top of my head. Not quite a kiss but as if he’s drawing in my scent. “It was a stupid story. I should have said something else. Something nice to put you to sleep.”

  Tenderness swamps my chest, and I swallow with difficulty. “It was perfect.” He is perfect. And I am so grateful he’s here with me that I nestle down, wanting to sink into him and never let go. “I love you, Gray.”

  It slips out without warning, the words hanging in an awkward silence. Gray’s chest lifts on a sharp breath, and my skin prickles with mortification. I will myself not to tense, not to make my gaffe any worse.

  Then he sighs and rests his chin on the crown of my head. “I love you too, Ivy.”

  The lightness of his tone and the gentle way in which he says it, makes it clear that we’re talking about the love of friends.

  In silence, his hand glides down my thigh, a slow stroke designed to comfort. Suddenly I am too tired to keep my eyes open. And as I drift off to sleep, I count myself lucky that he hadn’t taken my words the wrong way. And I ignore the small part of me that kind of wishes he had.

  Fourteen

  Ivy

  I am sick for days. Fi and Dad stay away. Fi because she just had a stomach flu and I don’t want to give her my cold, and Dad because he’s become an extreme hypochondriac in recent years. Just the mere mention of illness has him running for the hills.

  But I have Gray, who only leaves me to attend finish up his finals and attend practice. Then he’s back. He’s made me meals, fluffed my pillow, nagged me to drink my juice like a good little Mac, and given me antibiotics when I needed it for my bronchitis.

  And every night, he sleeps by my side, spooning me for comfort, and rubbing my back when my hideous, hacking cough gets the better of me. As if by silent consensus, neither of us mentions that having phone sex and sleeping together every night might be crossing the line of friendship. It feels too good to have him there, and he doesn’t appear to want to leave.

  But now lying in bed with the morning light stretching across my pillow, I know I’m well. Nothing hurts. No more cough from hell. I glance at the closed bedroom door. From the other side of it come the sounds of Gray in the kitchen. He’s been feeding me copious amounts of steel-cut oats topped with blueberries in an effort to “promote healing.”

  Oatmeal and I have a tempestuous relationship. Somehow, every time I attempt to make it, the fucker revolts and turns to glop. Not Gray’s oatmeal. It’s like the pinnacle of oatmeal. What all little oats hope to one day become: fucking delicious and nutritious—Gray’s words, not mine.

  Truth is, I knew I was better last night. I think Gray knew, as well. And we’d both ignored it. He’d fussed over me, carrying me to the couch and wrapping me up in a blanket. And when we’d settled into bed, there had been a moment of awkward silence, our bodies going tense in the cool darkness, before he pulled me close in that way of his—possessive yet tender. “Try to get some sleep,” he’d murmured gruffly. I hadn’t been sure if he was talking to me or to himself.

  And I’d pretended to still be that sick, fitful woman who needed comfort, not the one who relished the feel of his hard body pressed against mine, the needy girl who wanted to turn in his arms and explore those fine, firm muscles. At length.

  But how could I take advantage of his care? I never pegged Gray as the nurturing type. Which isn’t fair. Gray is a kind man. And the more I know of him, the more I understand that he goes out of his way to make others happy. But, in my admittedly small experience, most men don’t do well with illness. I think of his mother who died from cancer. It makes my heart hurt to imagine a younger Gray caring for his dying mother. He rarely speaks of her, or anything deep.

  With a sigh, I sit up, and my head doesn’t spin. Yep. Better.

  All of Gray’s attentive care will end today. I can’t hide my good health any longer. It would be wrong and weird.

  Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom. His toothbrush sits next to mine. The sum total of the personal effects he’s brought with him. Not enough to signify. I try to ignore that as I brush my teeth.

  With slow movements I take a shower and scrub myself clean. The hot water is bliss, highlighting my new and improved state. Which is just depressing. It had been a mistake to let Gray stay so close. I’m used to him now.

  When I finally leave my bedroom, dressed and bright-eyed, my heart is a lead weight in my chest.

  Gray is setting down bowls of oatmeal, but he stills when I walk in. We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us moving.

  “All better now,” I tell him.

  He nods, his gaze slipping away to focus on setting down a pair of spoons.

  “I figured.” And then it’s as if he is drifting away, like a boat that’s had its line cut. His gaze turns inward as he scratches the back of his head, the action bunching his biceps. “I’m glad you’re well again.”

  “Yeah.” I’m not glad at all.

  * * *

  Gray

  I miss Ivy. I started missing her before I’d even left her house. My time being her protector was up. I’d known the night before that she was better, and that she’d no longer need me to take care of her. I’d stayed over anyway because it had been my last chance to hold her as she slept. Fuck, it was stupid to stay with her every night. She is under my skin now. Well, more so than before.

  I refuse to rub the ache in my chest as I cross the small quad, heading for the gym. Taking care of Ivy had been eye-opening. Sure, I’d gotten flashbacks of looking after my mom, memories that made my throat tight and my stomach hurt. But my focus soon zeroed in on Ivy.

  That was all I needed. Making Ivy feel better satisfied me in a strangely quiet way, as if I’d finally found the place where I needed to be. I can see myself watching over her for a lifetime. And it had been nice. Homey. Only, sometimes my gaze had wandered down to those endless legs of hers, and I’d found myself wondering what it would feel like to run a pattern along them with my tongue.

  Fuck.

  I’d planned to make a move on Ivy. But she’d given me a heartfelt, “You’re the best friend a girl could have” as we’d parted this morning. Right. Because we’re buds. Best buds. Which is both a gift and a curse.

  We’re getting too close. The danger of my heart being annihilated is real. Ivy plans to live in another country. How am I supposed to give her up? I think of how I’d held her when she was hurting. I’d been content with that. Until she pulled the rug out from under me.

  I love you, Gray. Sweet words, spoken out of friendly gratitude, I know. And yet they’d crashed into me like a blindside hit, knocking the air from my lungs and making my chest squeeze tight.

  I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It’s equal parts longing—yes, fucking longing—and rage. I want to hear those words again. It’s a kick in the pants to realize that I want to be loved, like I’
m worth something to someone. Not for what I can do for them, but just for me. And rage, because how dare Ivy say those words to me? Three little words, and she’s made me all sorts of needy. My anger is plain ridiculous and irrational. But there you go. I’m now Irrational Gray. Confused and Grumpy Gray. Horny as All Fuck Gray. Nice to meet you.

  Eventually I lose myself to the day, working out, practice, lunch, more working out, until my body is battered and sore and just maybe I will get so tired that I can simply crash without thought.

  But all routes lead to Ivy, and no matter how hard I try, I find myself running that pattern over again, heading to her house as if it’s the end zone.

  Fifteen

  Ivy

  Fi texts to say she’s staying over at her boyfriend’s house. When I get home in the evening, my little house is quiet and dark. Empty. During high school, I’d loved having the house to myself, pretending that I was on my own, living life on my terms. I’d light a few candles, get in my jammies, and curl up with a book, dreading the moment when someone else would come home and fill the house with noise.

  Now? I’m moving around the living room, clicking on lights. My chest feels hollow, and I don’t like the sensation. Or the fact that silence no longer satisfies.

  I’m used to Gray’s noise. His constant laughter and the way he fills up the house with his vitality. I’ve never met a person who occupies a space as wholly as Gray does. It has nothing to do with what he says or does, it’s simply his energy, his joy. Everyone instinctively knows he loves life, and they want so soak up that joy.

  Me? I want Gray. Here, now, a gorgeous distraction that makes me love life as well. But I can’t call him. He’s been here every night for nearly a week. And I refuse to turn into that needy friend.

  A shiver runs over me, and I realize I’m still standing before the open fridge. I wrinkle my nose at my choice of dinner. A slice of old pizza or a sandwich. I have no desire to cook alone anymore.

  “Gah.” I grab a Diet Coke and shut the door with a sigh. The phone ringing makes me jump in the silence. But I grin hard enough to make my cheeks ache when I see it’s Gray.