The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

  I let out a strangled curse, and rake my hand through my hair, the urge to rip it out making my hand clench. The guys had warned me about this, but I never imagined she’d think the same.

  Gaze sliding away, her chin firms. “It would make things awkward, complicated between you two.”

  “Then let’s make this simple. I won’t pick him as my agent.”

  Ivy’s hair swings over her shoulders as she whips around to glare at me. “No. You can’t do that. I won’t be responsible for him losing you as a client. Do you have any idea how shitty that would make me feel?”

  “And what about us? Am I that expendable to you?” Fuck if my voice doesn’t crack.

  “Of course not.” She wraps her arms around her middle, taking a step back. “But it’s foolish to enter into a relationship with you if he’s going to be your agent.”

  “We’re already in a relationship, Ivy.” My voice bounces over the walls, turning heads, drawing stares. I put my back between the room and Ivy. “And it’s the most important one of my life.”

  The words barely leave my mouth when it hits me just how much I want a relationship with her. Ivy has been my girl all along, the One. I’ve just been too scared, too cautious to fully admit it to myself.

  She blinks, her face pale, a bead of sweat breaking out on her upper lip. “I meant a sexual relationship.”

  “Sex doesn’t have to mean the end of—”

  “But it does! It always fucks things up.” Her wide brown eyes stare up at me. “Please. I don’t want to ruin everything with sex. We just need to cool things down. And it will be the same again. We’ve been in each other’s pockets…”

  “Yeah. You’ve said that already.” And it’s the only place I want to be. But Mac obviously needs someone else. Jesus, does that make my ribs ache and my insides constrict. I swallow convulsively. Holy hell, but there’s a hot prickle behind my eyes. “Right. Well, I’m going now.”

  Before I totally lose my shit. She doesn’t stop me. I walk out of the coffee shop, each step leaving me colder and colder, until the dark night swallows me up.

  Eighteen

  IvyMac: I created a new donut. It’s called the Bad Sack: salted caramel with a chocolate ganache center that gushes when you bite into it. Personally, I refer to it as Sacked Gray. But I won’t tell anyone but you its true name. ;-)

  GrayG: Sounds delicious. I’ll have to try it sometime. Got practice all day. See you later.

  IvyMac: Okay. See you.

  IvyMac: Haven’t seen you in a while.

  GrayG: Haven’t been able to do anything but train. I can’t feel my legs anymore.

  IvyMac: I’m sorry.

  IvyMac: I don’t like thinking of you in pain.

  GrayG: Don’t worry, Mac. All pain eventually goes away.

  IvyMac: You going out to Palmers tonight? Fi and I are going to dance. You should come with us.

  GrayG: Can’t. Booster party in honor of the playoffs at some fancy country club. Whole team has to go. Suits required. Cue my ass being pinched by cougars.

  IvyMac: So not all bad then? ;-)

  GrayG: Yeah, there’s that.

  GrayG: Night, Mac. And be careful out there.

  IvyMac: Night, Gray.

  * * *

  Gray

  I hate booster parties. Hot, stuffy, too many people watching your every move. Too many fake smiles, fake laughs, slaps on the shoulders by rich dudes who call you “son.” Too many rich women pressing their gym-toned bodies up against you, while you try not to react because they’re old enough to legitimately call you “son.” Mind your Ps and Qs because you can’t embarrass Coach, the athletic director, the dean, and the dozens of other campus bigwigs circling the room, pressing palms.

  A fucking circus.

  I tug at my collar, sweat damping my shirt that’s buried beneath layers of suit jacket and vest. Around me guys are doing the same, or trying not to. Most freshmen and sophomores are stuck in ill-fitting suits bought off the rack at some big-and-tall store. Their biceps stretch their coat sleeves, the overlarge size sagging at the shoulders.

  At the very least, I can say I look all right in comparison. Last year’s championship swag featured vouchers for free tailored suits at a national luxury retailer. I’d taken them up on the offer, standing stock still, side by side with Drew, joking about which side we dressed on as two annoyed-looking tailors measured us up.

  So yeah, I look sharp as new cleats standing here and sweating my balls off. Awesome. A waiter passes, and I nab a glass of beer from his tray. It’s lukewarm, because really beer shouldn’t be slowly passed around a hot room, but I take a long sip anyway.

  Inside my pants pocket, my phone vibrates with a text. Instantly, my heart rate kicks up. I want it to be Mac. I don’t want it to be Mac. My chest literally hurts every time I get a text from her. Every time I have to play it cool, like some distant, half-assed friend.

  Gripping my glass too hard, I weave through the room, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations or someone wanting to talk.

  “Excuse me,” I tell each person. “Nature calls.”

  Best excuse I got, but it still doesn’t prevent people from trying to chat me up. By the time I make it to the terrace doors, I’m ready to lose it. God, this PR bullshit is only going to get worse in the NFL.

  Frowning, I slip out into the cool night air and take a deep breath to clear my head. But my pulse doesn’t slow as I pull out my phone. I sag against the wall. The text isn’t from Mac. Disappointment and relief churn around in my gut, as I peer at the unknown number, ready to delete the text.

  Unknown: Hey there, sexy mountain of man-flesh. Having fun at your suit parade?

  Sexy mountain of man-flesh? Why does that ridiculous name sound familiar? I rub a hand over my face and then it hits me. Fiona calls me that. What the hell is Fiona doing texting me?

  GrayG: Yeah, it’s awesome. What’s up, Fi?

  As I wait for her to answer, I stare out across the dark sweep of trimmed lawn. Everything is blue and gray, the moon hanging low along the horizon as wispy clouds drift past. The scent of snow is in the air. My hand vibrates.

  LittleFi: Just wanted to let you know that I’m watching out for our girl tonight. Don’t worry, she’s having fun. Catch ya’ later, sexy.

  A picture pops up, and it’s a fucking punch to my throat. Mac’s on the dance floor, her long arms waving awkwardly in the air and gleaming with sweat, her dark hair plastered to her face as she smiles—fucking glows—with happiness. And some ass-fuck frat boy has his hands all over her. I zero in on his big, dumb-fuck palm pressing against her belly, his hips grinding into her ass as he clutches her thigh, holding her against his—

  My shout echoes over the terrace, followed by the sharp crack of glass impacting against stone. Panting, I glance down at my empty hand and then at the carnage that used to be my phone, lying some twenty feet away. I hadn’t even known I’d thrown it.

  And I don’t care. Every inch of me hurts, a dull, pulling pain, as if I’m slowly being torn apart from the inside out. My throat seems to swell, closing down, convulsing. And I blink down at my shiny wingtips as if trying to make sense of how they got on my feet. But all I can see is that picture, hear Ivy’s voice in my head, telling me that she needs space, that she doesn’t want me.

  The muffled sound of laughter from inside grows loud and clear, and a blast of warmth hits the side of my face. I turn. A girl stands framed in the doorway, her body slim and tight, her smile welcoming.

  “Hey,” she says, strolling over, each step sending her hips swaying. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

  Everything in me recoils at the thought of talking to this girl. I want to go home and crawl into bed. Maybe sleep for a week. But I push deep down inside myself, remember the Gray I used to be. The one who had fun and never thought about anything real. The Gray who never felt pain.

  I pull out a smile. “Doesn’t look I’m alone anymore.”

  That’s al
l she needs to hear.

  Nineteen

  Ivy

  Making pain aux raisins is soothing. The steps I have to go through. The yeasty scent of dough and the warm fragrance of almond cream. I push myself, creating dozens of delicate, buttery layers. Rolling and folding, rolling and folding.

  A fine ache spreads along my neck and shoulders. It feels good, this movement. Proactive in the face of my inner silence. Music plays and I sing along. Rolling and folding. Layer after layer. The dough is like cool satin against my palms.

  The phone rings, and I rub my hands on a rag before answering.

  It’s Fi. “Hey there, mama bear.”

  “Hey.” I try to insert some enthusiasm into my reply. I really do. But it’s an epic fail.

  Unfortunately, Fi notices. “What’s up with you?”

  “Nothing.” Which is true. Life has basically become a void. I’d tried to go out, have fun. Dance with guys and pretend I loved it. But I’ve never been very good at pretending.

  We’re both quiet for a minute. Me not being able to respond without sobbing to Fi, and she’s playing detective. This becomes obvious when she says with suspicion, “Are you listening to Shadowboxer?”

  Sometimes it sucks to have a sister who knows me inside and out.

  “No.” I flick off my speakers.

  “Why are you listening to my moody namesake?”

  Fi knows perfectly well that I listen to Fiona Apple when I’m in a funk. “What are you, the DJ police?”

  “Yes, and you’re in violation of drowning in sad-sack music for the emotionally imbalanced.”

  Giving up the ghost, I confess. “I miss Gray.” I draw in a deep, shaking breath. “I miss him like a loose tooth.”

  “What?” She laughs, clearly confused.

  “You know, it’s like a constant ache, and even though I should ignore it, I can’t help but prod.” Provoke that itchy, dull pain that digs deeper the more I touch on it.

  “Ah¸ a vicious circle of self-torture,” Fi says. I can picture her nodding now.

  I don’t say anything, but pluck at a spot of dried flour on my apron.

  Fi’s gentle voice drifts through the phone. “Do you want me to come home tonight?”

  She’s been spending more time at her boyfriend’s house. I’m almost envious, but I’m not going to drag her over here. “No. I’m okay.”

  “Call Gray, Ivy.”

  “I’ve texted him.” A stab of pain hits my heart. “He’s been distant. Doing his own thing.” Just like I asked him to do. And all I can think of is Gray out, meeting girls, moving on.

  Fi sighs. “Yeah, not the same. Call and tell him that you’ve been an idiot. A big ol’ flaming idiot—”

  “Hey!”

  “And that you want him bad.”

  My chest clenches as my pulse spikes. “I don’t—”

  “You do. Lie to me if you want, but don’t lie to yourself, Iv.”

  Grimacing, I press my cold fingers to my eyes. They feel too hot. Prickles are forming behind my lids. “It’s for the best. Us cooling things down. I’m leaving for London anyway.”

  “And yet you told me you don’t want to work with Mom. So why go away? Stay here for a while, Ivy. I know I’d love it. Dad would too.”

  “Which bring us to the fact that he’s going to work with Dad,” I say lamely. “He wasn’t happy about the idea of me being with Gray.”

  Fi snorts. “So the fuck what? Have you ever considered that Dad might be more worried about you getting with that hot-ass mountain of man sex than the possibility of losing Gray as a client?”

  “What? No.”

  “Oh, please. He’s still our dad. And he’s never liked us going out with anyone. You just made it easy for him because you never really cared before.”

  I clench the back of my aching neck. “Look, it doesn’t matter what Dad thinks. Or where I live. Not really. Gray… Shit, Fi. He’s my best friend. What if I tell him I want to take it further, be exclusive, and he doesn’t? Or if we do get together and it ends? I can’t lose him.” But I already am, and it’s killing me.

  Fiona’s silence is like a condemnation.

  “Why do you think it will end?” she finally asks.

  “Oh, come on,” I whisper brokenly. “He’s a football star and will soon be an even bigger one. The odds are stacked against us.”

  “Not all men cheat.”

  I flinch, her words like a punch to my chest. I’d meant that our lives were on divergent paths, and Gray doesn’t even believe in relationships.

  “I don’t think he’ll do that,” I say.

  “But you fear it.”

  Suddenly I don’t have the strength to stand. My ass hits the stool hard, and I stare off, not seeing my kitchen but the past.

  Fi and I witnessed the fights. Heard the phone calls when Mom tried to find out where he was. The hideous sound of Mom crying behind her bedroom door when Dad didn’t come home. I’d been ten when they divorced. Even then, I’d vowed never to let a man do that to me.

  Did I really think Gray would be like Dad? Did I put that on him?

  “Shit.” The sides of my throat hurt, as if a cold hand is squeezing it. I lick my dry lips, wanting Gray more than I’ve ever wanted anything. Everything is clear and pure when he’s with me. Without him, it’s all static.

  “Call him, Ivy,” Fi whispers into the phone. “Let him in.”

  My voice sounds like a frog’s when I can speak. “I’ve got to go.”

  By the time I hang up with Fi and dial Gray’s number, my fingers are shaking. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him. Come back to me. I need you might scare him. I was a stupid ass is probably better.

  But he doesn’t answer. It goes straight to voice mail. And when I text, telling him that I need to talk to him, he doesn’t respond.

  * * *

  Gray

  “He’s not eating, Drew. It’s beginning to freak me out.”

  Anna’s stage voice drifts through my fog, but I don’t respond to it. I can’t. I’m a goddamn mess. I tried being the old me. Crashed and burned. Couldn’t even keep up the pretense of Happy-Go-Lucky Gray for more than five minutes with that chick at the party before I fled. Can’t get my mind focused on football. Can’t do anything but bleed inwardly.

  My chest hurts, my throat is closed, and I keep replaying every word Ivy uttered when she demolished my heart, keep visualizing that evil-as-fuck picture of her dancing with another guy.

  “Maybe he’s coming down with something,” Drew answers before giving my foot a kick under the table. “You feeling all right, Gray-Gray?”

  “Yeah,” I get out, because he won’t stop if I don’t respond. “Great.”

  It was a mistake coming to Drew and Anna’s house for dinner. It is freezing cold and raining out, not the best night for driving. But I needed the distraction their happy chatter could bring. Now I just want to leave without any more questions being thrown my way.

  “Well, it can’t be the food,” Anna says, getting up to clear her and Drew’s empty plates before taking my full one. “My lasagna is killer.” She’s not lying. Anna doesn’t make the heavy American version of lasagna, but a masterpiece of thin, delicate noodles between layers of béchamel and Italian sausage. She gave me the recipe, and I’m never going back to the old way. It’s a shame I can’t stomach one bite tonight.

  “So I’m guessing no humble pie for desert, huh, babe?” Drew teases, giving Anna’s ass a playful swat.

  “If you ever want pie again,” Anna warns, “you’ll eat those words, bud.”

  Drew hauls her onto his lap where she happily settles in. “Now, Jones, you and I both know that prohibiting me from eating pie hurts you more—”

  Anna slaps a hand over his mouth before he can finish. But they’re both grinning at each other.

  Fuck me. Did I really think it would be a good idea to hang out with Mr. and Mrs. Perpetually in Love? Worse, they both notice my scowl. Drew’s brow lifts, and Anna simply peers
at me before reaching across the table to rest her small hand on my arm. “What’s going on, Gray?”

  It’s her touch, feminine and light and caring, that reminds me of Ivy’s and does me in. I exhale with a shaking breath. “Ivy dumped me.”

  “Dumped you?” Anna frowns. “Were you two going out?”

  “No,” I mutter. “As a friend. She thinks we’ve been spending too much time together. She wants to date…people.” The words feel like broken glass against my throat. I tell them the rest of my disastrous argument with Ivy in short, terse sentences.

  When I’m finished, my friends are silent. Probably pitying me. Then Anna gets up and starts messing with her beloved espresso machine—the very one I’d taken care of when she and Drew were on the outs. I still kind of mourn giving back to her. Deftly she makes an espresso, adding a spoonful of sugar, then handing me the cup. “Drink it down like a good boy, and you’ll feel better.”

  Doubtful, but I take a sip anyway. Dark, sweet coffee hits my system like a welcome slap. Weirdly, it does make me feel better. Not by much, but enough. And I realize that this is why I’m here. Being in Drew’s familiar kitchen, talking to him and Anna, helps.

  Drew leans forward, bracing his arms on the table. “I think we’re going to need a bit more explanation. You’re both obviously into each other—”

  “Oh, obviously,” I sneer. “Seeing how she kicked me to the curb.”

  “Please.” Drew waves a hand. “I’ve seen you two together. You’re like…”

  “Drew and I are,” Anna supplies with a grin.

  “What? Going at it like horny bunnies? I wish.” I truly do. Fuck, how I do.

  “Baby steps, Gray-Gray.” Drew starts tapping his thumb against the table. Thinking. I hate when he does that. “So you kissed Ivy, and she freaked. Did it happen right after you kissed her? Must have been some shitty kiss.”