by Sarah Adams
The guys all hiss. He just told them they have to dress up in suits and attend a cotillion.
Lawrence cracks his knuckles and stretches his neck from side to side. “Bree has always said she sees you like a brother (even though I don’t believe it for one second), but over the next few weeks, you’re going to show her a different side of you, all under the safety of this fake dating endorsement deal.”
Okay, well I’m sold. I like the sound of that. I get a few weeks to finally show Bree the attraction I’ve always felt for her and see if she returns it. It’s a lot of pressure to squeeze six years’ worth of friend-zone-undoing into a short amount of time, but what’s a little more stress added to my life? I can handle it.
“Sounds good. So what do I do, guru?”
Lawrence starts pacing and tapping the capped marker on his chin. “We’ve got to approach this carefully. Since you guys have barely touched over the last six years, you’ll need to start slow. Small, gentle moves, building in intensity as the situation warrants, and only if she seems to be reciprocating.” I think he missed his calling as Hitch, because he’s exactly right. Bree is not one for sudden change. She’s been wearing the same stack of bracelets for a year now and only added a new one to the mix after debating the merits of it with me for a week.
“If I’ve learned anything from Hallmark movies, it’s that no woman likes a persistent man when she tells him no. So if Bree truly does only see you as a brother by the time this is all over, you’re going to have to let her go and move on. Luckily, since you’ll only be making moves in the name of the contract, you’ll be able to go back to normal in the end without burning any bridges if she doesn’t seem into you.”
Yeah, normal. Unfortunately, there’s a nagging feeling inside me that says I won’t be able to go back to normal. I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand by after all of this and watch her date other guys again, or be near her and never touch. It’s torture. I don’t want to have to think about what I’ll do if she doesn’t want a relationship with me just yet.
“What’s your first public date with Bree going to be?” Jamal asks, sitting forward now that he doesn’t think Lawrence’s idea is complete trash.
I get out my phone and look at the calendar Nicole keeps updated for me. “Wednesday we have to film the commercial. Oh, and by the way, it is a complete breach of contract for me to tell you guys we’re going to be in a fake relationship, but I really needed help.” They all agree to keep their mouths shut about it. “So yeah, not really a date, but we do have to pretend to be a couple in front of the crew that day.”
“That’s perfect,” says Derek from where he’s now raiding my fridge for the third time. “That’ll be a good place to start exploring some light physical touch. See if any sparks start flying.”
My stomach tightens at the words physical touch, and I immediately feel like a twelve-year-old scared to go on his first date. Even worse, I’m getting advice from possibly the most unqualified instructors. “What counts as light?”
Derek peeks over the fridge door and levels me with a gross smirk. “Depends on the woman.”
I grimace. “Okay, never mind. I don’t want to hear it.”
Lawrence shakes his head at Derek. “I bet your mama’s so proud of how you turned out.”
“Holding hands!” Jamal shouts like he’s on The Price is Right and is tossing out his final bid.
“Hand-holding is good.” Lawrence jots it down next to number one.
“Wink at her,” Derek says while casually leaning back against the counter and peeling a banana.
I don’t know about this one. Sounds kind of douchebaggy. “What do you mean? Just like wink randomly? I don’t think I’m a winker.”
“Yeah, you know, say something sexy first, and then just…” He gives me the most suave wink I’ve ever seen. I try to mirror it back at him and he grimaces. “Work on it.”
“Forget his weird winking. You need to brush a stray hair away,” says Price.
I look at him. “Expound.”
“Don’t you watch movies? You gotta wait until a piece of her hair falls into her face and then use your fingers to brush it back from her temple. Here, watch.” He leans forward and demonstrates on me, looking deep into my eyes then slowly brushing an imaginary lock of hair behind my ear.
“Damn,” says Lawrence. “I felt that all the way over here.”
I point at the board. “Write it down.”
He obeys, and we all get to work brainstorming the most romantic ideas we can think of, debating back and forth about what level of physical touch belongs to which week and whether a food fight would actually be as sexy in real life as it always plays out in the movies. There’s also a sketchy idea of pretending the power gets knocked out so I have to fill the room with candles. I have no idea how I would make that one happen.
Finally, after our list is full, Lawrence writes “first real make-out” for item number 20. Derek wanted to write a different word on that line, but I wouldn’t let him. That’s not what this is about for me. I’m not trying to work my way into Bree’s bed; I’m trying to show her that I want a relationship with her. I want to be committed to her in a way I’ve never been with anyone else.
Later that night, when our whiteboard is completely full of notes and ideas, I hear my front door handle jiggle. The only other person besides my housekeeper who has a key is Bree, and it’s way too late for anyone to be coming to clean my place.
I shoot up out of my chair. “It’s Bree. Hide the board!”
Everyone hops out of their chairs and starts scrambling around and bumping into each other like a classic cartoon. We hear the door shut behind her, and the whiteboard is still standing in the middle of the kitchen like a lit-up marquee. I hiss at Jamal, “Get rid of it!”
His eyes are wide orbs, head whipping around in all directions. “Where? In the utensil drawer? Up my shirt?! There’s nowhere! That thing is huge!”
“LADY IN THE HOUSE!” Bree shouts from the entryway. The sound of her tennis shoes getting kicked off echoes around the room, and my heart races up my throat.
Her name is pasted all over that whiteboard along with phrases like “first kiss—keep it light” and “entwined hand-holding” and “dirty talk about her hair”.
Yeah…I’m not sure about that last one, but we’ll see. Basically, it’s all laid out there—the most incriminating board in the world. If Bree sees this thing, it’s all over for me.
“Erase it!” Price whispers frantically.
“No, we didn’t write it down anywhere else! We’ll lose all the ideas.”
I can hear Bree’s footsteps getting closer. “Nathan? Are you home?”
“Uh—yeah! In the kitchen.”
Jamal tosses me a look like I’m an idiot for announcing our location, but what am I supposed to do? Stand very still and pretend we’re not all huddled in here having a Baby-Sitter’s Club re-enactment? She would find us, and that would look even worse after keeping quiet.
“Just flip it over!” I tell anyone who’s not running in a circle chasing his tail.
As Lawrence flips the whiteboard, Price tells us all to act natural. So of course, the second Bree rounds the corner, I hop up on the table, Jamal rests his elbow on the wall and leans his head on his hand, and Lawrence just plops down on the floor and pretends to stretch. Derek can’t decide what to do so he’s caught mid-circle. We all have fake smiles plastered on. Our acting is shit.
Bree freezes, blinking at the sight of each of us not acting at all natural. “Whatcha guys doing?”
Her hair is a cute messy bun of curls on the top of her head and she’s wearing her favorite joggers with one of my old LA Sharks hoodies, which she stole from my closet a long time ago. It swallows her whole, but since she just came from the studio, I know there is a tight leotard under it. I can barely find her in all that material, and yet she’s still the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. Just her presence in this room feels like finally getting hooked up to
oxygen after days of not being able to breathe deeply.
We all respond to Bree’s question at the same time but with different answers. It’s highly suspicious and likely what makes her eyes dart to the whiteboard. Sweat gathers on my spine.
“What’s with the whiteboard?” she asks, taking a step toward it.
I hop off the table and get in her path. “Huh? Oh, it’s…nothing.”
She laughs and tries to look around me. I pretend to stretch so she can’t see. “It doesn’t look like nothing. What? Are you guys drawing boobies on that board or something? You look so guilty.”
“Ah—you caught us! Lots of illustrated boobs drawn on that board. You don’t want to see it.”
She pauses, a fading smile hovering on her lips, and her eyes look up to meet mine. “For real—what’s going on? Why can’t I see it?” She doesn’t believe my boob explanation. I guess we should take that as a compliment?
My eyes catch over Bree’s shoulder as Price puts himself out of her line of sight and begins miming the action of getting his phone out and taking a picture of the whiteboard. This little show is directed at Derek, who is standing somewhere behind me.
Bree sees me watching Price and whips her head around to catch him. He freezes—hands extended looking like he’s holding an imaginary camera. He then transforms that into a forearm stretch. “So tight after our workout today.”
Her eyes narrow. “That’s it. Let me see the other side of the board.”
“No.” I root myself in front of her.
“Why not? Is it something about me?” She tries to race around me, but I catch her abdomen with my forearm and twist her up to me until her back is pressed against my chest like we’re doing some sort of salsa dance. She’s scrappy though. Making her whole body go limp, she wiggles out of my arms like a fish. Faster than our top running back, Bree sprints past Price and darts into the living room. There’s one small corner wall that holds the refrigerator separating the two rooms, and if she goes around it, she’ll loop back around to the kitchen on the other side.
“She’s going around the right side!”
Lawrence heads to the right, I head to the left. We both meet around the other side of the dividing wall, staring curiously at each other when we don’t find Bree. A sudden flash of movement catches our eye as Bree jumps up from behind the couch and rushes behind my back, zipping her body around an oblivious Price and into the kitchen.
I make it around the corner just in time to see her face the whiteboard. Derek steps away from it. I’m out of breath and my palms are flooded with perspiration. This is it. Bree is staring wide-eyed at the damning evidence, and I want to jump out the window. How am I going to explain this? All this planning. All these years of patiently waiting, and THIS is how Bree finds out I have feelings for her.
“Bree…I can explain.”
She laughs one loud, incredulous laugh, pointing a lazy finger at the board then letting her eyes pop up to meet mine. “Boobs.”
My mouth opens, but I don’t say anything, because suddenly I’m worried my brain just made that up. “What?”
Her eyebrows rise, and she looks both horrified and amused. “There really are boobs drawn all over this board. Just so many…boobs.”
I swallow and discreetly look at Derek. He’s giving me a thumbs-up from behind Bree’s back. I’m a little frightened at how quickly he drew those.
I let out a heavy breath and shake my head, a relieved smile curving my lips. “Yep. Well, I tried to tell you.”
She’s laughing now. “Why are there boobs on here? Are you guys just a bunch of little boys?”
Derek offers himself up as sacrifice. “It was me. I was trying to describe to the guys—”
Bree cuts him off while throwing her hand in the air. “NOPE. LA-LA-LA! Don’t want to hear whatever is about to come out of your mouth.” She walks away looking like she wants to pluck her eyeballs out and heads toward me, pointing back at the board. “Erase it, Derek! That’s gross.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stops in front of me and pushes her finger directly into my chest. “Something fishy is going on here, and I’m going to figure it out. But first…I need to use your washer because the one in my building smells like mustard again.” Disturbing that this is not the first or the second time it has smelled like that.
An hour later, the guys are gone and I’m moving Bree’s laundry from the washer to the dryer because she laid down on my couch and accidentally fell asleep. I won’t wake her up. Instead, I’ll carry her into the room she aggressively reminds me is only the guest room, and she’ll stay the night. The guest room no one uses besides her. The room she’d be pissed to find an actual guest in because all the stuff she’s left here over the years has really added up and formed a real bedroom.
Just before I go to bed, I get a text from Derek. It’s the picture of the whiteboard from before he erased it.
Derek: This is going to work.
I hope he’s right…
The stadium is roaring.
It’s game day and we’re all suited up, shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel, gathered just out of sight, waiting for the go-ahead to take the field. This is a high-stakes game—every playoff game is—so the fans are extra rowdy. There’s a heavy mixture of chanting and booing.
Jamal is buzzing beside me. He loves this. There’s an energy meter above his head, and with every decibel increase from the crowd, it ticks up higher. Mine lowers. I have to tune it all out.
He accidentally nudges my arm while circling his shoulders, trying to get himself hyped up, and for some reason, that makes me irrationally annoyed. The rest of the team is behind us and bouncing on their toes, clenching and relaxing their fists, stretching their necks side to side. We’re a bunch of bulls waiting to storm the arena.
Fog starts filling the air, and we’ll be told to take the field any second now. I try to get my head clear, focus on this game alone and not worry about what it means for us. But it’s hard not to feel the pressure. I always feel it lately, and it’s swirling around me in this moment. No matter how hard I try, I can’t push it away.
I shut my eyes tight, trying to block everything out, but my pads feel tight. Tighter than normal. Constricting.
“Stand by!” a cameraman yells, lens pointed in our direction.
So much noise. The roar of the crowd, the music, the drumming of hands against the stadium seats—I used to love it, but lately I feel like running the opposite way. I can’t figure out why. Something just feels off, and wrong, and I’m sweating even though it’s only thirty degrees out.
I shake my head.
Jamal turns toward me and yells over the excessive noise, “You good, man? You look off.”
My heart is beating in my ears. I feel like I’m going to pass out, but I know I can’t. I have to stay on my feet. There’s no time for whatever this feeling is creeping over me. I don’t get nervous. I help get our team to Super Bowls, not pass out in the tunnel before a game. But maybe I can just sit down on the floor real quick and take a breather?
“Yeah, I’m good,” I lie because Jamal can’t know that I feel like I’m inside a tornado. He depends on me. They all do. Everyone does.
Trying to gain some sort of composure before we have to run out, I shut my eyes again and think of Bree. I see her wide smile and I hear her bubbling laugh. I tell myself that in roughly five hours, I’ll be flying home and I’d bet my entire fortune she will be there waiting. She’ll throw her arms around my waist and squeeze. It’ll be quiet there.
My chest loosens a little.
“Okay, everyone get ready!” the cameraman yells again. The announcer comes over the speaker telling the jam-packed stadium we’re about to take the field. The crowd sounds like an intense rainstorm slamming down on a tin roof. It’s drowning me. Right now, the only thought grounding me is Bree. What would she say to me if she were here right now? It would be something perfect. She always says the perfect thing.
“Thre
e, two, one! Go, go, go!”
We run out of the tunnel, through the heavy fog and directly into the chaos. The only way I keep myself from pulling a Forest Gump and running all the way home is to picture Bree: nose scrunched, tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth with a big thumbs-up just like she did the very first time I took the field in Daren’s place four years ago. I choose to hear her as a whisper in my ear instead of listening to the roar of the crowd. You can do it, Nathan.
Bree
* * *
Are you kidding me right now?! Only gigantically tall people keep their 9x13 baking dishes in the very tip top of their cupboards. Nathan had his apartment renovated a year ago to fit his vertically blessed stature, which means taller-than-average countertops and cabinetry that touches the heavens. We get it, Nathan, you’re tall!
Clearly, he didn’t factor in his best friend breaking into his apartment and baking brownies for him while he’s flying home from winning a playoff game! Yep, they won, but it was a tight one. I don’t think I have any fingernails left. The score wasn’t the only thing keeping me on edge though. Nathan seemed really off during the first quarter. He finally settled in and threw four touchdowns, but still, he didn’t quite seem like himself.
I watched the game from his couch and screamed so loud through most of it that I won’t be surprised if he tells me he could hear me at the stadium. There was one play where he got sacked, a really hard hit on a fourth down, and I held my breath until I saw him stand up and walk unassisted to the bench. Other than that moment, he played a solid game. I doubt anyone else was able to notice the difference in him, but I did. Any time the camera zoomed in on his face, I could see something lurking in his eyes that made me nervous. It was more than his usual focused look—he looked sad. Or maybe it was tired? Or worried?
I don’t know, but I’m making him brownies to celebrate and cheer him up. He won’t want to eat them because of his nutritional regimen, but I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to remind him that there is life and fun and sweet things outside of football and broccoli.