by Sophia Henry
“We’re done here,” Fozzie jumps up, bumping into his kit as he rushes to me. “Lay with me for a bit.”
I nod and follow him, waving goodbye to Austin as I climb the stairs.
After using the bathroom, I slip into Fozzie’s room and shut the door behind me. He’s already in bed, buried under a dingy, green and blue striped comforter. I slip out of my jeans and slide into bed next to him.
“You’re really tense.” He says, pulling me closer, giving me a comforting squeeze. “Wanna sit on my face?”
The question is so casual as if he asked me if I wanted to go to the movies.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Fozzie’s body stiffens. “Talk to me, Em.”
How sad is it that he knows something is wrong just because I said I don’t want him to eat me out? Giving and receiving head are two of my favorite stress relievers—and my best friend with benefits knows. He’s been going down on me in all the years we’ve been hooking up.
I’m just not feeling it today. Too much on my mind with the Ambassador opportunity and the thought of leaving home for a month. I love traveling, but that will be the longest I’ve ever been away at one time. I’ve been dreaming of this kind of opportunity. So why am I feeling so trepidatious about it?
Part of my anxiety is because Fozzie has seemed distant recently—or more distant. Though we’ve been friends since elementary school, he’s never really been one to open up and put his feeling on display. Not like I do with him, at least. It’s one of those things that mystifies me. He knows every ounce of what’s in my heart and mind, and I know the bare minimum about him—more than a random person, but still not much. If I’m not his confidant, who is?
We have the most complicated, yet comfortable relationship. People always think we’re a couple, but we’re not. We’re not even dating. In fact, he hooks up with other girls all the time—mostly while he’s on tour. I’ve dated a few people—kissed a ton more—but I don’t hook up with anyone except him.
“I’m too stressed to enjoy it,” I explain quickly, tracing his ribcage absently. “Trixy and I had to reschedule a shit-ton of appointments today. It worked out fine, but I’ll be slammed until I leave.”
“Being slammed here will get you ready for how it’s going to be next month.”
“I’ve been tattooing for years. How is it going to be different?” I inspect my nails in the light of the moon coming through the windows. The blinds came down years ago. Actually, I may have taken one set down during an enthusiastic round of super-hot cowgirl action. He never put them back up.
“You’ve gotten used to making your own schedule, having days off whenever you need them, only working on clients you want to work with. They’re going to have you scheduled from dawn ‘til dusk. And you’re going to be doing shitty tattoos again. Things that aren’t in your wheelhouse. Tons of flash shit,” he says, clasping his hands behind his head.
I shift onto my back. “I know. I’m actually really excited for those. All that exposure in bigger markets is going to be rad.”
“I agree completely. Everyone wants a piece of Em Vicious right now.”
What an interesting way to phrase it. If everyone gets a piece of me, sooner or later I won’t have anything left. And that’s not the way I want to live my life.
“I’m gonna miss you, Foz,” I say.
Why am I getting sappy with him right now? When he goes on tour with Drowned World, he’s gone for months at a time, and he never mentions missing me. Usually, we don’t talk about missing each other, because our relationship isn’t like that. And sometimes I wonder why it’s not.
Why doesn’t he want more? He knows me better than any human on this earth—and he doesn’t think I’m good enough to be exclusive with?
Then again, I don’t know if he’d reject me since I’ve never brought these feelings up to him. It’s easier to keep our relationship as it is. I love Fozzie for who he is and everything he’s been through with me. I love him for being the person I can talk to about anything. But there’s always that distance. He only lets me in so far.
“You’re not going to miss me, babe. You’re going to miss the familiarity of your life here,” Fozzie responds.
I bite my lip. Always dismissing my feelings and diverting when I try to talk to him on another level.
“No. I’ll definitely miss you. I always miss you when you go on tour.” I summon all my courage and continue. “What would you say if I told you I wanted to be exclusive?”
“What does that mean?” He laughs.
I turn back to him and prop myself up on his chest. “What if we tried dating? Just you and me. No other hookups or dates.”
“Emily.” He sighs, looking away. “I don’t want to be tied down right now. Not by you. Not by anyone.”
How is it possible to be completely prepared for a response, yet still surprised and heartbroken by it?
“I know.” I flop onto his chest, biting back tears.
“Emily.” He hugs me. “I love the friendship we have. I’m not ready for another level. Maybe someday. But not right now. I’m nowhere near settling down.”
“Neither am I,” I interrupt.
“Then why does it matter? We both work crazy hours. We travel. Why would you want to be tied down before you go on this rad adventure? Think of how much you’d miss out on it you were worried about me and what I’m doing and thinking?”
According to Sigmund Freud, psychological projection is (loosely) defined as projecting undesirable feelings or emotions onto someone else, rather than admitting to or dealing with unwanted feelings.
When he wonders how much I would miss out on, he really means himself. How much would he miss out on if he had to think of me as something more than a friend? I’m not special enough for him to give up the other women. I’m not the one.
Over the last few years, I’ve read a lot of books and articles to help me get into a better mental state. I’ve been working on putting the trauma behind me and figuring out who I am and how I fit into the world.
Now that I notice when I’m doing it, I realize how big of an issue projection has been for me. When I catch myself about to make sarcastic or catty comments to someone else, I try to hold my tongue. Anything I have to say is subconsciously how I feel about myself—so I try to flip the switch and look for the good. I should be putting positivity into the world if I want positive things to come back. Not saying I have it mastered—far from it. Some people bring out the worst in me.
I have no clue how I’m ever going to change how I react to my parents. I guess that’s the point of the spiritual journey. I’m never going to be perfect, but someday, I’ll have to confront the situations that make me uncomfortable—and angriest.
My sisters warned me about my friends with benefits relationship with Fozzie. Liz is usually pretty chill about how she comes at arguments. She points out facts and says things in a gentle way. Without ever having been one of her patients, I can vouch for her impeccable bedside manner.
Maddie is an entirely different story. When I poke the Southern lioness, she doesn’t hold back. We spit angry words at each other until one of us cries. She always said Fozzie didn’t have the same emotional investment as I did. He was getting all the perks: sex whenever he wanted with no emotional attachment.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe Fozzie is right.
Maybe it is all the emotions swirling inside from the new and exciting things happening in my life. The stress of being invited to be part of Ambassador’s Pro Team and getting ready for a whirlwind trip to four cities in four weeks has taken a huge toll on me. I’m probably about to start my period, too. Every single thing that could mess with my hormones and get my head out of wack is happening at the same time.
“You’re right,” I say after a long silence.
There’s no reason to cry over Fozzie. We’re the same as we ever were.
Friends.
Chapter Four
Zayne
One Month Later
I’m going to kill Louis for making me do this.
We haven’t even left the gate at Charlotte Douglas International Airport, and I need a drink already. When the hell do they start serving in coach?
Any attraction that I may have felt for Em Vicious that day I ran into her in the hallway at Ambassador has completely melted away after listening to her record a fifteen-second Instagram story video for the fiftieth time.
“You’ve gotta stop,” I say rubbing my forehead as I check my e-mails.
“Stop what?” she asks, lowering her phone and turning to me. She can’t be completely clueless as to how irritating it is to hear her record the same fucking message over and over.
“Just post the damn video. If I have to hear you say ‘Hey! This is Em Vicious on my way to Philly—’” I say in a shrill tone. “—one more time I’ll cut my ears off.”
Her nose wrinkles in disgust. “Simmer down, Van Gogh. I don’t even sound like that.”
“You’re right. You sound like nails on a fucking chalkboard.” It’s the worst comeback ever. I’m going to have to step up my sarcasm game if I’m going to last a month with her.
“Zayne,” she says in a condescending tone, patting my arm. “You wanted to be in the video, didn’t you? I’m so sorry I didn’t even think about it.”
She extends her arm and starts recording again. “Hey, all! It’s your girl, Em Vicious. And this is my buddy, Zayne, from the fabulous Ambassador Ink team. We’re on our way to Philly for the first stop on the EmVee takes over the North tour.”
When she throws up a peace sign, I groan and push her arm away. I don’t have the patience for this shit.
“That was a great take!” She wiggles excitedly as she watches the replay. “You’re the perfect amount of grumpy.”
I turn to face her. “Are you going to be like this the entire trip?”
“Like what?” She asks, looking up from her screen.
The perfect mix of sexy, smart mouth and annoying ball of energy. “Like you are.”
“Absolutely.” She says through a laugh. “Just like you’re going to be how you are the entire trip. I’m expecting hijinks and shenanigans galore.”
“As long as you stay out of jail, we’ll be fine.”
A spoonful of her own medicine deflates her teasing. She scowls and immediately turns her back to me, focusing her attention out the window. Evidently, she thought she was the only one fluent in sarcasm.
Despite being told to turn my phone off, I’m still tapping away, responding to e-mails I have answers for when the flight finally takes off. Without EmVee’s incessant chatter to her invisible internet friends, I can finally concentrate.
“Dude! You’re supposed to have airplane mode on,” she says.
“I’ll be done in a minute,” I brush off her comment without looking up.
“You’re gonna blow up the plane,” she whispers loudly through clenched teeth.
My head whips side to side, making sure no one heard her. The older lady in the aisle across from me gives me a frightened look.
“I’m just finishing up an e-mail for work,” I assure the woman, holding up my phone. Then I lean into Em. “You can’t say shit like that on an airplane. Do you want me to get kicked off?”
“Don’t blame me! You’re the one messing up the signal with air traffic control.”
“No, I’m not,” I whisper harshly.
“Sir,” a flight attendant says, his large frame looming over our row. “You need to put your phone in airplane mode or turn it off, please.”
“Yup.” I plaster a fake smile on my face, holding the button on the side until the phone shuts down completely. Then I lean down and slide it into the front pocket of my laptop bag.
“Thank you.” The flight attendant continues down the aisle, eyeing each passenger closely to find other rule breakers.
It’s barely been two hours since I left, and four new “urgent” issues have already arisen in the office. I’m sure a few phone calls will iron most of it out, but I can’t do anything until we’re in Philadelphia. And since no one will be in the office when I get off the plane, all I can do is jot notes in my phone and wait.
I close my eyes, hoping to catch a quick nap since I’m not going to be able to use this time to do any work with plane security sitting next to me.
EmVee taps my arm. “Wanna play tic tac toe?”
“What?” I ask, opening one eye to see her staring at me with a hopeful expression.
“Tic Tac Toe.” She holds up a pad of paper with an empty gameboard scrawled across. “Wanna play?”
“No.” I dismiss her, folding my arms across my chest and squeezing my eyes closed, hoping she’ll take the hint.
When I hear her rustling in her bag, I can’t help but take a quick peek to see what she’s up to. She pulls out a deck of cards, fans it, and holds them out. “Pick a card, any card.”
I arch my eyebrows in amusement. “Are you kidding?”
“No.” The look on her face is all innocence and smiles, and I can’t help but humor her. If I play along, maybe she’ll leave me alone.
I sigh and take a card.
“Study the card really well. Commit it to memory.”
“Okay,” I say, staring at the card until I’m confident I’ll remember that I had the nine of spades.
“Now put it back in the deck anywhere you want.” Her eyes sparkle like she’s really excited I gave in.
Annoyed by her persistence to get me to interact, I attempt to burst her bubble by placing it on the bottom of the deck. She pulls the cards away quickly, arms crossing over her chest and inadvertently lifting her breasts and giving me an eyeful of cleavage.
“Come on, Zayne! That’s too easy.”
“Fine,” I mutter, trying to ignore her double-D’s by shoving my card in the lower half of the deck. She turns her back to me and fans the cards out, flipping through with her thumbs quickly. She plucks one from the pack.
“Is this your card?” she asks, holding up the nine of spades triumphantly.
Part of me wants to mess with her, but then I’d be being a dick for no reason, so I answer honestly. “Yes, it is.”
“You’re amazed. I can tell.” She winks.
There’s a cheeky little smile on her face as if she’s tickled the trick worked. “You remind me of Louis.”
“Because we’re both tattoo artists?” she asks as she shuffles the deck on the armrest between us.
“No. He loves magic tricks.” I study the tats on her fingers. Hearts, stars, the number thirteen inside a red circle with a slash through it, lettering under her knuckles that spells LOVE on one hand and HARD on the other.
Not only does she remind me of my brother, but she also reminds me of my parents as well. They all have that eccentric, free spirit vibe. They have this incredible energy that draws people to them.
I’m more of a natural born leader. The person who makes decisions based on facts and logic. As the athlete, I was the outcast of the family. I use the term loosely because my parents always supported my soccer career. Though it was three against one, it was an even enough mix needed someone grounded enough to pull the hippies’ heads out of the clouds when I needed to.
“To be honest, I don’t know many magic tricks,” she admits. “But I used to play a lot of pranks when I was a kid. My sisters were easy targets—super proper and easily icked-out.”
I laugh. “So what happened to you?”
She rolls her shoulders back, correcting her spine to perfect posture, then holds her head up with a regal air, “Are you saying I’m not proper?”
Though her transition from casual to refined has a finishing-school vibe, I can’t get past the tattoos, black Bleachers t-shirt she’s cut up, so it falls off her shoulders and puts her boobs on display, and ripped skinny jeans covering her legs. Not saying she’s not classy, but she wouldn’t be allowed to sit next to the Queen of England looking like that.
“I
don’t know you well enough to have an opinion on that.” Time to change the subject before she’s starts yelling at me for being judgmental. “Let’s see that trick again,” I say, nodding that the cards. This time, I want to observe how she does it.
“Sure.” She repositions herself in her seat, tucking one leg under her, so she’s facing me. She fans the cards out, face down. “Pick a card, any card.”
I select one, commit it to memory quickly, then push it into the deck.
She leans back slightly, giving me a look of suspicion. “Did you get a good look, Zayne? Or are you gonna try to mess with me?”
“I committed it to memory,” I tell her, watching her hands to see if she marked the spot I shoved the card with her fingers. Doesn’t seem like it.
She turns slightly as she scans the cards.
“Hey now!” I say, grabbing her arm. She must be doing something shady if she won’t let me watch. “I want to see you go through the deck.”
“Okay,” she says, shaking my hand from her arm as she turns back to me. Under my observant eyes, she plucks a card from the deck. It’s my card again.
I’m perplexed, just as I was when I was a little kid and Louis used to pull quarters out from behind my ears.
“You’ve gone from amazed to completely mesmerized,” she teases. “My job here is done.”
“I am absolutely enthralled.” I’m beginning to appreciate her playfulness, especially when I thought this would be the worst plane ride of my life.
“Wanna know how I did it?” she asks.
“No.”
“You don’t?” When she cocks her head, gray waves fall forward, covering one inked shoulder. “That’s usually the first question everyone asks.”
“I do want to know, but I want to figure it out myself. Figuring out how someone deceived you is the fun, right?”
“Deceived is a harsh word,” she says, wrapping a rubber band around the cards before dropping them into her bag.
“Deceived, tricked, duped. You can try to lighten the tone of the word, but it all means the same thing.” I shrug.