by Lynn Painter
* * *
“And you do this why?” Wes asked.
I smiled as I wrote my initials with ketchup on the napkin, encircling them with a big heart. “Tradition. Growing up, whenever we came here, I always wrote things with ketchup on the napkins while I waited for our food.”
“That’s weird.”
“No, it isn’t.” I surrounded the big heart with smaller hearts. “You have to try it and see. There’s something about the squirty ketchup tip that makes it great.”
“Um, I’m good, but thanks.”
“Oh my God, you’re too cool to write with ketchup?”
“Well, yeah—for sure I am.” He reached across the table and took the condiment from my hand. “But for the sake of being a good dinner partner, I will try your childish pastime.”
“Good.” I pulled some napkins out of the dispenser and laid them on the table in front of him. “And it isn’t wasting, because you can dip your fries in it.”
“I don’t like ketchup on my fries.”
“I don’t even understand you, Wes.”
He started making something on the napkin, and I noticed that Wheel of Fortune was on the TV behind the bar as Tom Jones’s cover of “Kiss” wafted out from the antiquated jukebox. Stella’s was a greasy bar that had formerly been a house, and even though they served the hamburgers on napkins and the place was entirely lacking in atmosphere, you considered yourself lucky if you were able to get a table during the lunch rush.
My city appreciated a good burger and hand-cut fries.
I looked back at his napkin, and he’d totally drawn a cartoony dude. It was a face in ketchup, way better than the childish letters I’d made. “So how was baseball today?”
He kept working with the ketchup. “Why are you asking me that?”
I watched his face as he concentrated. The length of his dark lashes was totally unfair. “Because now I know it’s important. Like, not just a hobby. So… did you hit a homer? Or bunt a dinger?”
His lips turned up. “Stop it.”
“Or are you a pitcher? Did you slide a curve ball?”
“You have to stop, Buxbaum.” He gave me a good smile, and I curled my toes in my funky brown booties. “Either learn about the game, or never speak of it again.”
The waitress appeared with our food (and Helena’s in a to-go box), and we were alike in that our whole focus turned to the greasy offerings. No more small talk, no more banter. Our eyes were for food only.
“OhmyGodthisissogood.” I swallowed my first bite of burger and reached for my soda. “God bless you for bringing me here.”
“I selfishly wanted it. You’re just collateral damage.”
“Don’t even care.” I dipped two fries and shoved them into my mouth. “All that matters is that my mouth has these delights inside it.”
“Eww.”
That made me snort. “Right?”
“Don’t be snorting while you eat. If you aspirate food, you could get a lung infection and die.”
I swallowed. “I have no idea how to respond to that statement.”
He said, “ ‘Thank you so much, Wessy, for looking out for me.’ That is a perfect response.”
I grabbed another fry. “Thank you so much, Wessy, for entertaining me with your inane conversation while we eat. This is definitely not boring.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
We got quiet while we ate, but it was a comfortable quiet. I was lost in the food until he said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you eat like a man.”
“Sexist much?”
“Let me rephrase.” He cleared his throat, wiped his hands on his napkin, held up a finger, and continued with, “Society—wrongly—expects a pretty girl to eat a salad and pick at her food, but you wolf down a burger like a person who’s been starved for weeks. And probably raised by wolves.”
It was ridiculous that his usage of the word “pretty” set my nerves on edge. He thought I was pretty? “I like food. Sue me.”
He sat back a little in his chair and cracked the knuckles on his left hand. “So what’s your plan tonight? How are you going to win over Mikey if I get you a one-on-one?”
Record scratch—Wes was a knuckle-cracker, wasn’t he?
Knuckle-cracking was one of those things that I wouldn’t call a pet peeve of mine, but whenever I heard that sound, I immediately jolted into a doglike sense of alert, looking around to see where the sound was coming from. It usually set me on edge.
“Well,” I said, wiping my mouth with a napkin before reaching for another French fry. “I’m going to give him the one-two punch. First, I’ll start by hitting him in the sentimentals, bringing back the cicada songs of his childhood with my soul-stroking reminiscing.”
“Not bad,” he said, and cracked the knuckles on his right hand. “Stroking is always a winner.”
I looked at his half smile and wondered why his knuckle-cracking seemed right. Like, it somehow went with his face or something. “You know, I think I’ll keep the rest to myself.”
“Oh, come on.” He reached out a hand and tugged at the tendril of hair by my face that stubbornly refused to straighten. “I’ll be good.”
Why did his physical nature and the way he had no problem with close contact—the hair tousles, the tugs, the nudges—always make my stomach go wild? I smacked his hand and grabbed one of his fries, saying a very calm “No, thank you.”
But inside, I was freaking the freak out. What in God’s name was happening? Knuckle-cracking was proven to bring on that icky this-one-is-not-right-for-me feeling; it always did. It was a straight-up eject button from any potential romantic relationship. But there I was, scant feet away from Wes and his knuckles, and I almost found his habit to be… endearing? Like, he kind of looked adorable when he smiled and cracked?
This was very, very wrong.
Because (A) Wes was the wrong guy, (B) my mother had warned me about falling for guys like him, and (C) he had no interest in me at all, hence the There’s really nothing here for me comment the night before. What on earth was I doing with my emotions?
“Oh my God, you beat me.”
“What?” I looked around, unsure of what he was talking about.
He swallowed and grabbed a napkin. “You finished your food already.”
He was right. I looked from my plate—completely clean save for some small grease puddles, ketchup smears, and tiny grains of salt—to his, which still held three bites of burger and a small grouping of fries. “So?”
“So holy shit, you eat fast.”
“Or holy shit, you eat like an octogenarian.”
That made his eyes squint. “Want the rest of my fries?”
I looked at the greasy, hand-cut fries. “You’re not going to eat them?”
He shoved the plastic bowl of fries toward me. “This little old man is full.”
I grabbed four fries and dunked them into his ketchup. “Well, then, thank you, grandpa.”
As I wolfed down those fries, it was impossible for me to ignore the fact that I was in no hurry for dinner to end. I’d been having fun with Wes. I’d been smiling the entire time (when I wasn’t rolling my eyes)—and even knowing Michael was waiting, I wasn’t ready to go.
But it was just because things were so easy between us—that was what had confused me. Our friendship was so comfortable that it muddied the waters.
Boom.
It made me think of When Harry Met Sally. Minus the ending-up-together part.
“Do you think men and women can be friends, Bennett?”
He picked up his water. “Sure. I mean, we are, aren’t we?”
“I guess we kind of are.” I was playing it cool—he had no idea what his friendship over the past week meant to me. I hadn’t realized it either, to be honest, but the fact that we’d had some seriously incredible conversations that centered on my mother made it different from every other relationship in my life.
“Weird, right
?” He took a drink, his eyes never leaving me as he swallowed. “You never thought that shit would happen, did you?”
“For sure no.” I swallowed the bite of fries and reached for more. “But a lot of people say it doesn’t work. That—”
“Is this the Harry-Sally thing?”
“How do you know about that?”
“My mom loves that movie. I’ve seen it a few times.”
“A few times? See? I knew you liked rom-coms!”
“Oh, for the love of God, no.” He shook his head like I was ridiculous. “I just like Billy Crystal. If he can be Mike Wazowski, he can be anybody. It’s a funny movie and that is all.”
“And you don’t think he’s right? The fact that they get together in the end pretty much proves his theory, yeah?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” He did a little shrug thing that made me notice his shoulders. Damn you, Helena. He said, “I think he has some valid points, but it’s irrelevant for us.”
“It is?”
“Sure.” He scratched his cheek and said super matter-of-factly, “We’re the exception because I’m not your friend—I’m your little love fairy godfather.”
“That sounds gross.” I made the joke, but I didn’t like that he’d said he wasn’t my friend.
He ignored the joke and said, “It’s true, though. We’re like friends, for now, but the fairy godfather is all about helping you get what you want. Once the magic starts happening, he doesn’t stick around for the fairy-tale ending. I mean, how creepy would that be?”
“Really creepy?” I fake-laughed, like we were on the same page. But was he saying that if I ended up with Michael, then we wouldn’t be friends anymore? That we really weren’t friends at all now, but merely role-players making my wish happen?
It made sense after what he’d said last night.
“That’s right, Buxbaum.” He reached across the table and touched the tip of my nose—a boop—with his finger. “Creepy as hell.”
I was struggling to keep up, to process what he was saying and what it meant for us, while also overanalyzing the fact that even a finger-boop made my stomach go wild, when his mouth turned into a smirk and he said, “Now finish those fries so we can get you to your Michael.”
“Done.” I shoved the last fry into my mouth and pushed back my chair, needing to get out into some fresh air before my brain exploded. “Let’s go, fairy godfather.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”
—Love Actually
“Hey, it’s Mrs. Potato Head!”
I followed Wes through the kitchen door and smiled when I saw Adam standing at the center island, loading up a plate full of Pizza Rolls. I gave him a chin-nod and said, “It’s me.”
“Your face looks way better, by the way. You’re very un-potatoey now.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Noah felt like shit about breaking your face, so make sure you make him feel extra bad.” He picked up his plate and grabbed a can of Coke. “He deserves it.”
Wes and I went into the living room behind him, and it was clear we were the last ones there. The room was filled with mostly the same people from the basketball game, plus three others. Ashley, the girl who’d puked on me; Laney (ugh); and Alex, the one who liked Wes.
Talk about a nightmarish trifecta of people, right?
“Liz, I am so sorry about your nose.” Noah was sitting on the sofa between Alex and Ashley, and he pointed at my face. “It looks good now, though.”
That made me smile. “Thanks. And don’t worry about it.”
Adam said, “Come on, Potato Head—you had one job.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Oh, hey, Liz!” Laney, who was stretched out in the recliner, smiled over at us. “I didn’t know you guys were coming.”
My brain mocked her in a high-pitched, Muppet Babies kind of voice before I just said, “Yeah.”
“Hey, guys. Snacks are in the kitchen and the movie’s about to start.” Michael popped up from where he was lying on the floor and gave us a small wave.
“That’s good,” Wes said from behind me. “Because I think Liz’s probably getting hungry.”
“Haha.” I turned around, and his face did that thing to my stomach again, which pissed me off because he didn’t even think of me as his friend. “I eat a lot; you’re hilarious.”
“I know.”
There wasn’t a way for me to remove myself from Wes without causing weirdness, so we sat together on the floor, and everyone got quiet as the movie started. It was this really intense thriller, and everyone was silent so they wouldn’t miss out on anything important. But I couldn’t concentrate on the movie because I was trying to figure out why Wes was making me irrationally emotional.
I also couldn’t concentrate because my thigh was touching Wes’s thigh.
We both had our legs stretched out in front of us as we leaned back on our palms; nothing was intimate about our position. But it’s like the spot where my right outer thigh touched his left outer thigh was inflamed and I couldn’t ignore it. Every tiny molecule of my existence was focused on that one solitary spot.
Was it warm in that house?
My eyes watched as a man on the television was murdered by a serial killer who jammed the man’s head into the propeller of a boat motor, but my mind was on Wes. Wes and the fact that if he and I were reclined a little more, like, resting back on our elbows, all he’d have to do was lean his body a little in my direction, so he was hovering over me, and we’d be perfectly aligned for him to kiss me.
He’d look down at my lips with those dark eyes and he would visibly swallow with that prominent Adam’s apple that for some reason always distracted me, and then—
“Buxbaum.”
“Huh?” I turned my head to the right and looked at him, a tiny bit gaspy and feeling like I’d been woken from a dream. What the hell was I doing?
My face was hot as he leaned a little closer, to where his shoulder nudged mine. He gave me a squinty-eyed smirk and whispered, “I’m a little uncomfortable with the level of attention you just gave to that slashing. I don’t think you blinked.”
I blinked then, my cheeks getting even hotter—if that was possible—as he whispered to me in the dark. My mouth curled up into a smile that I had no control over, and I whispered back, “Quit watching me, creeper.”
And then the moment just stopped.
Paused.
Held.
His smirk disappeared and his face turned intense. His jaw flexed and I could hardly breathe as I looked back at him, my heart pounding as I let myself be obvious and look at his mouth for the quickest of seconds.
His mouth that was just so incredibly close to mine.
When I brought my eyes back to his, I knew without a doubt that if we were anywhere else—alone—he would kiss me. He swallowed, and my eyes tracked down to his throat before slowly climbing back up by way of his strong chin, nose, and dark-as-night brown eyes.
He raised one eyebrow, an unspoken question, and I realized at that moment that I wanted it. I wanted Wes. Michael had been my endgame, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about that anymore.
I wouldn’t run through a train station for Michael. But I would do it for Wes.
Holy shit.
I raised my right shoulder in a shrug that nudged his shoulder, a touch of my cotton against his fleece.
“Scoot over.” Noah plopped down beside me and said, “I’m going deaf sitting between those screamers.”
Nooo!
I sat up and moved a hair closer toward Wes, careful not to look at him as I shifted over. The moment had been broken, and part of me was disappointed that we’d been interrupted, while the other part was embarrassed and utterly clueless about whether what I thought had just happened had actually happened at all.
I stared blankly at the TV for what seemed like an eternity before I heard Wes wh
isper, “I’m going to get a drink. You want one?”
I took a deep breath—please don’t be mocking—and turned to face him. But instead of the smart-ass expression that was Wes’s default, he gave me a devastatingly hopeful smile as he waited for my response.
I swallowed and felt trembly as I smiled back at him. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
“Diet Coke, right?”
I nodded and had to concentrate on not sweating after he got up and left the room.
What in the actual the hell?
* * *
When I came back from the restroom, Wes still hadn’t returned to his spot on the floor. I glanced around the dark living room before noticing that he was out on the deck. At first, I couldn’t tell who he was talking to, but then I saw it was Alex.
Talk about a glass of cold water to the face.
He was out there with the pretty girl that he knew liked him, while I was feeling near-vomitous over the confusing things I was thinking about my next-door neighbor. Talk about a yawning chasm.
I gnawed on my lip and squinted, trying to see them better. He’d said he wasn’t interested in her, and I believed he’d meant it, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t change, right? And what if I’d been misreading every little thing between Wes and me to begin with? My little fairy godfather might only be interested in finding love for me, not with me, right?
Had I completely imagined the moment on the floor?
I took my spot and watched the rest of the movie, but my attention was now on the two people I could see in my periphery. What were they talking about? Why were they out there? I totally lost focus and was happy when the movie ended and they came inside.
I needed to get my head straight.
The people around me started talking to each other, and I felt awkward and out of place. And I missed Jocelyn. We texted every day, like always, but I hadn’t spent any quality time with her lately. Being with all these people who were close friends with each other made me homesick for her; I needed to go over there after I got home.
In fact, it was probably time for me to come clean to her about the whole thing.