Love Machine

by Kendall Ryan

Okay, new tactic.

  I pull out my phone and scroll through past texts between Slate and me. How do we usually talk? Over the past few weeks, our conversations have been littered with sexual innuendos and embarrassing emoji-speak. Time to go further back.

  My thumb pauses its scrolling on the day before he texted me after the disastrous bachelorette party, aka the first milestone of this downward spiral. The thread begins with a message from him.

  Hey! How was your day?

  Meh, same old, same old. I’m hungry.

  Perfect. Want to grab something to eat?

  No big date plans for tonight? I’m shocked.

  Just me, you, and some juicy burgers.

  Oh my God, I’m there.

  The conversation is simple, short, and pleasant. Perfect. I begin drafting a new text to Slate. Why reinvent the wheel?

  Hey! How’s your day?

  Now I sit back and wait. He’s probably upset still, so it may take him a bit to—

  Buzz!

  I wasn’t expecting such an immediate response.

  Fine.

  Wow. That single word has more subtext than any message I’ve ever sent or received.

  Just fine?

  Yeah, that about covers it.

  Is he angry with me? Or is he sad? My heart weighs heavy at the likelihood of it being a messy concoction of both.

  One more question. Are WE fine?

  This time there’s a long wait. I pick out a new pen to start destroying.

  Yeah, Keaton, we’re fine.

  Why don’t I believe you? I so badly want to ask him this. That isn’t fair, though. I should just leave him alone. That’s what he wants, isn’t it?

  Fuck it.

  Obviously, we aren’t fine. I’m coming over.

  Classic me, digging myself into a deeper and deeper hole.

  I pick up my bag and coat, my heart pounding, and head straight for the elevator. I won’t let things fizzle out like this. My friendship with Slate is way too important. I refuse to accept a reality in which our bond is at all altered from what it’s always been.

  On the Uber ride over to his place, I gnaw on my fingernails and practice my friendship speech.

  Slate, I really think that we just need to take a moment to appreciate how amazing our friendship is. The fact that we could have easy, meaningless sex and can still shoot the shit and be supportive adults to each other is amazing. We don’t need to lose any of that. We can’t lose that. You can’t—

  The car pulls up to the curb and I climb out.

  My racing mind screeches to a cartoon-cliff halt when I stand at his door, my fist hovering inches from the dark wood. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if I only make it worse?

  I knock.

  And knock again.

  No response. I can’t help but feel like I’ve really, really fucked up.

  Just as I’m about to give up, I hear the soft shuffle of feet on the other side of the door. I swallow. The door opens.

  I barely recognize the man in front of me. Slate, always a figure of masculine hygiene and personal style, is a complete mess. He’s wearing the same loungewear I’ve seen him in a thousand times, but his defeated posture somehow makes it look worn and shabby. His face is unshaven, and his usually vibrant eyes lack that sparkle I’ve come to expect. This isn’t the man I know.

  “Hey,” he mutters, propping the door open. He tilts his head in a reluctant invitation into his apartment. I take a cautious step in, realizing only now how inappropriate it was for me to just show up like this.

  “I’m sorry for forcing you to see me,” I blurt, half apologizing, half hopeful that he’ll assure me that no apology is necessary. Like the old Slate would.

  “It’s fine.”

  I can feel tears forming. I’ve never hated the word fine more.

  “We’re still friends, right?” I ask, unable to mask the desperation in my voice.

  We’re standing just beyond the threshold of his door. My throat is tight and my chest is burning. To any onlooker, the awkward distance between us would make us look like complete strangers. I try not to dwell on that.

  Why is it taking him so fucking long to answer? My stomach drops to my feet.

  “Slate?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Keaton.” He sighs and reaches out, and I eagerly grab his hand in an effort to close this gaping hole between us. “We’re still friends.”

  I savor the warmth of his fingers in mine. The tightness in my throat constricts until he continues.

  “We’re still friends . . . but I can’t have sex with you anymore.” Long, awkward pause. “You’ve graduated, anyway. You’re the master now.” He says this last part with a forced smile.

  “The apprentice always outdoes the master at some point.” I hear the levity of my words, but I don’t feel any lighter. I feel like a fraud.

  “That’s what they say.”

  We stand like that, our hands limply attached for another moment. I can’t bear it any longer.

  “I’d better head out. Thanks for . . .” I honestly don’t know how to continue. “Everything.”

  “Sure.” He opens the door for me. “’Bye, Keat.”

  “’Bye, Slate.”

  Back in the office, the void in my stomach has nothing to do with skipping lunch. Things will be fine. I’ve had bouts of petty miscommunication and even a little heartache with Gabby and Karina before. We’d give each other the space we needed, and then bounce back to normal within a few days.

  But Slate isn’t like my other friends, I realize. The situation with him is so obviously different. We crossed out of friend territory and wandered naively into a gray area. A strikingly beautiful, tragically dangerous gray area. Then I let go and backtracked, leaving him to wander the gray alone. I left him there, all because I’m too scared to—

  “Hey, Keaton.”

  I jolt at the sound of a man’s baritone voice. When I look up, a newly chewed pen falls gracelessly from my lips and onto my desk with a sharp clatter. “Oh, hey, Jerome.”

  The office hunk stands with one hand casually propping him against my desk.

  How did I not hear him approach? Usually my Jerome sensors are fine-tuned to the sound of his footsteps and the scent of his unobtrusive cologne.

  “You really did a number on that pen,” he says with a friendly smile. His teeth sparkle in the fluorescent lights of the office.

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Yeah, well,” I say, no clue where I’m heading, “it’s early afternoon and I’m already daydreaming about what I’m going to eat for dinner.” What the fuck, Keaton?

  “What do you want?” he asks, genuinely interested.

  “There’s this Thai restaurant I’ve been dying to go to.” With Slate.

  “Oh man, I haven’t had Thai food in a while. Mind if I join you?”

  My heart stops. Is the office heartthrob really asking me out? Or is he just in it for the Thai? I’ve told Karina and Gabby that he’s cute, and he is—in a textbook kind of way, and I know a lot of the women I work with think he’s hot. But honestly? He’s never really done it for me.

  “You can say no,” he says reassuringly. “I realize I’m intruding on your daydreams.”

  No, really, you aren’t, I want to say. I’ve been daydreaming about you every day since . . . My thoughts pause. I really haven’t been daydreaming about Jerome anymore, have I?

  “Thai food with a side of company. Sure. Sounds great.”

  “Who is Jerome? What about that other nice man?” Meera asks me for the third time since I crash-landed at her kitchen table. I only have a half hour before Jerome picks me up and we head to the restaurant.

  In my panic, I knocked on Meera’s door, knowing there was no Penny behind my own to absorb my raging emotions. Always welcoming to company, Meera led me inside and sat me down at the table with a hot cup of tea. I sip on it, the subtle spices doing absolutely nothing to calm my fluttering everything.

  “He’s the man I’m
supposed to have dinner with in under an hour!” I squeak, answering her question. “But I promised Slate a while back that we’d go to this restaurant together. Slate loves Thai food, and it would be an absolute betrayal of our friendship if I went with some random guy from work!” I pick anxiously at the tablecloth. “I should be so excited for this! He’s a huge catch. He actually runs marathons for charity. Like, who does that?”

  Meera ignores anything I say about Jerome, waving the words away like pesky flies. “You feel you would betray Slate if you went to dinner with another man?”

  I take an audible gulp of my tea before unequivocally answering, “Yes.”

  “And Slate is just your friend?” she asks.

  “Slate is more than a friend!” I hear myself saying.

  Uh-oh.

  Meera sits back and smiles.

  Goddammit.

  “It sounds like you have love for Slate.”

  “It isn’t like that. He’s just my friend, one of my best friends, actually. At least, he was—”

  “Love is friendship, but it is friendship with fire in its belly.”

  The words of this wise woman poke at my furiously beating heart. My cheeks turn warmer and warmer.

  I don’t want to admit it, but I know she’s right. I know the truth. It’s in the thumping of my heart, the shortness of my breath, the coiling knot of my stomach. The way I’ve been shouting everything at her for the past fifteen minutes. My dread at the thought of going out with Jerome. The devastation I felt when I saw Slate looking so broken today.

  I know what I have to do. First, I need to call Jerome and cancel. The rest of it will be a lot more complicated.

  For a long time after I wake up Saturday morning, I just lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, in no hurry to get up. I made it through the work week somehow, but the loss I feel over my connection with Keaton has left a black hole inside my chest.

  I’m never going to get over her, and going back to being just friends isn’t something I’m ready to think about. I have no idea how I can go out to brunch with her now, and sit across the table from her while pretending everything is fine.

  The truth is, I’m deeply in love with her. Yeah, maybe it took this little experiment of hers to push me in this direction, but now that I know her on this whole new level, it’s obvious. She’s the total package. And the thought of her with another guy sends stabbing pains straight through my heart.

  A loud knock pulls me out of my dark thoughts. With an annoyed grunt, I roll out of bed and trudge to the door. I probably look as shitty as I feel, but that’s the last thing I’m concerned with. I feel as if I’ve been wrung out and fed through a shredder.

  When I open the door, the last person I expect to find is Keaton. But she’s standing here, and I have to physically steady myself by pressing one hand against the door frame.

  She’s dressed casually in a red cardigan, dark jeans, and heeled boots. She looks amazing, as always. Her clothes hug her curves so enticingly, and whatever she’s done with her makeup emphasizes her full lips and deep blue eyes. I wish I didn’t ache to touch her. I wish she wasn’t here, and yet I wish she’d never leave.

  “Hi, Slate,” she says. “How’s it hanging?”

  A million thoughts jostle to be spoken. This is killing me. I love you. I’m so confused all the time. I’m pissed at you and pissed at myself, but I still would’ve cleaned up if I’d known you were coming, because I’m a pathetic dumbass. Just leave me alone. I want to kiss you, hold you, hear you say . . .

  But all that falls out of my mouth is a flat, “Oh. Hey. Did you, uh, forget something here?” That’s just what I need to put the last nail in my coffin, finding a random pair of her panties in my bed.

  “I did. You.” She pokes me in the chest. “Get dressed. I have a surprise for you.” She pushes past me before I can react.

  I blink at her retreating back as she bustles into my bedroom, then follow her. “Huh?”

  “Hurry up. Our flight leaves in two hours.” She drags my overnight bag out of my closet and starts tossing T-shirts and socks into it.

  What the hell?

  “Flight? What on earth are you talking about?”

  Still flinging my clothes around like a tornado, she looks back at me with an excited, almost mischievous smirk. “I know you passed up your favorite team’s big game for Penny’s wake. So I bought us two tickets.”

  “But . . . what?” My brain feels like it’s grinding to keep up with all the information she’s throwing at me. “They aren’t playing anywhere near here for months.”

  “I know. That’s why we’re flying to Chicago. I booked us a hotel room for the night too. I thought we could hit some bars after the game, have some fun.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  My words halt her in her tracks. Keaton drops her gaze for a second, looking sheepish, then meets my eyes again. “I shouldn’t have said all that stuff last weekend. I acted really mean and inappropriate. I’m sorry. I wanted to make it up to you . . . and, to be honest, I also just wanted to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  It’s only an apology for the way she rejected me, not actually taking back her rejection. Definitely not an I love you too.

  But I’m still touched that she’s going to all this effort to repair our friendship. And I have to admit, the prospect of seeing my favorite basketball team play and hanging out with Keaton sounds great. Just like old times.

  The shitty mood that’s been weighing me down for the past week is already starting to turn around. This, I decide, is an olive branch I’m more than willing to accept.

  “It’s okay.” I crack a smile.

  Her eyes soften in affection and relief as she smiles back. “No, it wasn’t. But thanks for saying so. Now, hurry up and get dressed.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. “You have to get out of my bedroom first.”

  “Oh. Right. Excuse me.” With a lopsided grin, she slips out.

  Keaton does realize we can’t see each other naked anymore, right? As much as that truth hurts, this is our new normal now, and it really and truly sucks.

  Trying not to think about all that right now, I throw on a pair of dark jeans, a light blue polo, and my most comfortable shoes. Then I head into the bathroom where I wash my face, brush and floss my teeth, and quickly work some styling product into my hair. Once I finish packing, I rejoin Keaton in the living room.

  Within fifteen minutes, we’re speeding down the highway to the airport. Even though I know it might not be wise for my heart to spend the night with her, I want nothing more. I’m starting to appreciate that any Keaton is better than no Keaton at all.

  Our plane lands with just enough time for us to catch a taxi to the stadium and find our seats before the afternoon game starts. We each get a cold beer and share a tub of popcorn.

  In the end, the Bulls squeak through with a narrow victory, but nothing can sour the fun of sitting next to my best friend, booing good-naturedly, watching my favorite team make one of their biggest rivals fight for every inch.

  For dinner, we visit a restaurant that Keaton claims has incredible deep-dish pizza, according to her internet research. Her prediction comes true. Between us, we make a sizable dent in a large pie and enjoy a couple of beers.

  “Holy crap, it’s hot in here.” She unbuttons her cardigan, then wriggles out of it to reveal the low-cut tank top underneath, and hangs her sweater on the back of her chair. “You having fun?”

  Yeah, almost too much. I take a long drink of my beer to avoid staring at her cleavage. “Are you kidding? This has been pretty much the best night ever. How long did it even take you to organize everything?”

  “Pretty much all week. That’s why I fell off the face of the earth, because I wasn’t sure it was going to happen.” She pokes out the tip of her tongue, grinning impishly. “But don’t worry, handsome, I’m all yours tonight.”

  I almost choke on my beer. “Wh-what?” I must have misheard or misunderstood or something,
because . . .

  “You have my undivided attention. For all of dinner, drinks . . . and whatever you want to come after drinks.” Holding my gaze with hers, she gives me a smile full of unmistakable promise.

  My mouth dries up. Keaton is definitely flirting with me. Or am I trying to make this more than what it really is? What the hell is going on here? I thought we were done with that part of our relationship. But her signals couldn’t be clearer. And now she’s watching to see how I’ll react, running her fingertip around the rim of her glass.

  Somehow the implications of what she said earlier didn’t hit me until now. She booked us a hotel room . . . as in, singular. Possibly even one bed. But she doesn’t want that, right?

  Really, I have no idea what’s going to happen back at the hotel tonight. I’m not even sure what I hope will happen. I want her, of course, want her desperately, but sex would be a terrible idea. We just broke up—not even broke up, because we were never really “together” in the first place. Keaton made her feelings pretty damn clear last weekend.

  So, why is she practically yelling FUCK ME into a megaphone? She never does anything without a well-thought-out reason . . . after weighing every pro and con.

  Still, despite my confusion, it’s hard not to be flattered by the attention. I smirk at her. “Whatever I want, huh? I’ll hold you to that.”

  She looks pleased, a little relieved . . . and also very interested. “I hope so.”

  After I insist on paying the bill, we walk a few blocks to a nearby bar, another place Keaton scoped out in advance. The sidewalk has more than enough space, but she sticks so close to me that our arms brush together.

  Should I hold her hand? I decide not to. I still have no idea what I should do, what she’s aiming for, what touching her would mean. I can’t set myself up for more rejection. Mixed signals are firing off like rockets all around us right now, fucking with my mind.