by R.S. Grey
* * *
-Oh, and there was the Halloween party last year when she dressed up like Hermione and I tried to kiss her and she laughed in my face…and then puked on my shoes.
Today is Wednesday, which means Sam is already at my house when I get home from soccer practice. I’m the head coach of Oak Hill’s men’s JV team. We’re undefeated, and Sam’s never missed a game even though sports aren’t really her thing.
“Please say you’ve already started dinner, Madam Secretary,” I say when I walk in and drop my bag.
“It’s in the oven, Mister President.”
She’s at my kitchen table, hunched over with her back to me. I can’t tell what she’s doing until I get closer and lean over her shoulder.
She’s sprinkling glitter onto poster boards, adding the finishing touches to bright neon signs. They say, GO OAK HILL SOCCER and COACH FLETCHER IS #1! Construction paper and glue and markers litter my table. It’s a complete mess.
“Are those for the game tomorrow?”
“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.
She’s caught me staring.
Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.
“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”
I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.
“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.
I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.
“Looks good.”
“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”
She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.
We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.
Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.
“Did I just get a match?”
I check. Some guy named Sergio sent her a message.
“I don’t know why you bother with this crap.”
She huffs out a sigh of annoyance and marches over to grab her phone from the couch. “Maybe because I’d like to get laid every now and then. I’m basically a sexless nun without all the perks of the convent.”
My dick stirs and I ignore it. I’ve gotten pretty good at it by now.
“Well I’m not sure this Sergio is up to the task. He looks like he waxes his eyebrows.”
“So? That sounds like a great first date idea. Mine are overdue.”
I quirk my eyebrow at her, so she deflects.
“Besides, who are you to judge? The girls you date wax themselves from head to toe. You probably have to tie their smooth, frictionless bodies down so they don’t slide off the bed during sex.”
I smirk. “I might tie them up, but not for that reason.”
She mimes a hearty puke session. “Gross. How did we get from my Tinder success all the way to you romancing plucked chickens and hairless cats?”
“You’re right, back to Sergio. Is he really your type?”
“Leave him alone and turn around. This is the part where I’m supposed to send him nudes, right?”
I lean forward and drop my foot from its spot on my knee. Now she’s standing between my legs. I’m nearly her height sitting down. Her phone is still in my hand and I scroll through a few of his photos. “Hmm, he’s short. A lot of short guys are like Chihuahuas—all bark, no bite.”
One delicate brow arches in challenge. “Oh, so you’re saying you’re all bite?”
Our conversation is veering into dangerous territory. I want to reach out and slide my hand around her thigh then drag it higher until it disappears beneath her shirt…trace the curve of her ass…
Instead, I sit back, putting much-needed space between us. “I’m just saying, any guy who takes selfies and waxes his eyebrows is going to be selfish in bed.”
“That’s fine, I’ve always felt I was more of a giver. Also, I don’t remember asking for advice.”
She looks down at her phone, and a deep, angry line forms between her brows when she realizes I messaged Sergio back for her.
SERGIO: Hey QT
SAMANTHA: How many children would you like to have? I’m thinking 10.
“Ian!”
“He addressed you with letters. I thought the prerequisite for Tinder hookups was to at least be moderately clever. He abbreviated a five-letter word.”
She turns back to the kitchen table. “I’m ending this conversation now.”
* * *
I don’t date much anymore. I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed spending time with a woman who wasn’t Sam. I guess it was my mom when I was back home for Christmas. Cool story.
Part of the reason why I’m alone is that I’m tired of trudging through the same fight. In past relationships, it was always the same ultimatum: girlfriend or Sam. I always chose Sam, and they always followed through on their threat to leave.
Maybe I should start using dating apps too.
It’s a few days later when I ask Sam to check over my Tinder profile while we’re alone in the copier room at school.
She groans in annoyance.
“You’re doing it all wrong. You’re supposed to say something witty, not just boring details about your life, and there are hotter pictures you could have chosen.”
She deletes the words that took me five seconds to type.
/> “What’s wrong with telling them I’m a chemistry teacher?”
“You’re supposed to say it in a witty way, like ‘I teach chemistry, let’s see if we have any between us.’”
“That’s really bad. Honestly, the worst.”
“And you didn’t even include a shirtless photo. What’s the point of all that gym time if you aren’t going to flaunt the results?”
“I don’t have any shirtless photos of myself.”
Who does?
She snaps her fingers like she’s got the perfect solution. “What about when we went to the beach last summer? There was that photo of us together on Facebook. My aunts gushed over you for days, and I unfortunately mean that in the literal sense. When I told them we were just friends, one of them asked me for your number.”
“Oh, perfect. Let’s skip Tinder and just hook me up with her then.”
“She’s 68.”
“First date at Luby’s? Senior discount?”
She shoves my phone back against my chest and shakes her head. “You know what? Now that I think about it, I don’t think you should do the dating app thing. It’ll be overwhelming for someone as pretty as you.”
“You use them,” I point out.
Her expression makes it clear she thinks I’m teasing her. I want to haul her up onto the copier and prove my point. Her ass would press against the glass, the bright light would scan past. I’d laminate the copies and hang them up in my shower.
“It’s different,” she says as she sighs, almost sounding sad.
“How?”
“I’m not everyone’s type. Your face is deemed universally good-looking.”
I sidestep her compliment.
“Did Sergio ever respond to you the other day?”
She scowls up at me. “Yeah, he told me we wouldn’t work out even after I tried to clear up the mess you made. Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, I’m just thinking of what I’m going to eat for lunch.”
After school and on weekends, I’m usually with Sam. We spend 99% of our time together. This seems odd to my parents and our other friends (the one or two that have stuck around), but it happened gradually. Weekly dinners became biweekly dinners, and so on. At this point, we’re codependent. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal for one—oh wait, yes I can: it was that time I bought myself Jimmy John’s on the way to Sam’s apartment a few months back.
“Shit, I should have brought you something,” I said right as she opened the door and glanced down.
“No, it’s fine. I have plenty of food here to eat.”
She joined me on the couch a few minutes later carrying a plate that contained the following: one carrot, a moldy piece of cheese, and half a slice of expired lunch meat. It was turkey, from the looks of the sad pale color.
“How’s your warm sub?” she asked, reaching for the carrot.
Obviously, I tore my sandwich down the middle and gave her half. Lesson learned.
We usually have a lot of grading to do on school nights: essays and edits for her, chemistry exams and lab reports for me. Tonight, though, I’ve talked her into going to the gym with me. She hates it so much. In the car on the way there, she works her way through an entire monologue about how it’s commendable that I care so much about my physical health and wellbeing, but she thinks it’s more important to focus on the mental and emotional health benefits of a sedentary lifestyle.
“Why do you think there’s a whole genre of clothing called athleisure? I’m not alone.”
I push her into the gym and we start to head our separate ways. We’ve tried to work out together, but it’s too distracting. I’m actually here for a purpose, while Sam just wants to talk and sip on a drink from the smoothie counter. She also likes to wear tight workout tops and yoga pants, and maybe I find that a little more distracting than the conversation. She steps back and sends me an over-the-top wave. “If I don’t meet you back here in an hour it’s because I’m hiding in a corner somewhere crying! Have fun!”
A beefy gym rat hears her as he walks by and offers up a greasy smile. “Are you new? I can take you through a few machines if you want. My name’s Kevin. I work here.”
Her eyes go wide and she looks petrified.
“Oh, no thank you, Kevin,” she says firmly and quickly before turning and breaking out in a run-walk in the opposite direction.
Kevin looks to me for an explanation, but all he gets is a scowl.
Tonight, Sam’s opted for a workout class lead by a spunky pink-haired teacher. For an hour, I work out on the machines while stealing glances of her inside the studio near the back of the gym. Glass windows stretch from floor to ceiling. There are a dozen other women dancing and kicking and pushing-up alongside her, but Sam’s near the back and it’s easy to watch her through the glass as she tries desperately to keep up. She’s really not so bad. What she lacks in physical strength, she makes up for in enthusiasm, her red ponytail swinging wildly.
I finish up on a machine and drag a towel across my forehead as the teacher takes them through some cool-down stretches. Sam steps her legs out into a V and bends forward at the hips so she can reach down and touch the ground. Her butt is displayed in the tightest pair of black stretchy pants she owns. I need to stuff my towel into my mouth and bite down.
The bicep machine closest to that back studio has had a steady line for the last hour. The machine is rusted and old and yet everyone wants a turn. The guy there now isn’t even pretending to use it. There are no weights hooked up, and he’s just tugging at the limp rope while he gawks at Sam. I want to wring his neck.
Sam’s upside-down head falls between her legs as she stretches, and when she sees me looking, she grins and waves enthusiastically.
“Hi!” she mouths.
The guys hovering near the bicep machine jerk their gaze in my direction, and when Sam turns away, I wave them off. They scatter like cockroaches.
I’m in the middle of leg presses when she finds me later. I have headphones in so I don’t notice her until she’s right there, a few inches away, sweaty and breathing hard.
I reach up and cut my music, but I continue with my set. She watches, eyes studying my legs like they’re wild animals, about to pounce.
“How was the class?” I ask, dragging my gaze slowly down her flushed cheeks and neck, down the front of her tight black top. She looks up and I jerk my gaze away before she catches me.
“Really fun, actually. Did you watch?”
Was I that obvious?
“I think I might’ve seen some in passing.”
She tries to hide a little smile. “So you saw when we did the cardio dance stuff in the beginning?”
Yes.
“No, must have missed it.”
“Ugh! It was my favorite part! Anyway, I’ll definitely go back. I hate doing the machines out here, but that class didn’t even feel like a workout. I mean, obviously it was…” She pinches her sweaty tank top for proof.
I pause my leg presses and reach for my water.
“See, feel. I think I got stronger just in that one class.”
She’s holding up her flexed bicep. I don’t think it’s a good idea to touch her right now.
“Ian! Appreciate my gains!”
“I can appreciate them from here, macho man.”
She reaches out for my hand and places it on her bicep. She feels delicate and warm. My hand closes around her upper arm, not tightly, but it feels strange…intimate. I watch her smile waver and I nearly say, You asked for this, remember?
She jerks away and rubs her arm like she’s trying to expel cooties from her skin. “Swole, right?”
I humor her. “You better watch where you aim those things.”
“How much longer do you have?”
“Just one set of these.”
“Okay, continue. I’ll just stand here and watch.”
I arch a brow, but true to her word, she watches quietly as I finish out my last round of leg presses. In fact,
she’s staring so intently I have to grind my molars together to keep from pulling her down on top of me.
Apparently, I’m not the only one struggling. She fans her face and I aim a mocking smile in her direction.
“What?” she groans. “I’m overheated from the class!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
She doesn’t buy it. She throws her hands in the air and turns away, offering me another glimpse of the rear view that’s been killing me all night.
“I’m waiting in the car!”
“You’ll need the keys. They’re over here in my bag.”
She doesn’t turn around as she sends a wave over her shoulder. “I’ll just wait outside then!”
Like hell.
I cut my last set short and take off after her.
On the way home, she’s silent until we pass her favorite ice cream shop and she insists we go in. While we’re sampling flavors she turns to me, blue eyes staring straight at my chest. “Just to be clear, I wasn’t checking you out back there. I was considering the possibility of moonlighting as a personal trainer, now that I’m a gym rat.”
“Noted.”
“And sure, I was sort of impressed by you, that’s all. You’re an impressive guy.”
Still, her gaze won’t meet mine.
“Sam?” I say, trying to ease whatever weirdness is happening between us. “You’re impressive too—so impressive. Really, how’d you get so impressively…impressive?”
She pushes me playfully, turns to the kid on duty, and tells him I’ll be buying her three scoops of chocolate-chocolate-chip ice cream with rainbow sprinkles on top.
“In a waffle cone—oh, and with a cherry on top!” she adds, turning to face me. “Impressed?”
The next morning, I wait for Sam outside the main conference room. We have a staff meeting with the rest of the upperclassmen teachers. Today, Sam’s wearing a delicate yellow dress. I flick the lapel.
“Very prim and proper.”
“Uh huh, save it. You hate this dress. The last time I wore it, you told me I looked like I was headed to my first day of kindergarten.”