Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

I squinted at him and his unfinished thought. “I’m extraordinarily what?”

His tongue darted out to quickly wet his lips. “No. You are extraordinary. You are exceptional. And watching, hearing you undervalue yourself is . . . difficult.”

I held still, heartbeat accelerating, certain I’d heard him wrong.

“You shouldn’t feel like you need to thank people for saying something truthful,” he continued, tone cautious. “I wasn’t being kind or generous. I was telling the truth. It was a good idea. You have good ideas. That’s not a compliment, it’s a fact.”

I worked to dispel his tangle of proclamations paired with the softness of his voice—that he believed I was extraordinary, that I have good ideas—knowing I’d be obsessing about all of it later. But right now, while neither of us were losing our tempers, while we were doing our utmost to be careful, trying not to aggravate each other, I wanted to stay focused on my point, the point.

I’d tried ignoring him. I’d tried being polite. I’d tried running away, yelling, name-calling. I’d tried being businesslike and detached. Maybe it was time for me to try being myself. It’s not like I would be sacrificing a great friendship by being difficult, we barely knew each other. And if he thought I was a buffoon and stopped liking me against his will, so be it.

Here goes nothing.

“Byron, I’m allowed to say thank you if I want to say thank you without you policing my expression, appropriateness, or rate of gratitude. I’m allowed to say sorry, or excuse me, or yeehaw, or I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts, or whatever I want, as often as I want, without you or anyone tracking, commenting on, or critiquing me.”

He opened his mouth, and I could see another excessively logical argument was on the tip of his tongue, so I tried for a Hail Mary pass, a last-ditch effort to make him see and understand my perspective. “At the very least, can you see how someone doing that to you would be frustrating and hurtful? How it might have a negative impact on self-confidence? Especially when that person is someone as talented and accomplished as you are, and every word out of their genius mouth is a correction, like I am the infant you accused me of being yesterday. Like I am a weak-minded child in need of constant fixing.”

“I—you think I’m—” Byron’s mouth snapped shut, his gaze falling to the table as an entire five-act opera’s worth of emotions played over his face. Eventually, he released a tight huff. “I do not believe you are a weak-minded child, and it has never been my intention to make you feel that way.” The words arrived gruff but still without sarcasm.

I sighed and lifted my fingers to my forehead, rubbing at the tension headache gathering there. “Listen, I . . . I respect you, a lot. I admire you. You’re amazing.”

The side of his mouth surrendered to a reluctant curve. “You think I’m amazing?”

My eyes lifted to the ceiling before I could stop them, and I ignored the press of heat around my neck. “It’s impossible not to think you’re amazing. I would be in an extremely small minority if I didn’t think you were amazing. But I don’t know how to talk to you without worrying you’ll judge me, like every conversation is a final exam with right and wrong answers. A lot of that is my own hang-ups, but I think—at least part of it—is how you feel entitled to comment on and correct almost every word out of my mouth.”

His throat worked with a swallow, his severe frown returning, but he said nothing.

“For whatever reason, you really want to do these videos with me, you really want to help me. I so appreciate your willingness to help. Thank you. But, until right this moment, even after years of us being acquainted, I’ve felt like I can’t relax or be myself around you. But all of that said, I also don’t want you to feel like you can’t be yourself around me.”

This statement had Byron abruptly lifting his eyes to mine. His forehead cleared like I’d just said the magic words.

I extended the peace offering of an encouraging smile, something I’d perfected with the kids in my class when they felt regret—for not turning in homework, for acting up or talking back in class, for making silly mistakes—but were either too proud to apologize or didn’t know how.

“Can we start over?” I edged around the table, slowly moving to his side, allowing hope to bleed through my voice.

His weight shifted backward at my approach, his arms lifting to fold over his chest again, and he turned to face me. “Start over.”

“We’re about to pretend to be best friends for an audience of strangers, millions of them. Can’t we also pretend everything that’s happened before now doesn’t exist? Can’t we start fresh?”

He took a retreating step. “No. We can’t start over.”

My shoulders slumped, the tension headache pulsing between my temples.

But before I could feel too crestfallen by his unwillingness to at least try, Byron unfolded his arms and placed a hand on the kitchen chair to his right, shuffling forward a half step, and said, “I will stop.”

I held very still. “Stop? Stop what?”

His lips firmed, his eyes hardening, and it took me a split second to recognize it was determination, not arrogance, behind his gaze. “I will stop offering unsolicited advice and commentary,” he said finally, softly, using his cautious voice. “I’m sorry, Winnie.”

We stared at each other, the sound of my name—my real name—echoing between us, and I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

“But I have some stipulations.”

My eyes closed even as my smile widened. “I should have known.” I spoke the words to myself more than to him.

Taking a deep breath, I opened my eyes and gestured for him to continue. “Go ahead. What are your stipulations?”

“Until after the New York trip this summer, I can call you. And text you.”

“Okay.” As far as I was concerned, he’d always been able and allowed to call and text me. This changed nothing.

“And you won’t ask me again if I was having a stroke, or was joking or messing with you, about—” He turned his head, his eyes dropping to his hand where it rested on the chair. “About what I said yesterday,” he finally finished.

“All right,” I said quietly, studying his granite profile while clamping down on my body’s swirling, hot, shivery reaction to his presence. Byron’s face was all sharp angles and dramatic lines, truly spectacular. I still wasn’t at all convinced this beautiful, brilliant, broody genius had a thing for me, but if he didn’t want me to ask about it, I wouldn’t. “Anything else?”

His eyes moved, cutting to mine. “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

“I thought you said I wasn’t allowed to talk about it.”

His expression seemed to flatten. “Maybe we should do the video.”

I reached over and picked up my phone, not exactly flustered, but something close. “Sure.”

He wanted to do the video? Fine. But it felt a little ridiculous, like we were ignoring the elephant in the room. And why tell me about the elephant if he didn’t want to discuss the elephant? He made no sense.

“Where do you want me?” he asked, words monotone.

In the shower—

“Uh—” I gave myself a quick shake, hastily pushing away the errant thought “—let’s see. How about if we film you in my room at my desk, like you’re writing? I can set up my laptop. Or do you use notebooks?”

“I’ll sit here.” As he spoke, he pulled out the chair next to him and sat, crossing his arms. “Go ahead.”

“I—you want me to—”

“Start recording.”

“Uh, okay.”

I opened my camera app and selected Video, lowering the phone to situate him in the frame at a natural angle. His eyes were forward, frank and impassive. He seemed to be waiting, so I hit the red button and nodded my head to let him know I was recording, and he . . . did nothing. Just stared at the camera, looking like a grumpy statue engaging in a staring contest.

I huffed a laugh. “That’s all you’re going to do? Stare at the camera? Are you trying to hypnotize people with those sexy eyes? Because, if so, it’s definitely working.”

His cold façade cracked at my words, his eyebrows drawing together quickly. But then a slow smile—beginning on the right side and then sliding to the left—spread over his mouth. He even showed a little bit of teeth.

“Sexy eyes?” The eyes in question gradually lifted to mine above the phone and he leaned back, lifting his chin. Our gazes locked. My heart tripped.

“Oh, come on,” I said, inconveniently breathless. “You know what I mean.”

“No. Tell me.” And something about his expression felt very familiar.

Almost at once, I placed where I’d seen it before. He looked at me now as he’d gazed at me weeks ago when I’d straddled his lap at his house, like he’d been thinking about me. A lot. That same hot and needy flicker passed behind his features, and a heady blush rose up and over my cheeks, threaded heat around the back of my neck and behind my ears. My blood pumped sluggishly, my stomach twisting low again, and my shower fantasy from earlier this morning chose that moment to replay in my memory.

His smile waned. His lips parted. His chest rose and fell. He blinked.

“All right. I think that’s fine.” Irritatingly, I squeaked the words more than said them, and I turned away before stopping the video. My hands were shaking, and I didn’t want him to see me fumble with the phone.

I couldn’t think. What were we talking about?

Oh yeah.

My body had the big sexy hots for Byron, and apparently my body’s big sexy hots felt exactly like extreme embarrassment.

Pacing to the living room situated ten feet away, I pressed my palm to my chest and struggled to focus on what we were doing, why he was here. The video. For TikTok. The Best Friend Check-In.

“I’ll do selfie mode for mine, no need for you to film me. That should work.” I waved a hand in the air. “Or maybe Amelia can do it later. Let’s see . . .”

Glancing around the room, I desperately tried to remember what we needed to do next. “Ah! That’s right. I’ll place this here.” I switched my camera to video selfie mode and placed it on the ground. I then half turned, lifting my hand out for Byron. “Now it’s the time on Sprockets where we dance.” I tried for light and carefree, uncaring if the Saturday Night Live reference was too obscure. My brain was on goofy autopilot now.

Self-preservation.

“Sprockets?” Byron had followed me into the living room and slid his hand into mine, the touch sending an electric shiver up my arm. He must’ve felt my hand quake. His eyes darted to mine and widened slightly with question.

“Sorry. It’s cold in here. Anyway.” Grabbing his other hand, I pulled him around until we were facing each other directly above my phone, telling myself not to notice how lovely my hands felt in his. “Let me—” I briefly released his fingers to bend and tap the Record button, then straightened and recaptured his hands. “So we move our arms back and forth like this.” I demonstrated almost frantically, bringing our joined hands together and then swinging them apart. “But we also move in a circle, like this.” Still swinging our arms, I stepped to the side, tugging him along with me, and watching the screen of my phone to make sure we were both still in the shot.

We were. Which meant all I needed to do was stop avoiding his eyes and record us doing our little dance for about ten seconds, then we’d be done.

“This is ridiculous,” he said, tone flat, drawing my attention. His grumpy expression made me laugh, and that was a first.

“What? Don’t you like to dance?” I teased. “If I remember correctly, we have the Toxic Dance Challenge coming up next. And I want us to be in perfect sync.”

“Are you telling me we have to practice?”

I had no expectation that Byron would actually do the dance challenge with me. Heck, I hadn’t even expected Jeff to do it when I’d first made the list with him in mind.

“The moves are legitimately challenging and require practice, yes. But since you stipulated that you didn’t want to practice, I figured I’d do it on my own and you’d, I don’t know, sorta be next to me.” At this point, we likely had enough footage of us moving in a tight circle while swinging our arms, but neither of us seemed inclined to stop the recording. “I saw one that was cool where the guy dipped the girl at the end, and that’s all he did. He stood there through the whole thing while she did amazing on the choreography of the original dance. Then BAM! Dip. Like a boss—”

Abruptly, Byron tugged me forward. I would’ve face-planted into his chest except he caught me by the arm, expertly spun me around, and the next thing I knew, he’d dipped me. Low.

I’d sucked in a startled breath when he’d initially yanked on my hands, and I still held that breath now as he leaned over me, our faces inches apart, one strong arm wrapped tightly around my waist, fully supporting my weight, while the fingers of his other hand splayed against my lower back.

He was so close, his eyes and his sharp features filling my vision, our breath mingling, just like that day I’d straddled his lap. Except this time, he was touching me, and we were alone. But like before, I could smell him and—oh God—he smelled so, so, so good.

Quick! Smell him. Document his smell. Write it down for your pheromone investigations later.

Yes, he wore his usual pine and sandalwood aftershave. But underneath, he smelled warm and cozy and clean and spicy. My gaze drifted lower as I frantically tried to parse everything I smelled, and how it made me feel and how my body reacted—from the curling of my toes to the lightness in my head.

“This okay?” His lips formed the words and I found them mesmerizing.

“What aftershave do you use?” I asked, staring at the right side of his upper lip, the spot that curled when he was disgusted with someone or something. I wanted to lick it. Document that: desire to lick the part of his lip that curls when he sneers.

“My aftershave?” His arm tightened, drawing me closer. “Why?”

“Um . . .” I debated how to answer, quickly settling on one version of the truth. “I was thinking about a STEM thing I want to do for an Instagram video.”

His head drew back, and I lifted my gaze from his mouth to find his searching my face, a deep V between his eyebrows. Meanwhile, my eyes moved between his beautiful irises, memorizing the rings of hazel, green, and blue. Sexy eyes.

Gently, he straightened us. I hadn’t realized the palms of my hands were on his chest until we were completely upright and he released me, removing himself, and my hands touched air instead of the warm, solid wall of his body.

Mouth clamped shut, Byron bent down, picked up my phone, pressed the End Record button, and held it out to me.

“Here,” he said, dropping the phone in my hand and brusquely moving past me for the chair where he’d left his coat. I didn’t have a chance to fully process his intent as he walked to the door and called over his shoulder, “See you next week.”

“How’d it go? How many videos did you do? Did you post any yet? Are they still uploading? I haven’t seen anything new come through.”

I leaned to the side at the sound of the front door closing and Amelia’s rapid-fire questions, peeking out of my room and waving to Amelia and Elijah as they came into view.

“How was the snowshoeing?”

“Fun. Hey, I smell something amazing.” Elijah—peeling off layers—followed his nose into the kitchen. “Did you make us dinner? Is this . . . is this what I think it is?”

“I’m telling you, this is exactly why I can never move in with you.” Amelia winked at me. “We will lose access to Winnie’s cooking and then who will make me weekly deliciousness?”

Elijah held his hands up. “I see your point. But what if Winnie taught me how to make your favorite food? Then you could come home to me and weekly deliciousness.”

My stomach sank and I ducked back into my bedroom, giving both them and myself some privacy. I knew Elijah and Amelia had been talking about moving in together. They’d been dating for over a year and were perfect for each other. I was so happy for my friend.

But at the same time, I was panicking. Just a little. Or a lot.

It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll get a new roommate. No big deal. Amelia’s happiness is what matters.

Squinting at my laptop screen, at the grades I’d been entering into the online system, I wondered if it was too late to go on a run. I hadn’t stepped outside the apartment yet today. I should’ve gone to the library. Or I should’ve gone to Pike Place Market and helped Serena at her booth sell her sexy tea to tourists.

I should’ve done anything other than what I’d done, which was sit alone, in the quiet, and grade assignments all day after Byron left.

But tomorrow would be spent assembling lab material boxes for the last month of school. I had two experiments a week planned, and materials needed to be separated and boxed together. Today had been my only day to catch up on grading, entering the data, and pulling together special study packets for the few students who were falling behind while also pulling together different special packets for the students who needed more challenging material.

“Sooo?” Amelia meandered into my room, the fabric of her snow pants making a swishing sound with each step. “What happened? Did Byron come over? Did you do the video?”

I gestured to my laptop. “I’m still editing it.” I didn’t typically use TikTok to edit my videos, I used a free program for the PC. My laptop was much newer than my phone and therefore much faster at processing the edits. But for live videos, my phone was fine.

“Can I see?” She rubbed her hands together, pulling the chair by my bed over to the desk.

“Uh, sure.” I navigated to the video editing program and made it full screen. Then I hit play. Then I sat back, biting my thumbnail, my internal organs behaving erratically the moment Byron’s face appeared.

“Oh. There’s Byron.” Amelia smiled and read the caption I’d added under his face. “‘BYRON: shares no updates, makes no posts, has no social media, and is a sneaky dipper’ . . .?” She turned and looked at me. “Dipper? Byron doesn’t dip.”

“Watch the video.”

She made a face. “He’s never even smoked a cigarette. He’d never do dip.”

“Watch.”

I’d cut out the footage of him smiling after I’d inadvertently told him his eyes were sexy. Perhaps I was being a weirdo, but I didn’t want to share that part of the recording with anyone.

Also, additional evidence for my Winnie-is-a-weirdo argument, I did keep the footage of his smile for myself and had saved it in three different places including a thumb drive and the cloud. I’d also watched it maybe one hundred times, getting hot and flustered and shivery each and every time, evidence that my body’s reaction to Byron couldn’t be entirely the fault of pheromones. Even absent his physical presence, my biology responded.

The recording switched to a selfie video of me pretending to be checking status updates on Amelia’s old iPad, my laptop, and my Kindle Fire—all of which I’d spread around the kitchen. The caption read “WINNIE: constantly making videos, tutorials, and posting updates, has an account everywhere, even on Myspace (I believe in you, Myspace!) Doesn’t know her BFF dips.”

Amelia smiled and wrinkled her nose after she read the words. The video switched to the floor shot of us moving in the circle above, swinging our arms, with the “Bestfriends” caption flashing in the center of the screen. And then, just as suddenly as it had happened in real life, I was yanked forward and dipped above the phone as the caption changed in a flash to “NO ONE EVER EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION OR A BESTIE DIP!”

Amelia laughed, clapping once and leaning back. “Oh my gosh, that was awesome. You two did so great. Now I get it, he dips.” Turning her smile to me, she asked, “Did you know he was going to dip you?”

“No. I had no idea.”

She pushed my shoulder with her fingertips. “See? That was smart of Byron, suggesting that you don’t practice or stage it. Your surprise looked real because it was real.”

“Ah, Byron. More than just a pretty face.”

That made her laugh again. “I guess all his ballroom dancing classes finally paid off.”

I snorted, casting a yeah right side-eye in her direction.

She stood, stretching. “Why haven’t you posted it? It’s great.”

“Uh . . .” I shut my laptop, also standing. “I thought I should send it to Byron first, make sure he’s okay with it.”

I felt like Byron and I had taken ten giant steps forward this afternoon prior to filming the video and then at least seven steps backward when he abruptly left. So, yes. Part of the reason I hadn’t posted it yet was that I wanted to send it to him first and obtain his sign-off. He’d deleted his social media accounts for a reason, one I didn’t fully understand, and I felt an extra level of precaution here was warranted.

But the other reasons why I hadn’t posted anything yet had everything to do with me, and my biology, and his whiplash declaration yesterday at his house, and a confusing sense of dread whenever I thought about sharing the video publicly.

“Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving.” Yawning, Amelia strolled out of my room. “I say if he didn’t care about the lap one going live without his permission, he’s not going to have a problem with that one. You should post it.”

“All the same.” My gaze flicked to the thumb drive on my desk, one of the three places I’d saved the extra footage of Byron, and a fissure of something hot and anxious banded around my lungs. “Better to be safe than sorry.”