Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Even when I owned a smartphone capable of downloading and running social media apps, and I had accounts on those apps, I’d never conducted a surveillance of my accounts’ engagement and activity—comments, likes, subscribes, etc. Nor had I repeatedly checked the status of other accounts and their content. Such behaviors fell into the category of what I’d long ago labeled “active waiting.” Waiting of any kind never appealed to me.

And yet I’d spent almost every waking hour of every day since leaving Winnie’s apartment last Saturday in a state of perpetual, paralyzed, active waiting. I’d been so consumed, I’d actually ventured to the home feed of the app, mindlessly scrolling through videos, some of which made me laugh. Others, specifically a challenge labeled something like Pin Your Girl Against the Wall, inspired ideas I’d never be able to act upon with Winnie.

Still, the ideas were nice.

Refreshing the screen for the third time today, I frowned as the icons and video previews of her profile arranged themselves. An exact replica of what had existed before I refreshed the page greeted me. Winnie still hadn’t posted our new video.

Between those three weeks I’d spent actively waiting for her to call or text so that we could record the challenges on her list and these last few days of purgatory, I was tired of waiting. I wanted to know.

I hunted for my phone and texted her.

Byron: Do we need to redo the video?

I stared at the seven words, so easily typed, the only ones I’d been capable of writing in the last two hours. Leaning forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my knees, I pushed my hair out of my eyes. She’d called my eyes sexy last week and I’d indulged myself replaying the moment far too often, wondering if she’d meant the sentiment or if she’d spoken it merely to solicit a reaction on camera.

The instant her response arrived, I read it.

Winnie: No. It turned out well. Also, hi. How are you?

Byron: Why haven’t you posted it

Byron: Fine

Byron: You?

I stared at these new seven words I’d written—that made fourteen. My phone vibrated a moment later, Winnie’s number flashing on the screen.

“Hello?” I answered, telling myself not to grip the cheap flip phone so tight.

“Hey, so, I didn’t post the video for two reasons.”

“Okay.”

“First, you left so abruptly. I was a little worried you were angry with me. Did I do something wrong?”

“No. Not at all.” She’d done everything right. Too right. And that was the issue.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” I cleared my throat as I endeavored to erase from my mind the tactile memory of touching her, holding her in my arms. “Don’t read anything into it. What’s the other reason?”

“Before you say anything, and you’re probably going to think I’m being a fruitcake, I still can’t stop thinking this—the videos—are disingenuous.”

That her unwillingness to believe me remained a source of hesitation was both a relief and an irritant. I’d been worried she’d definitively decided to nix our agreement. Winnie feeling hesitation was far preferable to ending our interactions completely. “We already settled this.”

“We didn’t settle it. You forbade me from discussing it.”

“That is not at all accurate. I didn’t forbid you from discussing it. I requested that you not question it or accuse me of having a stroke.”

“You stipulated that I—” She made a grumbly sound. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. At this point, it’s not about whether I like you or you like me, I’ve come to terms with that part.”

“You have?” I sat upright.

“Hold on and let me get this out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“It’s about my content. Maybe you were right. Maybe I am duping young women into considering a career in STEM.”

I searched my memory. “When have I ever said that?”

“You didn’t say exactly that, but when you first offered to help, that’s the impression I got from you.”

“Then in the interest of precision, allow me to correct that misimpression. I do not think you are duping young women into considering a career in STEM. You are trying to—and will—inspire them.”

She made a short sound I couldn’t interpret. “Thank you for that. But maybe this plan Amelia and I concocted—the whole plan, all the extra, non-STEM material, the makeup tutorials, the other challenges, my videos with you—is the wrong way to go about gaining new followers. Maybe the whole plan is disingenuous. And bad. And wrong.”

“I disagree.” The words were stated automatically, necessitating that I clamp my mouth shut.

I didn’t know if I disagreed—truly disagreed—with her concerns. Perhaps her concerns were valid; perhaps diversifying the content offered on her account fell into the category of duplicitous rather than innocuous. I’d never been an end-justifies-the-means type of person. Thus, I understood and appreciated her concerns.

And yet I wanted to do those videos with her.

“Why do you disagree?” she asked, and I heard something like a snap over the phone.

I frowned at the odd sound. “What are you doing?”

“Assembling lab kits for the rest of the month. I ran out of the right size boxes on Sunday. I’m using some Tupperware I found at Goodwill. It stacks really well.”

“Where? Where are you?”

“In my classroom at the school.”

“Why the hell are you—” I cut myself off as I’d been about to ask, Why the hell are you working on a Thursday at 7:00 p.m.?

“What?”

“Never mind.” The rush of indignation on her behalf tasted sharp and acidic. She’d asked me to stop offering unsolicited opinions. I would stop. Even if the woman worked harder than anyone I’d ever met, possessed an incredible aptitude for science, engineering, technology, and mathematics, managed both her time and other people impressively, juggled multiple demands and priorities with genuine cheerfulness, identified and anticipated potential problems before they manifested into actual problems, and allowed herself to be treated like an indentured servant.

She could’ve been a CEO, a successful entrepreneur, a patent lawyer, a freaking astronaut—anything. But she wanted to be an underappreciated, overworked, and underpaid teacher. And there wasn’t one goddamn thing I could do about it.

“Byron? Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“So, tell me”—another snapping sound from her side of the call—“why do you disagree?”

“Why do I disagree? With unpaid labor?”

“Noooo,” she drawled, her voice descending an octave. I felt certain she’d rolled her eyes at me. “Why do you disagree with me about the new content on my social media accounts not being disingenuous? Explain it to me. I need someone to help me think through this and everyone I’ve asked—Serena, Elijah, John, Jason, Amelia, Lauren—they all say I’m overthinking it, but they can’t tell me why it’s not wrong. I still feel uncomfortable, uneasy, and I can’t ignore that. Tell me why, Byron.”

“You want my opinion?”

“Yes. If there’s anyone on the planet I trust to tell me the hard truth and not care about my feelings, it’s you.”

The fuck? “I care about your feelings.”

“That’s not—sorry, that came out wrong. I meant you have logical, objective reasons for your opinions. You do your research. You know more than Wikipedia. You’re truthful, even when the truth is hard to hear, and I respect that. That’s what I need.”

“Oh.” Shit. “Okay.” Pure, unadulterated panic nearly strangled me. How ironic. The one time I possessed only selfish motives for my advocacy of a cause was the one time Winnie desired my advice.

This was precisely why I never lied or gave interviews. More than three seconds are required to consider all available data, facts, and viewpoints prior to arriving at a defensible position.

Resting my shoulders on the back of the chair, I transferred my focus to the ceiling, frantically searching for a valid explanation—from my perspective—other than the inelegant truth.

Other reasons existed which I imagined closely mirrored her friends’ justifications, such as: you need this income in order to pay back your student loans; I have no doubt you’re the best person for this job and, therefore, you deserve it regardless of your follower count; the wider your audience, the more impact you’ll make; once people are exposed to your brilliance, you will undoubtedly inspire them to consider careers in STEM.

Each of those arguments resonated similarly to the end justifies the means. And that, I suspected, was fundamentally the cause of her discomfort. Winnie wasn’t an end-justifies-the-means person either.

“Well?” She huffed. “Give it to me straight.”

We should do the videos as I look forward to seeing you and I want to kiss you. “Uh, so . . .” I stalled, suspecting the truth wouldn’t convince her of anything except perhaps that I might be suffering from a stroke. Again. “To be clear, this is solicited advice, then?”

“As I said, yes. Correct. This is solicited advice. Please advise me, Byron-Wan Kenobi.”

“Okay.” I cleared my throat, more stalling, but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t think. I was better on paper. If she’d asked me for a whitepaper and gave me a week, I wouldn’t have any problem. I needed time.

“Hey—so . . .” What will buy me time? “You should come over.”

FUUUUCK! Not that!

“What?”

I glanced down at the sweatpants I’d worn yesterday to rugby, slept in, and still currently wore. I hadn’t shaved. I stank.

“Come over.” I choked on my own stupidity. “And then we can talk it through.”

“Oh. Uh, today?”

“Or tomorrow—” I spoke over her. Tomorrow would be excellent. Even better, next week. I could shower, shave, do a load of laundry, clean the house, rake the leaves, dress properly to receive her, and write down an argument, consider it from all angles, counterarguments, edit, revise, edit, add, delete, finalize.

“I have Stardew Valley tomorrow, and I don’t like to miss it. But I can come over today. I’m finishing up here. Have you eaten? Do you want me to bring dinner?”

I’d consumed two bowls of cereal, three tablespoons of peanut butter, a can of tuna, and two bananas while standing over the kitchen sink approximately an hour ago. “I’ll order delivery.”

“Don’t order anything. Restaurant food always makes me sick due to cross contamination. I need to stop by the store anyway. And you’re the one doing me a favor. I’ll bring dinner.”

“I am not doing you a favor.” I’m a bad man. A bad, dirty, smelly man. “Fred, don’t bring dinner.”

“I’m bringing dinner. See you in a few. Bye!”

She hung up.