Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Ididn’t talk to Byron on Friday. I called him twice. He didn’t pick up. I left a voice message the first time, but not the second, worried I’d done something wrong. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to me?

He was . . . confusing. I couldn’t figure him out or predict his behavior from one moment to the next. It felt like every time I allowed myself to open the door to the possibility of a real friendship—or something more than friendship—he slammed it shut.

I needed help, I needed to talk through my confusion with someone I could trust, someone with significantly more dating experience than me, but my go-to advisor wasn’t an option. Amelia would easily guess that the guy I wanted to discuss was Byron just as soon as I described his taciturn tendencies.

Serena, however, would not. She didn’t know Byron except in passing. She’d been in at least three serious relationships and had dated a lot in college until our pact during senior year. And, as luck would have it, I’d offered to help her with her booth at the market Saturday mornings during the last week of May and the first two weeks of June. Huzzah!

The booth hopped nonstop. We sold out of Passionate Peppermint by midmorning and almost everything else was gone by 4:00 p.m. when we packed up and hauled the remaining merchandise back to her apartment in Belltown.

It wasn’t until we were standing in her kitchen, about to chow down on her famous homemade gluten-free chicken soup that I finally worked up enough bravery to broach the topic.

“Hey, so I want to talk to you about something.” I spoke to her back as she reheated the soup, stirring it with a wooden spoon. I waited until she looked at me before adding, “I need your advice.”

Looking surprised—pleased but surprised—she placed the spoon next to the stove and turned to face me completely. “Okay, what is it?”

“Uh.” I scratched my chin. “So, there’s this guy I . . . like.” I wasn’t sure like was the correct word, but the English language lacked the right word or phrase to succinctly describe what I felt about Byron. Or maybe the word existed, and I just didn’t know it.

Serena’s eyes grew huge. “Really?”

“Why do you sound so shocked?”

“No, it’s good. It’s just, you never like anybody.”

“I’ve liked people.” I couldn’t help but sound a little defensive.

“What I mean is, you never talk about it.” She waved a hand between us, then bent to retrieve two bowls from under the counter. “Ignore me. Forget I said anything. What can I do to help? Or are we planning an attack here? A seduction?”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m not sure I should like him.”

She froze, not quite having straightened completely from the cabinet, visibly perplexed. “O-kaaay.”

“I have this idea for how to stop liking him, but I need to talk to somebody about it, make sure my methods are sound.”

Serena looked like she wanted to ask a thousand questions, but eventually settled on, “What’s your idea?”

Getting comfortable on the barstool, I told Serena a shortened version of my theory about repeated exposures controlled over time to reduce biological response, my hope being that eventually my body would stop reacting to Byron like he was sustenance and shelter and everything necessary in order to survive. I called him “Jake” and said we worked together so she wouldn’t suspect his real identity.

She frowned at intervals as she listened, putting spoons and napkins on the countertop where we’d eat. She also wrinkled her nose once or twice and served us both heaping helpings of soup, letting me explain everything before asking her second question, “So he’s married?”

“What? No. He’s not married.” I picked up my spoon and stirred the steamy broth, enjoying the burst of heat enveloping my cool cheeks. It might’ve been Memorial Day weekend, but the high today had been forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit. Unusual weather for so late in the spring, but not unheard of.

“But he’s dating someone?”

“No. He’s single.” I blew on a spoonful of broth. “As far as I know, he’s not with anyone.”

“Then can I ask, why do you want to stop liking him?”

I struggled with how to answer her question and decided the truth was best. “I shouldn’t like him because nothing will ever happen between us, and I don’t like how I feel when we’re together. And I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“You don’t like how you feel when you’re together? How do you feel?”

“Hot. And shaky. Uncomfortable, light-headed. Sometimes I get tunnel vision, where all I see is him and everything else goes hazy. He distracts me, makes me nervous. It feels like . . .”

“What?” Serena grinned at me, her elbow on top of the counter and her hand tucked under her chin, apparently fully engrossed in my description.

“Like being really embarrassed all the time.”

She sighed dreamily. “I love that feeling.”

“Do you? It hasn’t been pleasant for me.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t feel anything for you?” She sounded hopeful.

“I—”

“You’re underestimating yourself.” She took a bite of soup, then another. “He might reciprocate your feelings if you give him a chance.”

I released my spoon and covered my face with both hands. “Actually, he said he likes me.”

“What?”

Rubbing my forehead, I grimaced. “But he doesn’t want to like me and said it was no big deal and that he doesn’t want or need anything from me.”

Serena leaned back in her stool. “Hold up, he said what?”

Rolling my eyes, I gave her a shortened account of my conversation with Byron from weeks ago while we ate. She listened patiently, her expression growing more and more horrified.

“So let me see if I have this right.” She wiped her hands with a napkin. “He tells you he likes you, then says it’s no big deal. But when you tried to give him an out—saying he likes you just a little—he says no, he likes you a lot, and he doesn’t want or need anything from you. And then”— she speared the air with her index finger, all indignation and disgust—“when you ask him if he’s messing with you, he has the audacity to say that he likes you against his will. Do I have that right?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

She made a scoffing sound, turning back to her bowl and shoveling soup into her mouth with a vengeance. “No wonder you don’t want to like him. He’s a jerk.”

“No. He’s not.” I rubbed the center of my chest where an ache had settled for unknown reasons. “I used to think he was kind of a jerk, but the more time we spend together and I get to know him, the less jerk-like he seems.” Except when he leaves abruptly and when you ask him about it, he either says, “Don’t read anything into it,” or won’t answer your calls. Except then.

She shook her head. “Okay, well, we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

“Like on Thursday, he invited me over for dinner and—”

“He invited you over for dinner? For a date?”

“No. It wasn’t like that. We were doing work stuff. Anyway, he invited me over for dinner. His roommate and his roommate’s girlfriend stopped by, and I politely suggested they join us for dinner. But then Jake said there wasn’t enough food. But it wasn’t just that, he was actually kind of rude about it. So the roommate and girlfriend left.”

“Okay?”

“But come to find out, there was more than enough food for all of us. I didn’t know it at the time, didn’t realize it until I got home and opened the doggie bag he’d put together for me. He’d made five steaks and he sent me home with all the leftovers.”

“Huh.”

I’d been so shocked when I opened the bag upon arriving home and finding three more steaks, the remainder of the mushrooms, and three baked potatoes in addition to my leftovers.

She rubbed her chin. “Steak is expensive.”

“I know.” The food would last me the better part of a week. I’d had to put most of my perishable groceries in the freezer or cook them and freeze them as whole meals.

“Clearly, he didn’t want to share your company with the roommate and girlfriend.”

I didn’t contradict her assumption or suggest alternative reasoning, which was that Byron was antisocial, and maybe he just didn’t want to be around more people. I didn’t want to volunteer any information that might make Serena suspect Jake was actually Byron.

“Sorry.” Her expression turned suddenly bracing and sympathetic. “I don’t think your plan is going to work. It’ll backfire.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if you’re just physically attracted to someone and then you start spending time with them, and they’re like shallow or you’re not compatible, you have no chemistry, then your plan would work. Exposure would cure you of your attraction if there’s no chemistry or nothing to like about the person. The feelings would just go away, because once you get to know someone, your feelings of attraction either shrivel and die, or increase.”

“But there is chemistry. There’s too much chemistry, and that’s what I’m trying to fix.”

“And that’s why your plan won’t work. If you’re attracted to someone, like super attracted, and then you start spending time with them and get to know them better and discover nothing about that person is repulsive or a turnoff, then the feelings will just grow and grow. It just gets worse and worse.”

“But at some point they have to fade.”

“No. No, no, no. People aren’t drugs, they’re so much more addictive and dangerous. You don’t need more and more exposure to get the same feelings of a high. Even small snippets will sustain you. Just thinking about him is enough. But I do have another question—if you claim he isn’t a jerk—why did Jake tell you he liked you if he didn’t want or need anything from you? That, to me, seems like a jerk move.”

Twisting my fingers, I tried to think of how I could explain without revealing that Jake was Byron. “It’s a long story, but he had a good reason. It makes sense in context.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

“Then I’m confused. If he likes you, and you like him, why don’t y’all try dating each other? Seems like that would make sense. If he’s not a jerk and your feelings are reciprocated, why don’t you ask him out?”

My heart quickened. “Do you think I should?”

Serena nibbled her bottom lip, her gaze losing focus. “I don’t know. You say his confession about liking you makes sense in context, but then for him to say that other shit? I don’t know if you should tell him how you feel when he claims that liking you isn’t a big deal.” She blinked, her gaze sharpening again. “You are . . .” My friend sucked in a deep breath as she studied me, her soup forgotten. “You aren’t very experienced, and that’s not a criticism at all. You’ve always seemed to be a bit more tenderhearted than the rest of us.” She winced at her own words. “Do you know what I mean? Or am I fucking this up?”

“I know what you mean.” I gave her a reassuring smile. Serena was aware that I’d never slept with anyone before. “But it’s not on purpose. It’s not like I’m saving myself for marriage, or my forever person. It’s just, I don’t want to have sex just to have sex.”

“I get it, I do. I felt that way too. Yet at the same time, you claim you’ve liked other people before now, but you’ve kept it to yourself. So I’m thinking you must really like this guy.”

“Even though I haven’t talked about it, I have really liked people in the past, and I’ve obviously been attracted to people before now. But when I would think about those people, I felt warm admiration and appreciation for who they are as a person. This is different.”

“How is it different?”

“With B-Jake, it’s like the physical attraction is first and foremost, clouding everything. I’ve never felt this kind of visceral, uncontrollable response.”

“Hmm.”

“So should I ask him out? Or—”

“How long have you known him?”

“A few years.” I’d been a teacher for a few years at the same school, so this seemed plausible.

“How many partners has he had? Like, is he just recently single?”

I thought about the question and realized I’d never seen Byron date anybody, but there had been plenty of rumors online and in magazines of him dating actresses and supermodels after his first book hit all the best seller lists. “There’s been rumors of him dating, but nothing concrete. I’ve never seen him with a date, or a girlfriend, or anything like that, and he has no pictures of anyone—like past girlfriends—at his house.”

“But since you two work together, you have to interact with him. You can’t avoid him?”

My stomach flopped. “You think I should avoid him?”

“I’m sorry, Win. I honestly don’t know.” Serena scratched her neck. “Is it possible he thinks you have a boyfriend? And that’s why he doesn’t want to like you?”

“No.”

“Maybe he thinks you’re not interested in dating? In general?”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

She seemed to be at a loss. “If that’s the case, you say he’s not a jerk, but he says jerk-like things. He asks you over for dinner and sends his roommate away, so obviously he wants to spend time with only you, but it’s not a date? And he doesn’t ask you out?”

“No, he hasn’t asked me out.”

“Has he maybe hinted that he wants to ask you out?”

“Not at all.”

Serena made a grumbly sound, grabbing my hands and holding them in hers. “If he’s brave enough to tell you he likes you, then one would think he’d be brave enough to ask you out. I guess”—she gave her head a little shake— “if you were anyone else, and if you didn’t have to see him at work, I’d tell you to call him out on his mixed messages. But I feel like maybe he’s playing mind games with you. And you being you, and given your history, don’t have a lot of experience with those kinds of guys.”

“You mean I’m naïve.”

“No.” She squeezed my hands. “No. That’s not what I mean. I’m just saying, intense attraction can be blinding. Nice guys don’t say things like, ‘I like you, but I don’t particularly want to.’ Or claim that liking you isn’t a big deal. Liking you is a big deal because you are a big deal.”

For some reason, a lump formed in my throat. “I wish I’d just slept with someone in college.”

“Don’t say that. You have to do what’s right for you. We all have happy memories and regrets, your experience isn’t any less or more valid than anyone else’s.”

“But then at least I would have some experience. Now I just feel lost. And stupid. And naïve.”

Serena gave my hands another squeeze, making a tsking sound before reaching for my shoulders, pulling me off the stool, and wrapping her arms around me. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” I clung to her, swallowing reflexively around the building emotion.

“I wish your first experience with this kind of extreme attraction had been with someone worthwhile, not with some skeeveball who’s obviously messing with you.”

Shutting my eyes tight, I shook my head, but said nothing. I didn’t think Byron was messing with me, at least not on purpose.

Her hand moved up and down my back in a soothing motion. “I do want to say just one more thing, a warning of sorts.”

“Okay?”

“You can’t control how you feel about someone. If you’re attracted to him, then so be it. But you can control your actions, what you do with those feelings, whether or not you act upon them.” Pulling back, Serena waited until I opened my eyes to continue. “Give yourself permission to feel what you feel without beating yourself up about it. So you’re attracted to him. So what? You don’t have to do anything with him. I know you work with him, but you can decide to interact with him as little as possible.”

I nodded even as every cell in my body rejected her suggestion. I didn’t want to ignore Byron, not anymore. Being around him was confusing, and often uncomfortable, but it also felt so incredibly good in indescribable ways. He’s addictive.

I couldn’t help the little burst of a laugh that bubbled out of me at the thought. If my past self could see me now, she never would’ve believed a reality existed where I actually enjoyed Byron Visser’s company.

Seeing my laugh, a soft smile claimed Serena’s features. “Have you thought about maybe going on a date with someone else?”

“Uh—” I straightened at her unexpected suggestion, momentarily at a loss for words.

“It might help. Try signing up for an app. You used to have Tinder in college. Reactivate it. I’ll help you filter out the jerks, show you what to look out for. Even if you don’t meet someone, even if it’s just for a few months, even if you’re just going through the motions and going on a few dates and they’re all duds, focusing that kind of energy on other people—people with actual potential for something more—might make being around Jake at work less difficult.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Prior to now, right this minute, I wouldn’t have entertained the suggestion. I’d told Amelia the truth a few weeks ago when I’d said I didn’t feel a pressing need to be in a relationship. I still didn’t.

But Serena’s point was a good one, and I’d experienced firsthand how focusing all my romantic energy on just one person was unhealthy. I’d done that with Jeff. I’d stopped going on dates, allowing myself to be content with an unrequited crush. Maybe if I’d kept dating people, I wouldn’t have been stuck liking Jeff for so long.

“Just . . .” Serena’s forehead wrinkled with what looked like concern. “Be careful around this guy.”

“Careful?”

“Guys who play mind games like the chase. He might leave you alone when you stop interacting, or he might redouble his efforts and make your life uncomfortable.”

“No.” I didn’t for one second believe Byron would do anything malicious. “He wouldn’t—he’s not like that.”

“Good. That’s good. I hope he’s not.” She folded her arms. “But you should also be careful when you have to spend time with him, as you’re getting to know him better. Be friendly, but not too friendly. And be on your guard.”

“On my guard? Against what?”

“Against accidentally falling in love with him.” Her expression turned bleakly sober, like she was recalling an unpleasant memory. “Because if you do, you’re screwed.”

“Winnie! Are you here?”

“I’m in here. Dinner is almost ready.” The salad was nearly made, the spaghetti squash roasted, and two jars of my homemade tomato sauce had been defrosted and reheated.

“It smells wonderful!” She grabbed my shoulders from behind me and placed a kiss on my cheek. “I’ll finish setting the table. Do we want wine? I have wine.”

I checked the clock. It was a Thursday, but it was also only 6:15 p.m. “I’ll have a glass.”

“Good. It was on sale, and I’ve been wanting to try this one for a while. Let me open it up. How was your day?”

“Not bad.” I pushed the tomatoes I’d just sliced into the waiting salad bowl. “I’m a little worried about raising enough money to do the science fair next year, but my third period is finally understanding the concept of force constants.”

“You’re teaching eighth graders force constants?”

“They’re capable of it. And it’s important to understand.”

“I feel like you expect a lot out of thirteen-year-olds. What if they’re bad at it?”

“I refuse to accept that.” Choosing the ripest of the cucumbers, I cut off each end. “Our world can no longer afford people to be ‘bad at science’ or ‘bad at math.’”

She chuckled, bumping my shoulder with hers as she passed. “You know what I mean.”

We shared a small smile even as I kept my thoughts to myself.

I knew what she meant, but as a teacher, I felt like people didn’t expect enough out of thirteen-year-olds—or twenty-year-olds, or thirty-year-olds, or sixty-year-olds—when it came to grasping scientific concepts. My uncle used to tell his kids they were simply bad at it, and it drove me crazy. How could we expect individuals to accept the fundamental laws of science and not consider magnets as magical or weather patterns as unexplainable voodoo if we didn’t push them in the classroom as kids?

There was no such thing as a kid (or an adult) who was bad at science. Science always made sense, that was the beauty of it. Granted, science might be explained or taught in a way that made it difficult for kids to understand, but that wasn’t science’s fault. Nor was it the kids’ fault. Because of this, I had a poster above my smartboard at school that read, “All ye who enter here are scientists.”

I also had one that read, “Curiosity may or may not have killed Schrodinger’s cat” and it made me laugh every single time.

“Hey, so, I saw Byron today.”

My heart spasmed and I almost sliced my thumb instead of the cucumber, but I managed to sound perfectly normal as I said, “Oh? Did you?”

“Yeah. I asked him how the videos were going.”

I held my breath for unknown reasons and contemplated the cucumber on my cutting board. I will not ask what he said. I will not ask what he said. I will not ask—

“What did he say?”

. . . Weakling.

“He said they’re going well, which is Byron-speak for exceptionally excellent. I told him about you surpassing one hundred thousand followers on Tuesday and he seemed pleased.” The wine cork made a muted pop as she pulled it from the bottle. “And on that note, aren’t you two due to record another one? It’s been a week, hasn’t it?”

Careful to arrange my fingers out of the path of the knife, I sliced the cucumber. Slowly. “I think he’s irritated with me.”

The sound of Amelia pouring wine into glasses paused. “What? No. Why?”

I added the cucumber to the salad and dusted my hands off on the towel apron around my waist. “He won’t answer my calls.”

“Oh. No. That’s not it.” She sounded relieved. “He’s not irritated with you. His phone broke.”

“His phone broke?”

And crap.

I’d spent all week thinking he was ignoring me, and now I didn’t know what to feel.

“Yeah.” Amelia twirled out of the kitchen with our wine and pranced over to the table. Sometimes she did this, danced around the apartment like it was a ballroom floor. “He said he dropped it last week on the stairs and it broke. I left work early today to get him a new one, but the service isn’t set up yet with his old number. I have his temporary number if you want it.”

I examined my friend. “Why did you get him a new phone?”

“His agent sent me two thousand dollars and asked me to do it.”

“What?”

“Yeah. It was a super cheap flip phone. He’s broken so many of those because, it’s like, you look at it sideways and it breaks. I guess Byron was dragging his feet this time and suggested he transfer his number to Google Voice to be rid of the cell.”

“He’s so . . .”

“Stubborn?”

“Difficult,” I blurted before I could catch the half-baked thought, and then immediately regretted it. “I’m sorry. I—”

“No, no. It’s okay. I can see why people think that. Byron has no desire to go out of his way to make other people’s lives easier, especially when those people work for him and make money off him. He’s definitely not what anyone would call accommodating, but then he doesn’t expect other people to accommodate him either.” Amelia seemed to consider the issue for another moment while she placed napkins next to our plates. “He would probably argue that he’s not being difficult, he’s being consistent with his defined personal boundaries in a world where personal boundaries are often disregarded, which—I’ve heard him say—encourages selfishness and laziness.”

“Him having a cell phone that he consistently answers means that he’s encouraging other people to be lazy?” I carried our salad over to the table.

Amelia laughed. “He would argue that it does.”

“I would call it being considerate,” I grumbled, not sure if I was grumpy because I’d just discovered Byron hadn’t been ignoring my calls while I’d twisted myself into knots about it all week or because he could’ve easily solved his unreliable cell phone issue by buying a high-quality smartphone and putting a case on it.

“Anyway.” She walked past me as I mixed the salad and stewed in my thoughts. I could tell she wanted to drop the subject.

But by the time she returned with the bowl of spaghetti squash, more argument fuel had been added to my resentment fire. “You say he doesn’t expect other people to accommodate him, but you just spent your afternoon buying him a new phone.”

“He didn’t ask, his agent did. And I made a thousand dollars off Byron’s agent for my troubles. And I didn’t mind.”

“But he’s the one who benefited.”

“Uh, no. His agent, publicist, and manager benefit if Byron has a cell phone and is more reachable.” Amelia snorted. “Byron was so pissed when I showed up with a new phone. He called me an accomplice.”

“Ungrateful.”

“Hardly,” she said sharply, placing a hand on the back of her chair and leveling me with a piercing look. “What has gotten into you? Are you mad at him about something?”

A flood of too many thoughts and emotions and questions clogged my throat. I didn’t have his email, but he could have asked Amelia for mine if his phone didn’t work. He could’ve given me a heads-up! It had been a week. I’d left him messages, several of them, and he could easily check voice mail without a working cell phone.

Was he purposefully playing mind games with me as Serena had suggested on Saturday? The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed. He was hot then cold then freezing then tepid then freezing again. And the steak! What is the deal with all that steak?

While I struggled, Amelia crossed her arms and frowned, inspecting me closely. “He’s doing those videos with you, isn’t he? And he’s doing a great job. The best friends one was a huge hit, as was the most recent one you posted Monday where he put his head on your lap. Your follower count passed a hundred thousand earlier this week, and as far as I can see, his help is the reason. So what is the deal, Win? What do you want from him?”

My heart spasmed again.

What do you want from him? That was the problem. That was why I was all turned around and messed up. I wanted something from Byron.

“You’re right,” I croaked out, feeling guilty and ungrateful and foolish. “You’re right. He’s helping me. I should be grateful for his help instead of trying to psychoanalyze him and judge him.”

“Yeah. You should be grateful. He’s doing you a huge favor.”

“And I shouldn’t want anything from him, he owes me nothing.” My lungs deflated. That was the crux of it.

He wasn’t playing mind games with me. I was playing mind games with myself. Why am I torturing myself? If he’d liked me enough to ask me out, he would have. And despite my biology—and my heart, if I was being honest with myself—that was the end of our story, and I needed to move the eff on.

Amelia exhaled loudly, pulling me out of my reflections. Her features had softened. “Look, I didn’t mean to be harsh, but I’ve known him forever, and he’s important to me. I’m protective of him. I understand that his—” she moved her hand around as though searching for the right word “—his inflexibility about certain things can rub people the wrong way, I do. But I know the reasons for why he is the way he is, and he has good ones, okay?”

I nodded, feeling properly chastised. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine. I know he can be aggressively blunt and too honest when there’s no call to be. If he’s being too honest or blunt, let me know and I’ll talk to him.”

“No.” I waved away her offer. “He’s not. He’s been fine.” He’d been rude, but I didn’t think he’d been purposefully mean. He didn’t want anything from me, and it hadn’t occurred to him to let me know his phone wasn’t working. I’d get over it.

Her expression told me she didn’t 100 percent believe my assurances, but—after a long look—she released my gaze and studied the table. “I’ll get the sauce, then we’ll eat?”

Amelia walked past me for the kitchen again and I reprimanded myself while serving us both a helping of salad.

But then, abruptly exasperated with my habit of worrying and apologizing and beating myself up, I decided it was time for me to stop tripping all over my good intentions and instead take a page out of Byron’s book. What I needed were boundaries.

I wouldn’t want anything from Byron; I wouldn’t expect anything from Byron other than what we’d already agreed to with the videos; and, as he’d said, his feelings weren’t my problem.

Just like my feelings weren’t his problem either.