Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Sunday midmorning, armed with Byron’s temporary phone number, and after much typing and deleting, I sent him a text message certain to be respectful of his boundaries and mine.

Winnie: This is Winnie. I got your new number from Amelia, I hope you don’t mind. Do you have time for a video today? Should take ten minutes. No problem either way

That done, I opened my fundraising plan for next year’s science fair materials and stared at the screen of my laptop, telling myself not to keep sneaking glances at my phone. I mostly succeeded. But I’d been concentrating so determinedly on trying to concentrate, I jumped when my phone buzzed, announcing his reply.

Byron: Yes. When? Where? What can I bring?

My stomach fluttered. I thought his response was cute.

So I reminded my stomach of how not cute it was when he’d jumped up from the sofa last week, tossed my phone at me, and left the room. And how not cute it was when he’d dipped me after the Opposites Attract Challenge and then abruptly walked out. None of that had been cute.

With the word boundaries a mantra in my brain, I responded.

Winnie: Whenever you’re free today, but text me when you’re ten minutes away. Here is fine. No need to bring anything. Door will be unlocked, just walk in

He must’ve been anticipating my message because my phone buzzed again almost immediately.

Byron: Leaving now. I’m ten minutes away unless you want scones?

My stomach tried to fill with butterflies, but I punched those butterflies in their thorax.

Boundaries. Boundaries. Boundaries.

Winnie: No, thank you

There. See? I didn’t need or want anything from him, not even delicious, delicious scones.

Giving myself a mental high five at how well I’d done, I continued my mental pep talk while prepping for his arrival. Even though the Toxic Dance Challenge was the next one on the list, I decided to skip over it and do the Asleep Challenge instead.

During this challenge, person 1 pretended to sleep while recording the room. Ideally, person 2 (best friend or friend or mom or partner or whatever) would stumble upon person 1 and the camera would record what they did. Some people made loud noises, some people just left, and others would be sweet, turning off the lights and leaving quietly.

The point was to see what person 2 would do when faced with a sleeping person 1.

Bonus, the Asleep Challenge required me to say nothing to him when he arrived, and hopefully very little once we finished recording. If our previous videos were any indication, he’d leave immediately after, and that was perfectly fine. I was ready to be left.

My phone positioned in the preordained spot to capture all the action, primed and ready to record as soon as I heard his footsteps on the stairs, I situated myself on the couch. Tucking one of our throw pillows under my cheek, I sighed and I waited, checking the clock over the TV more than a few times. Seconds moved by like hours. I swung my ankle back and forth over the edge of the couch, pushing everything related to wants and hopes and wishes down, down, down.

I want to get this over with. I want to be done with these videos and seeing him and being confused all the damn time. I want—

And then suddenly I heard steps on the stairway, the moment I’d been anticipating and dreading was upon me. Sucking in a breath, I frantically sat up, woke my phone, and pressed the Record button. I then flopped back, hoping my position looked natural and believable, like I’d fallen asleep on the couch waiting for him. Meanwhile, my heart tap-danced in my chest.

Worried my flickering eyelids would give me away, I tossed an arm over my forehead just as I heard the door open.

“Fred?”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. You are asleep. Asleep. Asleep. Asleep.

Straining my ears, I heard his footsteps approach from the door, growing a bit louder, and then halting.

“Winnie?” He must’ve spotted me because he lowered his voice to a whisper.

I didn’t move, hoping that at least part of his body was within the frame. I didn’t want to rerecord this. Several seconds ticked by, during which I tried to breathe like a person deep in slumber. And then Byron was on the move, his steps noticeably lighter even though he was substantively closer.

In case you’re wondering, it’s difficult to feign sleep when someone you have odd feelings for moves around your apartment.

What is he doing? Is he—did he walk into my bedroom? Is he snooping? And if he is, what do I do? Do I jump up and catch him red-handed?

I heard him return a split second before I felt a blanket on my legs, stomach, and eventually my chest. Then I sensed him move close, very close, his hands still on the blanket, his knuckles brushing under my chin as he tucked me in. I also smelled him and that lethal aftershave of his, having to struggle not to swallow as a rush of saliva filled my mouth. If it was the last thing I did, I would find out what aftershave he used.

He must’ve been kneeling next to me. Or maybe he sat on his haunches. Point was, he hovered inches away. Without warning, the barest brush of something warm and soft—his fingertips—skimmed up my forearm before fingers wrapped around my wrist and moved my arm away from my eyes, gently placing it over my chest.

He blew out a quiet breath and his fingertips returned, brushing strands of hair from my forehead.

“Sleeping beauty,” he mumbled softly, making my heart swell so suddenly that I must’ve flinched or twitched or something.

DARN.

A heavy pause, during which he made absolutely no sound, and then, “Fred.” His voice was as flat as a pancake.

I fought a smile and lost. He’d figured it out. He had the list, after all. It was time to give up the ruse.

Breathing out deeply but silently, I waited until I felt him pull away—either stand up or move back—and made an overexaggerated snoring sound, whistling on the exhale.

He laughed lightly. “You sound like Popeye the Sailor Man.”

I repeated the ridiculous snore, cracking one eye open to find him still squatting next to me, his elbows on his knees, his eyes hooded but clearly amused.

Closing my eye, I snuffed, chuffed, and snored again.

“Why are you pretending to be asleep, Fred?”

“What? What? Where am I?” I made a big show of blinking, acting like my eyes were too heavy to open.

“I said—” his hands came to my sides over the blanket, the only warning I got before he proceeded to tickle me “—why were you pretending to be asleep?”

My body jerked as I laughed, tucking my arms against my chest, trying to wiggle away. “Ah! Stop! Stop!”

He did. He stopped tickling me immediately. But in his quest to punish me for my ruse, he’d also climbed on top and grabbed my hands, bringing them over my head, his knees on either side of my hips.

Byron smiled down at me—with teeth!—his eyes bright, his features relaxed and happy. The sight was truly something to behold, and I knew I was smiling too as I took a mental snapshot of him just as my brain reminded me that this was fake.

This was all fake.

He’d seen the list. He knew we were recording. His smiles weren’t for me, they were for the audience he’d helped me build. And the only thing I should be feeling was gratitude for his help, not dazzled by his smile.

“Get off, please,” I said.

His eyebrows pulled together, his grin waning as he stared.

I returned his stare with only one thought in my mind. Boundaries.

Fully frowning now, his eyes never leaving mine, he climbed off the couch and stood.

“All done. I got what I needed. Thank you.” I jumped up, grabbed my phone, and ended the recording. I then lifted my chin along with my eyes, gazing at him through my new boundaries but also doing my best to be my normal, cheerful self.

Byron blinked one of his stunned blinks, his lips parting. “You—we’re—”

“All finished. Thanks. I’ll message you next week. It was good seeing you.” Sending him a friendly smile, I turned and walked the short distance to my bedroom.

Once there, I closed the door behind me and leaned against it.

A second later, I was fighting inexplicable tears and swallowing convulsively.

A second after that, I slid to the floor, folded my arms over my knees and cried, not understanding myself at all. I had no idea if Byron had left yet and my tears didn’t seem to care. I’d done exactly what Byron had done to me several times, and I’d tried to be as kind and gentle as possible while doing it.

But now, in retrospect, I felt like dirt. Mean dirt. Full of worms. I didn’t want to be a mean person. Mean people were the worst!

Boundaries were healthy. Boundaries were supposed to help me feel less confused, feel less unsettled, feel less sad. Basically, they were supposed to help me feel less.

So why the heck did they hurt so much?

The Asleep Challenge was a huge hit. HUGE!

My follower count more than doubled everywhere and the video went insanely viral, covered in magazines and newspapers around the world. Images of Byron Visser, genius literary darling, sweetly tucking in his bestie adorned gossip pages and celebrity news outlets. People debated our relationship status, certain we were faking our friendship and were deeply, deeply in love.

You know what? I felt mostly meh about all of it. I couldn’t even find the energy to get excited about new engagement on my STEM-focused videos. For whatever reason, motivation to interact and create for my audience—and potential audience—completely eluded me.

And another thing to be filed under totally bizarre, a popular pop culture website did a breakdown of the video with screenshots, GIFs, arrows, and a time-lapse analysis showing how his eyes had gentled the longer he looked at me. They claimed they’d never seen anything so soft. Byron was adored and I was . . .

Well. I was simply called “Friend.” Novelist Byron Visser and Friend.

It was an odd experience to be featured without a name, like I was an inanimate object or appendage, à la Novelist Byron Visser and Lamp Post, or Novelist Byron Visser and Right Elbow.

But my inboxes were flooded with direct messages from fashion houses asking if I needed a wedding dress and to keep them in mind, and that was kind of exciting. Not that marrying Byron was in the realm of possibility within any dimension. But—come on—a haute couture dress? Made just for me? A girl could dream.

Several publications reached out to Byron’s agent, asking if I’d be interested in a feature article to discuss Byron. And maybe—if there was time—what about me made Byron interested in befriending me. All because someone brilliant, famous, and handsome had done an amazing job convincing the internet I was important to him. What a world.

“Is Byron coming over tonight? And are we playing Stardew Valley?” Amelia jogged into my bedroom holding a rubber spatula, the smell of vanilla and nutmeg following in her wake. Tonight we’d be having breakfast foods for dinner, Amelia’s specialty. “If we’re playing Stardew Valley, Serena wants to come over and do it in person, but I doubt Byron will come over or stay very long if she’s here.”

Leaning back in my desk chair, I gave her my undivided attention. “Why would Byron come over?”

“I thought you invited him.”

“No.”

“Really?” She placed a hand on her hip. “He texted me earlier that he’d be stopping by, and I assumed you two had a video planned.”

Fiddling with the edge of my shirt, I was careful to keep the torrent of emotions off my face. “Nope. I haven’t talked to him at all since Sunday.”

Amelia lifted an eyebrow at this. “Are you serious? You haven’t talked to him about the brouhaha and all those nasty people online? Does he even know about it?”

Amelia had been the conduit through which Byron’s agent had contacted me about the magazine feature offers. It was highly probable—given Byron’s avoidance of social media and how he chose to insulate himself—that he currently possessed no knowledge of our last video going viral.

“I have no idea and—Amelia—I don’t want you telling him. Promise me.”

She made a sound of disgust.

“Promise me. He hasn’t called me, and I’ve been busy, and I just want to forget about it.” I had been busy. The school and the Parent-Teacher Organization had decided on Monday that there was no room for my science fair fundraiser this year, and if I wanted to fund it, I’d have to find the money via a grant or charitable foundation. I understood their reasoning. The school needed to focus on raising money for new computers. The technology in the tech lab was woefully out-of-date.

So, no, I hadn’t been spending the entire week clicking around the internet, reading analysis of the video, and me, and whether I was ugly or short or tall or too pale or too dark or my nose was too big. Nor had I filmed or had time to plan a single STEM video for any of my accounts.

Granted, I’d doom-scrolled the stories about Byron and me for a few hours yesterday. The whole thing had been completely bananas. But after encountering more haters, that was it. After seeing two articles addressing my hot-or-not status and how much of my “quirkiness” was for show, I knew no good could come from continued media consumption on the subject.

Instead, I’d been buried in grant applications, writing emails to educational foundations, hoping there existed funding somewhere for the science fair while also handling my end-of-year course load, grading, planning, holding after-school help sessions, meeting with parents, answering parent emails, and everything else.

Thank God I’d assembled all those lab kits last month. If I hadn’t, I’d be completely overwhelmed right now.

“Fine. I won’t tell him about those fuckers online, but . . .” Amelia’s nose wrinkled with confusion. “That is so weird. He even asked if you were home just now when he called.”

I refused to allow that information to impact me in the slightest, chanting boundaries, boundaries, boundaries in my head, and returned my attention to the spreadsheet I’d made of possible grants. “Sadly, I don’t have time tonight to play Stardew Valley. I have to get at least ten of these out by Sunday.”

Now that I knew there existed a chance Byron might show up tonight, I briefly considered packing up my stuff and heading to the downtown library to avoid him. But then I told myself I was being silly. I was the only one who felt mournful about placing boundaries between us. Maybe he liked me or maybe he’d been playing mind games, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t letting him anywhere near my olfactory senses or neurotransmitters ever again, not that he’d made any overtures or attempts.

“Okay. Well, Serena may come over.” Still looking thoughtful, Amelia backed out of my room. “Do you want me to bring your dinner in here?”

“I can come out and get it. But could you close the door?”

“Sure.” She placed her hand on the doorknob. “We’ll be quiet.”

“No need.” Smiling and winking, I picked up my noise-canceling headphones and covered my ears.

As soon as the door closed, I selected my favorite music playlist for concentration and opened a new tab in my browser, searching for tips on completing grant applications for the Garbor Foundation. Do I know anyone who works there? It was possible. The central offices were located in South Lake Union, not three miles from where I lived and worked. I made a mental note to check with the school secretaries in the front office about parents who might be employed by the foundation.

Pulling a blue sticky note from the top of the pad, I wrote myself a quick note, stood, walked over to my corkboard, and pinned it under the Reminders heading right under a yellow sticky that read, “Don’t forget to call Adam’s mom about STEM camps.”

I then turned and stopped dead in my tracks. A heat bomb detonated under my ribs and sent shock waves to the tips of each nerve ending. Byron, looking like all my dopamine neurotransmitters’ dreams come true, stood in the doorway to my bedroom, his hand resting lightly on the doorknob, his features wide open and so achingly handsome I’m fairly certain the sight of him changed the cellular structure of my lung tissue.

Because they hurt.

He lifted his chin. “What’s that?”

I glanced over my shoulder, following his line of sight. “You mean my corkboard?”

“What are all those notes?”

Unable to think, I could only mindlessly respond to his prompts. “Some are tasks, some are ideas, and some are reminders.”

“What do the colors mean?” He stepped further into my bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

A spark of electricity seemed to zing up the back of my legs, sending restlessness through my entire body. “Oh, well, yellow is for my students, blue is for special projects, green is lesson planning and continuing education, orange is for my social media accounts, and pink is—uh—personal stuff.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, wondering why I was telling him this.

And why was he here?

And what did he want?

I wasn’t good at boundaries where he was concerned, I didn’t like how it felt to enforce them with Byron. He’d caught me unawares, and I didn’t know what to do.

“So what does—”

“What do you want?” I asked, deeply agitated by the massive involuntary response coursing through my body. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to push him away, but I hated this discomfort I always felt in his presence.

“We need to talk.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, his voice growing rough.

I strolled over to my reading chair and stood behind it. If I couldn’t erect mental barriers, a corporeal one would have to suffice. “Okay.”

He stared at me, his mouth opening, closing, and opening again. “I—I’m sorry I left after we finished filming the first few videos. I believe—though it was not my intention—I behaved rudely. I was unkind. I am sorry.”

. . . What?

The last thing, the very last thing I’d expected him to do was apologize.

But as I stared at him and reflected on the situation, maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. During the Opposites Attract Challenge, when I’d been forthright about my feelings, he’d apologized, hadn’t he?

And yet . . . when he’d left me after the Opposites Attract Challenge and we’d spoken on the phone after, and I’d asked him if I’d done anything wrong, he’d dismissed my worries.

“It wasn’t your intention,” I parroted, feeling torn and stuck on the word intention.

“No.”

If being rude and unkind hadn’t been his intention, then he must’ve had an intention. “Then what was your intention?”

“I find it’s best to . . . leave a situation when I might do or say something I’ll regret later.” Hands still in his pockets, he shrugged.

I repeated his statement in my head, then I dug through it, searching for its true meaning. “Something you might regret? Did I do something wrong? Did I say—”

“No. Not at all.” He took a step toward me, his eyes wide and earnest. “You are perfect.”

“Did I make you mad?”

“No.”

“But you were worried you’d do or say something you’d regret?”

“Yes.”

What the—?

I racked my brain. If I hadn’t done something wrong, or said anything to make him angry, then why had he left? “Like what?”

He blinked several times, his steady gaze growing unsteady as it dropped to the carpet. “Like . . .”

I waited. And waited.

His throat worked with a swallow and eventually he exhaled. “It’s not your problem. It’s mine. But you didn’t do, and haven’t done, anything wrong. This is entirely my fault. And if you’re still willing to do the remainder of the videos with me, I have a plan for how to deal with similar circumstances in the future.”

“Oh really? Tell me this plan.”

“If it happens again, I’ll excuse myself for a few minutes. And then, when I’m ready, I’ll come back.”

Understanding dawned, and with it all the tension left my body. Of course! How could I have missed this? Why didn’t I see it before?

He had a sensory processing disorder.

I felt a small, compassionate smile tug at my lips, another heat bomb detonating beneath my ribs, but this time it felt warm and friendly instead of agitated and hostile. Goodness, if I’d known this about him earlier, how much torture would I have saved myself? All this worrying and wringing of hands, second-guessing every interaction. I felt so silly. He hadn’t been rude or playing mind games. Not at all.

Stepping out from behind the chair, my arms dropped to my sides. “What if you need more than a few minutes? Should we have a safe word?”

Byron’s frown was swift, his eyes flickering over me. “A safe word?” he croaked.

Maybe he thought I was making fun of him. I wasn’t—not at all—so I closed the gulf between us. I wanted him to see I wasn’t mocking him.

“I’m serious. If you need a safe word to pull out of a situation that’s too stimulating, that’s totally fine. I completely get it.”

Still appearing uncertain, he straightened to his full height and squinted at me, his gaze in turmoil, and asked breathlessly, “You do?”

“Yes. I have kids with all sorts of sensory processing disorders in my class.”

He flinched, blinked, then his features darkened swiftly.

I grabbed hold of his arm to keep him from retreating. “Wait, listen. I’m not saying you’re a kid, and I’m not saying you have a sensory processing disorder, it’s none of my business if you do. All I’m saying is that people—being people—have different tolerances and limits. If you need to make a quick escape, if a situation or stimulus becomes too much for you, that’s fine with me. You do what you need to do for your mental health. I’ll know it’s not because of me.”

His eyes seemed to widen and narrow at the same time. “Not because of you?”

“Yep. I can’t be sensitive to or accommodate each and every kids’ sensory needs. As an example, sometimes in class I have to make a loud noise as a byproduct of the lesson. Those kids who can’t handle it can go out into the hallway and sit in one of the desks there, take a few minutes, and then come back when they feel ready. Some kids have undersensitivity and need louder noises, brighter colors, they might need hugs or to hold hands, more stimulus. It’s not about fault—theirs or mine—and I never take it personally.”

Byron held super still, his stare achingly conflicted. He cleared his throat, hesitated, then said, “I appreciate the offer, Fred. But I don’t have sensory problems. The last thing I want from you is for you to make excuses for me when I’m unkind, or selfish.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish.” Gah! Sweet man. “Not at all.”

“Oh, I am.” He nodded several times, his voice deepening. “I’m sure many people do struggle with, uh, stimuli, but that’s not why I—rather, uh, it would be both inaccurate and disingenuous of me to imply, or for you to infer, that the reason for my—my—”

I slid my hand from his arm to his palm, threading our fingers together and taking another step closer. His eyes flared, his attention, clearly distracted by the movement, dropped to where we touched.

“Hey. It’s no big deal,” I said as his attention returned to my face. “We can use any word you want. How about canyon? Or canal? Or crevice?”

“Not crevice,” he said, the words arriving weakly.

“Channel? Cove?”

“Please stop.”

“Sorry, I have geography terms on the brain. We’re doing a section on natural land formations and we’re on the C-words. The important thing is now I know. You pick any word you want.”

His gaze grew more hooded, more withdrawn the longer I held it. The rate of his breathing increased. “Listen to me, Fred. I do not have sensory issues. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said lightly, hoping he knew I didn’t feel sorry for him and he had nothing to be embarrassed about. There was no reason to feel pity or sympathy. This was about understanding. I’d witnessed how difficult these kinds of obstacles could be for my students, some of the coolest, most amazing kids I know. They simply experienced the world differently. Oftentimes, these differences helped fuel creative decision-making.

But now so many things about Byron made complete sense. No wonder he avoids people and has all those boundaries. The relief I felt was immeasurable.

He, meanwhile, closed his eyes, exhaled softly, and said, “I need to leave.”

“Or—” I moved closer, and his eyes flew open. “Hear me out, we could—”

“Canyon, canal, crevice!”