Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

After leaving Winnie’s apartment, I immediately called my manager.

She agreed to help me schedule an appointment with a reputable occupational therapist, or whatever medical specialty diagnosed sensory processing disorders, and promised she could pull a few strings to ensure I’d be seen as quickly, and privately, as possible.

Then, trusting the matter to her capable hands, I went on a long run through Interlaken Park, needing the feel of wet, cold, beech tree cellulose fabric clinging to my skin, the sound of raindrops on trees, the pounding of my feet on dirt, helping me focus on this problem, and how to solve it.

Ostensibly, Winnie refused to believe I did not have sensory issues. Furthermore, she believed these imaginary sensory issues were responsible for overwhelming me, causing me to respond to situations in ways that were interpreted falsely as selfish.

She was both right and wrong. I had been overwhelmed. I was also extremely selfish.

I thought about us fucking, and what it would be like, and what we would do, and how much I’d make certain she enjoyed it, no less than five hundred times daily. Considering over eighty-six thousand seconds spanned a twenty-four-hour period, I reassured myself with the fact that the ratio could’ve been significantly worse. Though the reticent might consider the nature of my imaginings depraved, I did not. I’d chosen celibacy, not repression. And by my standards of substance and self-worth, in all facets of life, quality mattered materially more than quantity.

Each incidence of me leaving abruptly after recording a video had been preceded by an overwhelming desire to touch her, taste her, slide fingers under her shirt and in her pants and fill my hands with her body and heat and skin. To be inside her. To—

I squeezed my eyes shut and slowed to a stop, lifting my face to the silken droplets of rain, letting them pour over me and cool my skin.

Fucking hell, how I wanted her.

I couldn’t tell her, not after Winnie’s horrified response to my mere like. If she knew, if I gave voice to the words, all the progress we’d made during these last several weeks would be for naught, and I doubted she’d wish to see me again. And I wouldn’t blame her.

Even so, her assertion needed to be proven wrong. I didn’t want her offering excuses for me. I wanted her to continue to tell me when I’d said or done something upsetting, and I suspected a doctor’s official report was necessary to convince her that I, at times, actively chose to be an asshole. She shouldn’t be expected to anticipate or endure my “Dr. Apathy Hole” persona, and I didn’t want her to cease confronting me when I adopted it.

If she rationalized every dick move with some bullshit label or diagnosis, then she’d never see me as fully human, capable, being worthy of—

Friendship.

Shaking my head, I glanced left, then right, and continued on the trail, running until I sprinted.

Solely friendship.

I ran for hours. My body required relief, and no amount of taking matters in hand seemed to make a difference anymore. Just the thought of her filled my veins with fire.

That night, I barely managed to climb the stairs to my room and remove my soaked clothes before passing out. Fortunately and unfortunately, I dreamt of her on Saturday and Sunday, necessitating that I change the sheets while I seethed and chastised myself. I didn’t feel shame, but the inconvenient, unsatisfying, and disruptive nighttime fantasies needed to stop. I was twenty-seven fucking years old for Christ’s sake.

Early Monday morning, carrying determination like a shield, I entered the belly of the medical center, checked myself in and claimed the most isolated chair available in the harshly lit waiting room. It would all be worth it once I had the doctor’s report in hand.

However, to my absolute disgust, after two brutal and frustrating days of tests and assessments, being forced to engage in chitchat with a parade of irritating people asking inane questions in rooms that were too bright, Winnie was the one proven right.

They suspected I had a whole host of sensory-related issues I refused to remember, read about, or research, and wanted me to come back in for more testing. Additionally, the report they sent had been denoted as “preliminary.”

“What else did it say?” Amelia, thank God, didn’t sound worried. She sounded curious.

She’d randomly called just after the report arrived. Catching me in an uninhibited moment, I’d answered the phone and divulged details I wouldn’t usually share. Not even with her. But now I found myself grateful for her pragmatic presence.

I glanced at the smartphone she’d bought me last week, currently residing on my desk. Her voice carried over the speaker as I did not enjoy the feel of the device in my hand. I missed my old phone, the texture of it, the way it moved and curved in an interesting shape instead of merely existing as an inert, boring, flat rectangle.

“I have no idea what the report said. I stopped reading after the first sentence.” I’d wanted to shred the document as soon as it appeared, but it arrived via their secure online system. In order to shred it, I’d have to print it.

“You should read the entire report, Byron.” After my unintended disclosure and a half hour of mindless ranting, she finally sounded impatient.

I smiled.

Among Amelia’s many stellar qualities, she treated me as though I weren’t different or odd or irrational. Nor had she ever coddled me.

Growing up in a small town in Eastern Oregon, I’d filled the role of the weird kid with no mother and a father everyone both adored and pitied, a martyr with a broken heart and a broken son. I’d asked too many questions and couldn’t be compelled to speak when spoken to. Amelia, however, had considered my indiscriminate intolerance for others perfectly understandable and justified given how my dad lapped up sympathy like a cat does cream.

“What’s the point of reading it?” I asked. “There’s nothing that can be done.”

Crowds, certain voices, loud noises, and particular fabrics had always set my teeth on edge, made thinking a chore. Florescent lights hurt my brain. I loved the feel of tight, soft fabric, especially when wet. But so what? Didn’t everyone deal with some level of discomfort or preference in sensation when interacting with the world? Why must my type of discomfort and desire require the application of labels?

I wasn’t a jam jar needing to be sorted based on preference and taste. Nor was I a bottle of medicine requiring warning and usage information. Fuck labels.

“What are you going to do?”

I checked my printer. It had plenty of paper. Perhaps I would print out the report and shred it. “What do you mean?”

“Is there a medicine you can take? It might help.”

“They offered to teach me how to cope.” I couldn’t dissociate myself from my disdain.

They’d wanted me to consider coping strategies as though I hadn’t lived my whole life thinking of myself as normal but not average. And now I was supposed to . . . what? Try to fix myself? Blend in? Assimilate?

“They’re not saying you’re broken, Bry. These people are professionals, not your family. Learning how to cope might be good. It might make your life easier.”

“No.” I shook my head.

“Because you’re perfect as you are,” she said, her tone joking.

I wasn’t perfect. No one was perfect. I had room for improvement. There were things I wanted to change about myself, but didn’t everyone?

But fundamentally, I liked me. I liked who I was. And I resisted being told I needed to “work on myself” by people who didn’t matter and didn’t know me.

“I already know how to cope. I’ve been myself in this world for twenty-seven years, and I’ve done just fine.”

She chuckled. It was without humor. “You mean sequestering yourself from anything or anyone who might irritate you?”

“Correct.” And what was so wrong with that? Seriously. What was wrong with avoiding people I disliked?

“Oh, Byron.” She sighed, sounding tired. “Are you going to tell me what prompted you to go to the doctor in the first place? If you didn’t plan to read the report, why go?”

I grunted.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

I grunted again.

“Fine. Whatever, sassy pants. Send me the report, I’d like to read it.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That means no.” She laughed, this time with humor. “If you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

“I won’t.”

“Okay. Anyway. So, listen, I’m actually calling about Winnie.”

I stiffened, steadying myself against racing thoughts and bracing for the coming conversation. I’d expected Amelia to broach this topic weeks ago. Why now?

Had Winnie finally assigned our mutual friend the task of letting me down gently, once and for all? Now that she suspected I had sensory issues? I grimaced.

As much as I would gladly accept any relationship Winnie offered, it had to be free of sympathy and allowances. My childhood had been spent surrounded by people making allowances. If Winnie believed my eccentricity wasn’t a choice, she would never see me as anything but aberrant.

“You can’t tell Winnie about this.”

“What?” The single word rang with outrage. “Byron, I would never. How could you think I would?”

“Then I apologize.” I licked my suddenly dry lips. “Why are you calling about Winnie? What did she tell you?”

“About what?”

“About me. And her.”

“About you and her?” she asked, her voice laced with an arc of confusion. “What about you and her? You mean the videos? She hasn’t really said anything, but she seems content with them. She’s approaching two hundred and fifty thousand followers on Instagram. She should be ecstatic.”

“Huh.” I stood from my chair, rubbing the back of my neck, and paced. Could it be that Amelia had decided to feign ignorance? Pretend as though Winnie hadn’t told her everything? That seemed unlikely. Amelia didn’t spare my—or anyone’s—feelings.

“What I want to discuss is that trip to New York coming up in July. As her broker of the deal and personal shopper, I need to know what the budget is for her dress, shoes, purse, and whatnot.”

I continued to pace. “Uh, I don’t care.”

“I’ll take that to mean no budget.”

“Correct.”

“I can get her that Burberry bag for five thousand dollars and you’d be okay with it?”

“Fine.” I flicked my hand at the wrist.

“Heh. That’s excellent. Okay. Good. How are we doing this? Are you giving me your credit card or will you reimburse me?”

“You can—you can use my credit card.”

“Great. Glad that’s settled. Now when are we going out to lunch next? It’s my treat this time since you got last time, no arguing.”

I ceased pacing. “That’s it?”

She said nothing for a moment, then, “That’s what?”

“Is there anything else about Winnie you’d like to discuss?”

“Uh, why? Do you want her to come to lunch?” Her question sounded genuine.

“She hasn’t told you,” I said as I realized the truth, and uncertainty soared, fjords of doubt, mountains of confusion. What the hell?

“Told me what?”

“Why didn’t she . . .” Why wouldn’t she tell Amelia? I’d taken for granted that Winnie would confide in her roommate, share the details of my clumsy confession the night of Lucy and Jeff’s party.

Obviously, she hadn’t.

“Now you’re being a weirdo. I made you a promise once that I’d always tell you when you’re being a weirdo.”

Giving myself a quick shake, I sank into the chair and rolled it forward, needing to hover over my boring phone and stare at it as I asked, “Did Winnie tell you what happened between us, what I said, the night of Lucy and Jeff’s dinner party?”

“No. What happened the night of Lucy and Jeff’s dinner party?”

Winnie didn’t wish Amelia to know? Why not? Potential motives marched in single file through my mind. Embarrassment, repulsion, continued disbelief—I discarded these three. Only concern remained as the primary suspect.

Winnie’s principal motivator was, and always has been, compassion. If she thought, for even a second, revealing my confession would cause Amelia a moment of discomfort, she’d say nothing.

I, however, possessed no such compunction. Not about Amelia. Our friendship has persisted despite my aggressive bouts of honesty.

Would Winnie be upset if I told Amelia? That unknown gave me pause.

“Byron. What the hell?” Her voice teetered into shrill territory. I winced. “What happened with you and Winnie?”

“It’s—it’s nothing. Disregard—”

“Either you tell me, or I’ll get it out of her. She’ll tell me if I push hard enough, you know she will.”

“Leave her alone,” I bit out.

The worst thing about being friends with someone who is tough as nails is they often behave like a hammer.

“I’ll hang up right now and get her on the phone and—”

“Don’t.”

“If you don’t want me to badger it out of her, then you better tell me—”

“I have a thing for Winnie.” My fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.

Dammit.

“A—oh! Ooooooh!” Amelia seemed to be working through several thoughts at once. A profusion of odd noises emanated from the speaker of the smart, boring rectangle before she blurted, “Oh my God! BYRON! OH MY GOD!!”

“Shh.” I pressed my thumb against the button on the side of the phone, reducing the volume. “Calm down.”

“I’m coming over. Right now. I want to know everything.” She was squealing. God help me.

“I’m not telling you anything if you insist on making it a big deal.”

“What are you talking about? It’s a huge fucking deal, Bry. You’ve never—wait, and you told her? That night? You told her you like her?”

“I did.” An echo of an ache in my chest had my fingers lifting to rub the spot, a phantom pain at the memory.

“I—huh. I had no idea. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you surprise the hell out of me, Visser.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell you? Doesn’t she tell you everything?”

“I don’t know. Sure, we pretty much tell each other everything—but Bry, I had no idea, you sly dog. Since when? Wait! Are you two seeing each other in secret? Is this a secret?”

“We’re not seeing each other.”

“Yikes.” Her vocal grimace must’ve been paired with a facial one as it immediately conjured a vision of bared teeth and sympathetic eyes. “Okay. Awkward. I’m so sorry. So she let you down easy?”

“Not exactly.” I pushed my fingers into my hair and scratched my scalp.

“Double yikes. Are you okay? Should I bring over ice cream?”

I shook my head at her nonsense. I didn’t want sympathy, I wanted answers. “Why didn’t she tell you?”

“Byron, bruh of mine, you do know you’re my friend too. You could have told me, I could’ve helped you.”

I leaned away from the rectangle, eyed the rounded corners of the device as I debated her surprising statement. “You would’ve helped me with Winnie?”

“Yes, absolutely! And don’t give me that face.”

“How do you know what face I’m making?”

“I can hear it in your breathing. I’m your oldest friend, of course I would’ve helped you.”

Clasping, unclasping, and reclasping my hands over my lap, I asked, “Will you help me now?” before fully considering the ramifications of the request.

Did I want help with Winnie? Wouldn’t it be better, in the long run, if Winnie and I remained friends? Then I’d know her forever.

Amelia laughed. “You’re hopeless.”

“Am I?”

I probably was. I definitely am.

“No. Actually. You’re just . . . clueless.”

“I accept that.” Clueless was better than hopeless.

“Okay, I don’t know if I can help, if you already told her how you feel and she doesn’t reciprocate. If she said, ‘No, Byron. I don’t like you that way. We should be friends,’ then you should respect that and move on. But this is a good thing. I can’t believe you—”

“She didn’t say anything like that.” I stood, braced my hands on the edge of the desk, restless.

“Okay, what did she say?”

“She asked me if I was having a stroke.”

Amelia paused, then busted out laughing. “Oh my God, no she didn’t.”

“Yeah. She did.” Another phantom pain in my chest. “Then she refused to believe me. She thought I was joking. And then she thought I was messing with her.”

“Oh, Winnie.”

“I’m not sure she even believes me now.”

“This was weeks ago. You two are still doing those videos, and you don’t think she believes you were telling the truth about being interested in her?”

“Correct.”

“Okay, something isn’t adding up. Tell me exactly what happened. As much as you can, tell me precisely what was said, and by whom.”

I recounted the story as close to word for word as possible, given my desire to forget the entire confrontation, beginning with her opening the door to my room while I’d changed and ending with Winnie’s angry text messages later that evening.

When I finished, Amelia paused, then asked, “Is that it? Did anything else happen that night?”

“No.”

“Okay. Stay there. I’m coming over right now. Don’t leave.”

Then she hung up.

Amelia enjoyed wine.

She often brought bottles with her, transporting them in a canvas bag stamped with Wine Time on one side. Even so, I always made available a few alternatives just in case she wished to try something new. But since it was barely past 4:00 p.m., I also arranged a selection of sparkling waters.

The front door opened, then closed. That was fast.

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called out. “Are you hungry?”

“No. Hey.”

I straightened from the wine fridge, my frown immediate. “What are you doing here?”

Jeff laughed. “I live here.”

“You store your things here. You live at Lucy’s. I didn’t expect you.”

“I wanted to talk.” He sat at the kitchen island in the same stool Winnie had occupied two Thursdays ago when I’d made her dinner. “You keep leaving when I give you a heads-up that I’m stopping by, and we all know what happens when someone calls your phone.”

I sighed silently, checking the time. “Talk.”

Jeff leaned his elbows on the counter, making a show of inspecting me. “What’s going on with you and Winnie?”

“None of your business.”

“Have you thought it through? Do you think it’s a good idea?”

I didn’t even grunt.

“Does she know that you’ve been obsessed with her forever?” He smiled as he spoke, as though to convince me the question had been meant in jest. A joke.

I knew him too well. Concern simmered beneath the surface, and the lid he’d placed on top, the affable mask he wore, did nothing to conceal the truth of his opinions. He believed I was obsessed with Winnie. Denying it would only yield compounded suspicion. As with most people, discussing the matter reasonably, presenting facts and evidence when he’d already convinced himself of a lie, would be a waste of breath.

My eyelids lowered by half. I said nothing.

His grin widened. “Your secret is safe with me. If you hadn’t told me years ago, I never would’ve guessed.”

The one time I’d consumed too much alcohol in college, Jeff and Lucy had been present. I did not recall all the information I’d volunteered while intoxicated. However, I was aware—since Lucy never missed an opportunity to taunt me about it—that I’d confessed to my lack of experience and admiration for someone named Winnifred Gobaldi. Lucy had never forgotten, she thought Win’s entire name was hilarious.

Jeff held his hands up, showing me his palms as though in surrender. “And I’m not telling anyone. But do you really want to ruin everything by talking to Win? She’s great, don’t get me wrong, but she’s not going to live up to whatever idea you have in your head about her, I guarantee it. No one could at this point.”

Unlike Winnie, who somehow—through magic, no doubt—managed to maintain an air of sincerity when diffusing tension, dealing with uncomfortable situations, or even while outright lying about her own well-being and comfort, Jeff’s shoddy attempts at levity serrated my patience.

Regardless, he needn’t worry.

I knew obsession. When I wrote, I obsessed. When I researched, I obsessed. I lost hours and days, sleeping whenever I passed out, eating when I grew light-headed.

Winnie was a reprieve, not an obsession. She wasn’t air, she was a cool breeze. She wasn’t sunshine, she was a rainbow. She wasn’t water, she was rain.

Jeff’s smile evaporated in the face of my persistent silence, his features sobering. “Right. Let’s cut to the chase.” His palms lowered to the countertop. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I didn’t like what I walked in on when Lucy and I stopped by. Winnie is a really good friend of mine, and she doesn’t know you like I do, about your dating history.”

“My dating history,” I repeated, rolling the phrase around, examining it from different angles. “I have no history.”

“Exactly. If you’d asked her out in college, or before you became this big, famous guy, that would’ve been one thing. But I’m concerned about what you have planned for her now that people see you as powerful and important, after obviously thinking about it and biding your time for so long.”

I tried not to smirk at “biding my time.” I’d never considered that he might think of me as a villain. When had I ever done anything but mind my own business?

“Why, precisely, are you concerned?” I asked, certain his reasons would be entertaining at the very least, and Jeff always needed to be heard.

If I didn’t let him speak, if he didn’t feel as though I’d listened, he’d cause drama. This habit of his was why he and Lucy would never work in the long term. She didn’t listen to him. She wasn’t a bad person, but she dismissed his fears, only paying attention when he lashed out, lost his temper, or when he stoked her jealousy and pride. He was too needy, and she viewed the emotional maintenance of their association as a chore.

Jeff didn’t have enough self-awareness to realize this about himself or his relationship, but the pattern of behavior was impossible for me to miss as an impartial observer with a front-row ticket to their slow, arduous demise.

I pitied him. He was in love with someone who’d never felt as deeply for him as he did for her. His life a cautionary tale to anyone paying attention, the mistakes he made served as a warning to others.

“Waiting around for someone you’ve never talked to?” Jeff gave his head a sympathetic shake. “Carrying a torch with no fuel for six years? That’s called being obsessed, man. Come on, you know you’re weird.” His smile returned, slathered in affection.

I didn’t smile. I endured.

He’d called me weird many, many times during our acquaintance. It never bothered me. In this matter, I considered his perspective invalid given his personal failings. Likewise, his opinion about most topics mattered very little.

Admittedly, he was funny—sometimes. And not a terrible roommate. And good at Super Mario Bros.

But then he said, “You’re not like other guys, Byron.”

My back molars ground together, an instinctive tense and release, the statement hitting a raw nerve.

“You never have been. I get it, you’re this literary genius, and geniuses get to be eccentric or whatever. No shade. It’s cool. We’re cool. But . . .” He paused here to take a deep breath, his body angling to one side, his expression bracing. “Do you think being a twenty-seven-year-old virgin is natural? Do you think only being interested in one girl is natural? It’s not.”

If we’d had this discussion two months ago, I would’ve responded with, You, also, have only been interested in one girl, for eleven years. And do you think lying to yourself for those eleven years and staying with a woman who can barely stand you is natural?

What the world considered normal never made much sense to me.

But Winnie and her goodness, her care for others, must’ve been contagious. I could be kind without being a liar.

Thus, I responded with a truth that should’ve been obvious. “What’s natural for you isn’t natural for me. I don’t judge you for your choices. Maybe don’t judge me for mine.”

He heard me, but he wasn’t listening.

“I didn’t say anything before now because I figured—” Jeff tilted his head back and forth, contemplating his choice of words “—well, you’d always kept your distance. But Winnie is a nice girl.”

“She’s a woman, not a girl.”

“You know what I mean, she’s really nice. She’s a good, decent person. Don’t you think she deserves someone more like her?”

“More like her?” I glanced at the clock. Amelia should arrive any minute.

“Someone normal.”

My eyes sliced to his.

The shape of his apologetic smile suddenly grated, specifically the arc of his bottom lip and how his mouth parted to display just the top half of his teeth. An abrupt urge to punch that mouth swept through me with a vehemence I hadn’t experienced since I’d published my first book.

He wasn’t finished. “Yes, you’re an impressive dude now. You’re the smartest guy I know. But do you think Winnie should have to put up with all your many, many idiosyncrasies? Put up with your weirdness? She’s a social person and you can’t stand to be in a room with more than three people! Would she go everywhere alone? You have a shit ton of money, sure. Some status to offer, but is that enough?”

Neither money nor status mattered to Winnie. He knew it, as did I.

“You forget, man. I know you, I know what you’re like. I was there all through college. I was there when you got your PhDs. It’s impressive to watch, but seriously think about how you work. Look at how you push yourself. There’s no room for anyone but you. And you’re never going to stop working.”

About this, he was right. I needed the work. I needed an outlet for the voices and stories in my head, and I grew restless, unhappy when I didn’t satisfy the need. Hobby writing wasn’t an option for me, I wasn’t built that way.

One side of his irritating smile fell, and he stood from the stool. “If you were together, you know she’d be ignored for weeks, sometimes months, while you’re off writing. And when you’re not writing, you’d cut her off from everyone. You don’t like people. You think being with someone like that is fair to her?” He shrugged again, backing toward the front room. “All I’m saying is, think about it. You claim to like her so much. Don’t you think she deserves better?”