Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

I came home early to find Amelia sitting at the kitchen table alone, drinking a glass of wine. Oh no.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” Amelia startled, her head whipping toward me. “You’re home?”

“No after-school help hours. Next week is the last week of school, tests are over.” Dumping my bags on the chair at the head of the table, I wiped a hand across my forehead. It had been hot today, almost eighty. “So what’s going on? You’re upset about something.”

Amelia’s eyebrows tugged together. “I’m taking a page out of Byron’s book and drinking alone to drown my frustrations.”

My eyes widened at that. “Byron drinks alone?”

“Not often. Maybe once a year, or every other year. But when he does, he gets totally shit-faced. He won’t drink more than one glass in front of other people because—ack!” Amelia abruptly tensed, waving her hands around her head. “Forget I said any of that. Please. That was—Byron would kill me if he—”

“It’s fine.” I sought to relieve her anxiety, especially since this information didn’t surprise me. From our time together, I’d surmised control was a big deal for him, he’d said as much. Of course he wouldn’t want to get drunk in front of people and lose control. “I’m already forgetting. What were we talking about anyway?”

She crossed her arms and slumped low in her chair. “I’m frustrated.”

“Why?”

“It’s . . . Byron. That’s right. Today’s day drinking is brought to you by Byron Visser.” She lifted her wine as though to make a toast, her forehead lined with consternation. “Yesterday, he asked me to help him with something, and he never asks for anything. I took off work early and was excited to help—you can’t imagine how excited—but by the time I showed up, he’d changed his mind and wouldn’t let me help. He forbade me from helping.”

“Oh. That’s too bad.” I nibbled on my lip, debating, wondering if Byron would let me help. Probably not. If he hadn’t let Amelia help, he wouldn’t let anyone help.

She peered at me with what looked like hope. “Don’t you want to ask me what it was?”

Sinking into the seat across from her, I placed my phone on the table and weighed my heavy heart. “I can guess.”

“Really?” Now she looked even more hopeful.

“Yeah. I told him I thought maybe he . . .” I huffed. “Actually, that’s not true. I told him I strongly suspected he had a sensory processing disorder and now, when I reflect on the conversation, I wonder if I’d blindsided him.” I’d purposefully not called him this week, wanting to give him space. The last thing I wanted to do was make him suffer through an apology if he wasn’t ready, or willing, to hear it.

I’d replayed the conversation a hundred times and felt worse and worse about it each time, even as I became more and more certain I was correct. But if he didn’t know, if he had no idea, what right did I have to tell him of my suspicions?

Amelia sighed, the hope draining from her features. “Ah. I see.”

Desperately wanting her opinion, I blurted, “But I think he does, and if he knew for sure, it might help him understand himself better, don’t you think?”

“Byron understands himself pretty well already,” she grumbled. “He’s like one of the most self-aware people in the entire world. He’s too self-aware. What he doesn’t understand are other people.”

“You don’t think he has sensory issues?”

“Oh. He definitely does. He might’ve always known but never applied that kind of label to himself. And so what? If he’s happy with who he is—which he is . . .” Amelia’s gaze lost focus for a moment before she shook herself. “Anyway. I guess what I mean is, what difference does it make? He is who he is, and I’d be sad if he thought he had to change in order to be more normal.”

“I would too. I feel like how he processes sensory information might be his superpower. When you read his books, how he describes details, it’s so unusual and vivid and brilliant. I’d hate for him to try to change that about himself.”

She perked up again. “Would you?”

“Yeah. I would.” I eyed the bottle of wine next to her glass, debating whether to have some. It was barely past 3:30 p.m., but I had a lot I wanted to do tonight.

She sipped from her glass. “Then why try to diagnose him?”

I considered the question, mulling it over, then answered. “I think . . . I guess I want to understand him better.”

“You do?” Amelia leaned forward.

“Yes. Absolutely. And knowing he has some sensory issues, I now understand that it’s not him wanting to be rude or mean when he abruptly leaves a room. It’s that he has to put up boundaries when he feels overwhelmed in order to be healthy.” In retrospect, I had no idea how I could ever or would ever compare Byron to my uncle. They were nothing alike. “But before I realized what was actually going on with him, and we were spending time together, being with him was . . .”

“What?”

“Incredibly confusing.” My shoulders slumped from the weight of the admission. “One minute he’s cold and distant, and the next he’s just freaking amazing, and then he’s back to being frozen. But I love how he thinks, how he reasons through things when he shares that part of himself. I wish he’d talk more. I could listen to him talk for hours—days even. And he’s funny. It’s all the dry kind of humor, but I love his wittiness.” I chuckled as I thought of those five pieces of steak and all the gluten-free scones. “And he’s thoughtful.”

“He can be thoughtless, like failing to communicate necessary information, or not giving people a heads-up about his plans But you’re right, he can be thoughtful about certain things.” Amelia’s prim tone as she finished speaking brought my attention back to her face.

She wore a big—and I mean big—smile.

I straightened in my seat. “What?”

“You have the hots for him.”

All the air left my lungs as we swapped stares. It was on the tip of my tongue to deny it, but I couldn’t. Obviously, I couldn’t. And I didn’t want to. I was so tired of keeping everything bottled up inside.

Plopping my elbows on the kitchen table, I let my face fall to my hands and groaned. “Am I that obvious?”

“You were just now, yes. But prior to just now, I had no idea.”

I peeked at her from between my fingers. “Do you think he knows?”

She barked a laugh. “Uh, no. Actually, I think he has absolutely no idea.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes. Good.”

“Why good?”

“He’s Byron Visser! That’s why.” I let my hands fall to the table. Eyeing the wine bottle again, I stood and walked to the kitchen to retrieve a glass.

I hadn’t been seeking out any new stories about Byron and me on the internet, mostly because I didn’t have time, but I also didn’t want to further expose myself to the negative remarks. Toward the end of my time living with my aunt and uncle, I’d learned the value of tuning out negativity. I had to let my uncle bark at me, but I didn’t have to listen to it. If I read the comments, it was no different from voluntarily listening to my uncle tell me how stupid I was.

But, unfortunately, I didn’t need to seek the stories out. Strangers had started messaging me and leaving comments on my STEM videos, not just the videos with Byron, informing me that I wasn’t pretty enough for him, that I didn’t deserve him, demanding to know what he would want with someone like me.

I loved myself, absolutely. One hundred percent. But I defy anyone to be inundated with messages picking apart their looks, body, fashion choices, intelligence, and worthiness, and not be adversely impacted on some level. It had become so bad that I’d stopped reading all comments and turned off commenting during live videos.

“What are you talking about?” Amelia rolled her eyes at me. “He’s just Byron.”

“No. He’s not, and you know it. He’s not just anything. There’s no one like him.” I chose a stemless wineglass from the cabinet since I’d probably be drinking out of it all night.

“So? There’s no one like you either. There’s no one like me, or Elijah.”

“You’re being obtuse on purpose. I know you know what I mean.” I poured myself a glass from the open bottle. It was a heavy pour, but then this was a heavy conversation.

“I don’t know what you mean. He’s just a person.”

“He’s not. He’s—”

“What?”

I set the bottle down with a thunk. “He’s perfect.”

Something had fundamentally shifted over the last few weeks, even before it had occurred to me that he might be struggling with sensory issues, but especially since then. I now considered Byron’s bluntness—what I used to think of as rudeness—to be perfect. In a world full of second-guessing and passive aggression, I appreciated his honesty so, so much. I loved that what he said was what he meant and, now that I knew that to be the case, I could just relax and trust the words out of his mouth.

Also, I didn’t need nasty comments or direct messages telling me I was pathetic to highlight all the ways Byron was perfect. I’d spent the last several weeks with thoughts of him plaguing me day and night. I was well aware.

Amelia stared at me, visibly stunned. But then a warm, soft smile bloomed over her features and she reached across the table to grab my hand. “I am so happy to hear you say that.”

“It’s not a controversial statement. He is glorious. And his brain! I just want to—” I mimed grabbing motions with my fingers, unable to put into words how greedy I felt about his thoughts and words. “And his voice. God, I love his voice. And his hands.”

Her eyes widened and she averted them to her wine, a secretive-looking smile on her lips, but remained silent.

Sipping my wine, I watched Amelia over the rim, kinda sorta just realizing I’d confessed to being infatuated with her oldest friend, and I felt a twinge of worry. “Does this make things weird for you? That I have a thing for him?”

“What? Are you kidding? I’m ecstatic.”

“You are?” Huh. I did not see that coming. “But won’t it be awkward? You won’t be uncomfortable? Your roommate lusting after your oldest friend?”

“As you should.” She winked and wagged her eyebrows.

“So this is what I can expect? You teasing me about it?” Instead of another sip, I drank a gulp.

“Absolutely. All the teasing. You two are the best people I know. And Elijah, of course.” Amelia neatly sipped from her glass and then set it down in front of her. “Byron is just as amazing as you believe, but probably not nearly as tough as you or he thinks he is. And you are equally amazing, but much tougher than anyone gives you credit for, including yourself.”

“Hey!” I frowned. “I think I’m tough.”

“No, you don’t. But that’s a conversation for another time. My point is, I give you my blessing to lust after Byron, not that you need it. I’ll let you two figure this out on your own.” She nodded at her own assertion.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, if you like him, if you want his body, you should tell him.”

Yeah right. “It’s not that simple.” I pulled up the short sleeve of my shirt, scratching my upper arm. Since I better understood Byron’s bluntness, I had no doubt that if he’d wanted more than friendship with me, he would’ve already said something. “I don’t think he’s interested in me that way.”

At my response, Amelia threw her head back and laughed, smacking the table with her palm. She laughed and laughed, hitting the table a few more times, as though she’d never heard anything so funny.

I crossed my arms and watched her, feeling left out of the joke even as growing suspicion and hope had me cracking a smile. “Are you going to tell me what’s so funny? Do you know something I don’t?”

“I have nothing to say.” She wiped at her eyes.

“You won’t give me a hint?” This time when my stomach fluttered, I let it.

This reaction from her, laughing at my statement that I didn’t think Byron was interested in me that way, felt like less-than-subtle encouragement.

“No.” She tossed her hands in the air. “As I said, I have nothing to say on the matter.”

“Did he say something about me?” The tummy flutter became a storm.

“I couldn’t tell ya.” Amelia wrestled her smile into submission, almost managing to look innocent.

I stared at her, waiting, hoping she’d give me a hint. I really needed one. I’d played the night of Lucy and Jeff’s dinner party over and over in my head, desperately searching for some sign that he considered his feelings something other than inconvenient. But each time, three key sentences jumped out and punctured all hope.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“I don’t want or need anything from you.”

“I like you, but I don’t particularly want to.”

Taking his statements at face value was imperative. He’d meant what he said, and precisely what he’d said. So . . . maybe he’d changed his mind since then? Maybe he’d spoken to Amelia about me and things were now different?

Really, Win? Doesn’t this kind of make you pathetic? Hoping Byron will eventually like you enough to want something from you?

I covered my face again, rubbed it, and let my hands drop. I was so tired of the spin cycle in my brain.

Eyeing her, I tried a little reverse psychology, a tactic that often worked on my uncle. “I don’t think you know anything.”

She stared at me, a smile she was trying to hide pulled forcefully at her mouth.

“If you know something, if he said something to you, you would tell me.”

“Would I?”

“Yes. Now you know how I feel. And if he feels the same way about me—or even half as much—then why wouldn’t you tell me?” I shook my head. “Nah. You don’t know anything. But maybe you suspect something.”

“I do. I suspect you are smart, and lovely, and kind, and sexy as fuck, and it’s ridiculous for you to think Byron—or anyone else—wouldn’t think of you that way.”

She had it wrong. I was well aware that despite how sexy I considered myself to be, it was not far-fetched at all to think others would not view me that way. This was not a reflection of my self-worth or confidence. This was simple logic.

I had proof of this phenomenon, using myself as the control group and several guys most people considered good-looking in college as the test cases. Though I was an extreme minority, I did not find those men sexy, or good-looking, or anything close to it.

Therefore, no matter how sexy a person might objectively be to most people, there existed at least one person in the world who thought that person was actually Skeletor-meets-Gritty-the-Mascot gross. Beauty, sexiness, and attractiveness were in the eye of the beholder, and that was a universal truth. No one is sexy to everyone, just like no one is unsexy to everyone either. Which was why whether or not a particular person found me attractive never impacted my self-confidence—strokes and folks and all that.

But rather than argue the point, I licked the tip of my finger and touched my shoulder, making a sizzling sound. “I am sexy.”

“So sexy,” she agreed, her eyes growing soft. “Don’t let anyone ever, ever tell you otherwise.”

I felt my grin go brittle as my gaze fell away. She’d read the most recent comments on my videos. I knew she would. We were best friends and nerdy soul mates. But I really, really didn’t want to talk about it.

“Win—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Those people are assholes. Ignore them.”

“I am.” Yes, obviously, I wished people would stop messaging me and commenting on my videos, telling me how ugly my face looked, especially since Byron and I weren’t even together. But they did, and I was doing my best not to be altered by any of it.

“When was the last time you talked to Byron?”

“About a week ago.” I grimaced, then groaned. “When I told him I thought he had a sensory processing disorder.”

“Have you told him yet? Have you spoken to him about the shitty comments? Does he know people are doing this to you?”

I shook my head.

“Winnie! What? Why? You need to tell him.” She smacked the table.

I lifted an eyebrow at the sound. Amelia seemed to be hitting the table a lot tonight. “Why would I? I can deal with it. It’s fine. I can ignore them.”

Her glare told me she didn’t believe me.

“It’s a small price to pay if it means I get that community manager position, pay back my student loans, all while spreading the good word of STEM to hundreds of thousands of people I never would’ve had the opportunity to reach.”

“Both are allowed to be true. You’re allowed to be grateful for the followers and irritated by the trolls’ mean, sucky behavior.”

“I know,” I said, unable to keep the hint of defensiveness from my voice. “I’m not saying I’m not upset, but I’m trying not to think about it. I’m grateful for the exposure, the followers, the new people I’m reaching, and trying to focus on the positive. I’m also ready for the weekend. Can we talk about something else?”

“Fine. But you have to promise me you’ll come to me and rant if you need to.”

“I promise. But for tonight, I’m looking forward to Stardew and chill.”

“Oh!” She snapped her fingers, then pointed at me. “I know, call Byron. See if he wants to come over and play Stardew Valley tonight.”

I glanced at my phone to check the time. “Are you serious?” She had to be joking.

“Maybe. Why? What’s up?”

I gestured to the Rite Aid bag I’d placed on the chair earlier. “I was going to dye my hair tonight—for my series on the science of hair—but I guess I could do it tomorrow. Do you—what makes you think he’d want to play with me?”

Amelia’s eyebrows jumped, her eyes growing comically wide.

I rolled my eyes, ignoring the blush caused by my poor phrasing. “I meant, play with us. Play Stardew with us. Does he play?”

She seemed to consider my question, tapping her chin while examining me. “Byron likes to . . .” Her eyes narrowed, like picking just the right words was a struggle. “Like you, he likes to play. But never with others, and definitely not with just anyone.”

Frowning, I picked up my wineglass. “Then why do you think he’ll play with us?”

She blew out a breath, puffing her cheeks. “Call it a hunch. Oh!” She snapped her fingers again. “Or—and just hear me out—you could have Byron come over and bleach your hair.”

I scoffed, snorting. “He’d never do that.”

“You don’t know unless you ask.” Once again trying to look innocent, Amelia took a dainty sip of wine.

Glancing at the ceiling, I shook my head. “I bet you a week’s worth of dinners, Byron Visser will have no interest in dyeing my hair.” I hoped that by baiting her she’d inadvertently reveal something (assuming there was anything to reveal). This was another tactic that had worked with Uncle Jacob.

But Amelia couldn’t be manipulated into divulging anything. Grinning widely, she nudged my phone closer to my wineglass and lifted her chin toward it. “Go ahead. Call him. And put it on speaker.”

“Why? What do you think he’ll say?”

She nudged my phone again. “Do it.”

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

I inspected her. “Fine. But I want sausage with my pancakes this week.”

“Just call him,” she sing-songed, wiggling gleefully in her seat.

Finding his contact information quickly, I ignored the escalating rhythm of my heart and hit the Call button, twisting my hands on my lap.

He answered on the second ring. “Fred.”

My chest tightened, hot and spiky. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

I glanced at my roommate. She looked like the Cheshire Cat. “Amelia is also here. I have you on speaker.”

“Hey Byron!” she said in her best Kristen Wiig Target Lady impression. “Long time no talk.”

I squinted at her. She looked positively beside herself with excitement even as she returned my squint, her shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Was she . . . drunk?

“What did you do, Amelia?” Tone dark and foreboding, Byron did not sound pleased with her.

“Nothing!” She giggled, shaking her head and clearing her throat as though to dispel the laughter and get control of herself. Then to me she whispered, “Ask him.”

“How much wine have you had?” I whispered back.

“Ask me what?” Surprisingly, Byron no longer sounded irritated. He sounded interested.

“Uh,” I split my attention between Amelia and the wine bottle, which I could now see was a quarter full. “Byron, do you want me to take you off speaker?”

“No, it’s fine. Let Ames have her way. What do you want to ask?”

I leaned forward, looked at my cell’s screen and realized I didn’t have a picture assigned for him as a contact. When we spoke on the phone, he was represented by a gray circle with a capitol B. “It’s not a big deal, but I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“Anything,” he said.

Amelia clamped a hand over her mouth, her big eyes dropping to the table. She must be drunk.

“You might regret saying that. Are you comfortable doing a video not included on my list? It’s STEM related, not a challenge.” I set my forearms on the table and pressed my palms together. Was I really going to ask him this? Suddenly, I felt foolish.

“Go on. What is it?”

I breathed through another bout of spiky lungs syndrome. Goodness. It was great to hear his voice. I hoped he’d come over, and this hope gave me bravery. “First, please say no if you don’t want to do it.”

“Fred. Ask.”

“Fine. Okay. Here goes. I’ve already recorded several videos on the science of hair—this was a few weeks ago—but I haven’t posted them yet.”

“The science of hair?”

“Yes. I reviewed what hair color is, why people have the hair color they do—like redheads and Neanderthals—the origin of hair colors, the genetics involved in determining hair color and texture, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh. Okay. Informative.”

His praise pulled a smile from me, some of my nerves settling. “Then for the last video—and this is where I need your help—I want to record someone helping me dye my hair blond.”

Silence. Then, “You want to bleach your hair?” He sounded a little winded.

“Yeah. I want to talk about the chemical process of coloring hair, what it does, and I’ve always wanted to go completely blond, like bright platinum blond, so I thought it’d be a good way to cap off the series and tie in to the chemical compounds video I did in April. I’ll post the hair videos from now until August. And since next week is the last week of school, I’ll have all summer to grow it out if I don’t like it.”

His side went quiet. After several seconds, I tapped on the screen to make sure the call hadn’t dropped. According to my cell and the gray circle with the big B, he was still connected.

“Byron? Are you there?”

“I like your hair now.”

“Okay. . .?” I glanced at Amelia. She still had her hand over her mouth, her eyes affixed to the table like she didn’t trust herself to speak or look at me.

“Are you certain you want to bleach it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll help.”

I tried not to laugh. He sounded so resolved, like he’d just agreed to go into battle, not help me dye my hair blond.

“Oh! Okay. Great! Thanks—”

“But I have a stipulation.”

The sigh I released probably sounded like a deflating tire, and yet I couldn’t help but smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I want . . .”

“Yes?”

“You’re not allowed to ask me why I want this particular stipulation.”

Amelia rolled her eyes, finally dropping her hand from her mouth so she could take another sip of her wine.

“Okay. Fine. What is it?”

“I want a picture of you with your hair down, in your current color, like it was the night of Jeff and Lucy’s dinner party.”

My lashes fluttered. “You . . . what?” I asked breathlessly. He wanted a picture of me?

Flattered.

That’s how I felt. Pleased and a little excited and a whole lot flattered. I was right, Amelia had been trying to give me encouragement earlier. My brain and heart were buoyant.

But then he said, grumpy and demanding, “No questions.”

His tone didn’t bother me or diminish my buoyancy one bit. “Well, I need to know more details. Can it be an old picture? I don’t—I can look through my phone, but I don’t think I have a recent picture with my hair like that.”

“I want it to be recent. How about I take it when I come over?”

“I guess so.” I touched the messy braid lying over my shoulder. “But then I’ll have to wash and style it tonight, and that’s—”

“Perfect. Agreed. Bye.”

He hung up.

Smiling quizzically at my phone, I gave my head a little shake. “He wants to take a picture of me before I dye it blond.”

“Yep. Typical Byron.” Leaning forward, she refilled her glass. “He did something similar to me when I decided to cut my hair in eighth grade. And when our friend James in high school grew a beard, he wanted a photo of him without it. He doesn’t always do well with change.”

Ah. So maybe I shouldn’t be flattered. Now I laughed at myself and my ping-ponging thoughts. Trying to keep track of what I was feeling for Byron compared to what I thought I should be feeling for Byron was absolutely exhausting.

I made a face to hide my disappointment, joking, “Or maybe he has a hair fetish?”

“Ha! No. It’s any change. Like when my parents sold our old house to move into a bigger one, he took a video of the house before we sold it and took a few pictures of us out in front. You’ve probably seen them on his mantel at his house.”

“Oh, yeah.” I wondered when those pictures had been taken. Amelia was taller than Byron in the photos by about six inches. Now he had at least four inches on her five foot nine.

“When I move out of here,” she continued, standing from the table, “he’ll probably come over and insist we take pictures. Should I open another bottle?”

My heart stuttered, then stopped at her words. Plummeting distress sent my stomach to my toes.

“Win?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” I gulped the remainder of my glass. I’d been so busy and preoccupied over the last few weeks, I’d forgotten about the hints Amelia and Elijah had been dropping about moving in together. Or maybe I’d been purposefully ignoring them, pushing them from my mind. I thought I had more time. But the way she’d said it—

When I move out of here . . .

Not if. When.

They’d probably been waiting until the school year was over.

“I’ll text Byron to bring some over too.” Amelia pulled out her phone. “And maybe Serena can come over tonight.”

Our mutual friend hadn’t come over last week since I’d been so busy. She said she wanted to wait until we could all play together.

“What about Byron? Last week you said he wouldn’t want to come if Serena were here.”

Amelia blew a raspberry. “He can just deal with it. If he wants to see you, he’ll have to suffer through Serena.”