Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

I felt a little silly about it, but I took a shower and did my hair, blow-drying it straight even though it made the bathroom hot. I ended up opening the skylight to let fresh air in and took the forty-five minutes required to add the curls and waves. Since I fixed my hair, I figured I might as well do my makeup too. And while I was at it, I slipped on the black wraparound dress I’d worn the evening of Lucy and Jeff’s party along with the knee-high boots.

While I got ready, I decided I would apologize to Byron for assuming he had a sensory processing disorder. I wasn’t a medical professional. What looked like sensory issues to me might’ve been something completely different, or nothing at all. Even if Amelia, as his oldest friend, agreed with me, and even though I remained convinced I was right, going around armchair diagnosing people wasn’t okay, and he deserved an apology.

When I walked out of my bedroom a full hour and a half after walking into it, my wineglass empty and Amelia nowhere to be seen, it was with determination and a repentant heart that I approached Byron. Sitting on the couch, he seemed to be reading a book.

His head came up, and his eyes went wide, moving over me. “Winnie.”

“Hi.” I tucked my hair behind my ears. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here. Have you been waiting long?”

“About fifteen minutes.” He set his book to the side.

I backed up toward the kitchen. “Are you thirsty? Or hungry? Do you want anything?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, and stood to face me. “I ate.”

I nodded, my eyes moving over him. His hair, much longer on top than on the sides, had been arranged artfully away from his face, a style he seemed to be favoring these days. He wore a grayish greenish blue T-shirt instead of his typical black, and instead of dark jeans, he wore—wait for it—blue jeans.

“Feeling blue today?” I teased.

“Amelia told me to wear this. She texted after our call.”

“What? Why?” I strolled toward him.

“I’m guessing since I’m bleaching your hair, she didn’t want chemicals to get on my black clothes.”

I drew closer. My smiled slipped as the answer to my last question made itself clear. Suddenly, I was quite, quite hot. Amelia was super sneaky. Her outfit request had nothing to do with bleaching my hair. His eyes—so beautiful and unusual in his typical attire—were startlingly vivid now, the rings of his irises blending and matching the color of his shirt.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, inspecting me.

“Nothing. It’s . . . nothing.” I was going to drown in his eyes. I couldn’t redirect my gaze. They were ridiculously mesmerizing. A gradient of burning copper and barium, a new star being born, heat and vibrancy.

“Are you sure?” Standing directly in front of me now, his hand came to my elbow as though to steady me, the warmth of his skin bleeding through the thin fabric of my dress. “You look dizzy. How much wine did you have?”

“Just the one glass.” I was dizzy. Now. Now I was dizzy. I hadn’t been dizzy before now. Think! I spotted the empty wineglass in my hand. “Where’s Amelia?”

He grimaced. “She went to her room to rest. She had too much to drink.”

I made an O with my lips and nodded while reminding myself that staring into another person’s eyes for a prolonged period of time could be interpreted as aggression.

Byron’s gaze still felt assessing, which made me feel awkward, which helped me finally tear my attention away. “Uh, so.” I tucked my hair behind my ears again, spinning away, sobering as I remembered my determination to apologize, before I’d been distracted by his . . . face. “I wanted to apologize to you for last week, for what I said.”

“Be more specific.”

I smirked at his command. Placing my empty wineglass on the counter, I turned to face him and braced a hand against the kitchen peninsula. “I’m sorry I said, or heavily implied, you have a sensory processing disorder.”

He lifted his chin as though absorbing this information.

“I’m really sorry. It was clear to me after that I blindsided you. It wasn’t a possibility you’d considered or were receptive to consider. I didn’t at all mean to imply there is anything wrong with you. I don’t see sensory disorders as something wrong, per se. Just a different way of thinking and interacting with the world. But I am really sorry if it came out that way.”

Byron’s posture remained relaxed, but something about his eyes felt withdrawn and frosty, a quality echoed in his voice as he said, “Let’s say, theoretically, for the sake of argument, I do have one or more sensory issues.”

“Okay.”

“What difference does it make?”

That’s exactly what Amelia had said. They must’ve talked about it.

“Well, if you did and you were diagnosed, literature on the subject might help you understand yourself better. And you might be able to join a support group, meet people who experience the world in a similar way. It might help both you and them feel less alone, more—”

“Normal.”

I felt my features flatten at his word choice and how he’d said it. “No.”

“Would you like me if I were more normal? More like other guys?”

I flinched, the question making my heart ache. It sounded like an accusation. “Byron. No. What do you mean, ‘like other guys’? It’s not about me and what I want or think. It’s about understanding yourself and—and—”

“I resist labels.” He cut me off, obviously rejecting my logic.

“You resist labels?”

“Correct,” he said with finality, as though that was that and the subject was now closed. The end.

I think I understood what he meant, but I didn’t like how frustrated he looked, how withdrawn and determined and angry, like he’d been mentally arguing with me about this issue all week and wouldn’t give me—or us—a chance to discuss it fully.

He could feel however he wanted. But I didn’t want him to believe I considered him to be strange or was judging him. I needed to lighten the mood, make him laugh, so he’d be open to a real conversation with me.

Trying for teasing-skeptical, I turned my head to peer at him through the corners of my eyes. “What? Like food labels? You see the daily recommended sodium intake information and think to yourself, ‘Screw you, label! You’re not the boss of me. I’ll drink sea water for breakfast. Resist!’”

He smiled as I spoke, his gaze growing hooded, much of his rigidity fracturing. Reluctant amusement, but amusement nevertheless.

“No, Fred,” he drawled. “I’m referring to labels people apply to themselves. A diagnosis, an identity, an affiliation. Especially when they had no hand or say in defining the label.”

I wrinkled my nose, not liking what he was implying. “But sometimes labels are really, really important. They help people—”

“I’m not talking about other people, I’m only talking about myself. If a label gives someone comfort, helps them understand themselves better, helps them feel like they belong and fit, whatever.” He walked over to where I stood and leaned a hip against the counter, facing me and crossing his arms. “Good for them. But I resist applying labels to myself, or being asked to define who I am, what I think, how I feel by utilizing a label.”

“Why?” I also crossed my arms.

He huffed, glaring over my head.

Reflexively, I reached out and gripped his arm. “Don’t do that. Don’t withdraw. I’m asking because I want to know.”

“Why do you want to know?” he demanded, his voice hard. “Why do I have to explain myself?”

I briefly considered letting the matter drop, letting it go. We were friends now, of a sort, and if he didn’t want to talk about himself, part of me didn’t want to push.

But the part that liked him so darn much, the part that obsessed about him when we were apart, that part needed to understand.

I let my hand drop. “I want to know you better. I like you and . . .” I shrugged and gave him a half smile. “I want to know you. I’m not asking you to explain yourself. I’m asking you to help me understand so I don’t misunderstand.”

He blinked, giving me the sense my words surprised him. “You like me now?”

I laughed at his expression. “You nerd!” I pushed his immoveable shoulder with my fingertips. “You know I do. How could you think I don’t?”

“You said you didn’t.” He said this like the answer was so obvious that he resented me asking the question.

“Weeks ago!” I shook my head at him. Did he think impressions never changed? “Admittedly, I didn’t like you when your powers of brilliance and your intimidating persona made me feel foolish. But now that I know you better and you stopped offering unsolicited career advice, that doesn’t happen anymore.” Now I just feel a lot of biological and heart-related urges. No biggie.

“I wish I’d never given you a reason to dislike me.” He sounded sorry, the words quiet and thoughtful, and his eyes dropped from mine.

“At this point, let’s chalk it up to a misunderstanding, which is why I’m asking you about yourself. Are we okay?” I bent my knees to try to catch his eyes. “We’re good? You forgive me?”

He nodded, not allowing me to make eye contact. “Would you, uh, say we’re friends now?”

“What?” I pressed my hand to my chest in mock surprise, wanting to see his smile again. “Are we labeling this? I thought you didn’t like labels.”

The side of his mouth ticked up, making my heart flutter. “Some labels serve a valuable purpose.”

“Like the label of friend?”

“And . . . others.”

“Like what?”

“Like sugar. If it weren’t labeled, I might think it’s salt.” He gave me his eyes again, full of purpose, their weight somehow heavier as they hooked into mine. “Are we friends?”

“I’d like to think so, but it’s not just up to me. So I’ll ask you the same, are we friends?”

“We are.”

“Great—”

“But I have some stipulations.”

Taken aback, I barked a laugh, shaking my head at him. “Are you serious?”

“Don’t I look serious?”

He did look serious.

Still chuckling, I crossed my arms again, apparently needing to prepare for the negotiation of our friendship. “Fine. Go ahead. What are your terms?”

“If you’re upset or unsatisfied with me, or I make you uncomfortable, you have to tell me.” Byron shuffled closer, his hand coming to lean against the counter.

“Fine. And same.”

His eyes narrowed, like my statement perplexed him. “I thought you said you didn’t want my unsolicited advice.”

“Yeah, I don’t. Not about my life choices. But if I upset you, if I do something to you that makes you angry, I want you to tell me.”

“Okay. I see the distinction.”

“Other stipulations? Is this where you finally mandate I pick all the red M&M’s out of your candy bag, and green towels only?”

His lips parted, but then his eyes sharpened with recollection. These were two of the ridiculous demands I’d postulated all those weeks ago when he’d initially offered to help me with the videos.

“I don’t like M&M’s of any color.”

I tilted my head to the side. “You like See’s candy, dark chocolate.”

He flashed a quick, stunned smile, one with teeth. “How do you know that?”

“I have my sources, and I cannot divulge them.”

“Fine. Then why do you know that?” His smile spread and his eyes did this wonderful thing, like they were eating me up, devouring every detail of my face.

It made breathing slightly more difficult, but—avoiding his question—I powered through. “What are your other stipulations?”

“Stipulations?”

“For cementing our friendship label.”

“Right.” His focus moved up and to the left. “I want to see you more often, more than just to film challenges.”

This had me smiling in a big way. “What? Really?”

“Yes. Even after we’re finished with the videos.”

I was already nodding before he’d completed his thought. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Maybe tomorrow, after sleeping on it, I’d feel a twinge of regret for my present exuberance, considering the fact that I now had a full-blown crush on this man. But that was something for me to worry about tomorrow, not now. Not when everything was going so swimmingly and the evening was filled with promise and he was talking to me without showing any signs of running from the room.

“One more thing,” he said, leaning forward, his aftershave pounding on the door of my biology and saying, Little Win, little Win, let me come in.

I tried to breathe exclusively through my mouth. “What?”

“I want you to work only when you’re being paid to do so.”

Confoundedly amused, I tried to glare at him. “No. But nice try.”

He shrugged, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “It was worth a shot.”