Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

Concentration, thinking, and speaking about anything other than Winnifred Gobaldi were quickly becoming Herculean tasks.

Walter, the intimacy and sex coach from whom I’d been receiving theory instruction since arriving in New York, had warned me this would occur. He’d stated that if I loved Winnie as I claimed, when or if she and I breached the intimacy barrier with purposeful consent, my desire for her as well as my anxiousness for her good regard might multiply rather than attenuate.

At the time, unable to fathom how such a phenomenon could be possible, I’d doubted him. In Seattle, the intensity had already approached painful, well on the road to agonizing. How could it possibly get any worse?

Today, he’d been proven correct. Less than eighteen hours after succumbing, now that I’d touched her and held her in my arms as she’d broken into pieces while panting my name, now that I’d felt her come around my fingers, smelled her arousal and the sweet scent of her sweat heavy in the room, thoughts of recreating the experience—again and again, in a multitude of different ways, in a multitude of different places—consumed me. As did my anxiety at her hasty, angry departure.

I’d erred. I’d made her unhappy. I needed to make things right.

“We have one more interview. How’re you doing?” Pamela, my manager, approached, halting approximately three feet from my shoulder.

Pamela had reconvened the interviews fifteen minutes after Winnie had left me alone in the big suite. I’d utilized the time by sitting in the dark bedroom and replaying every moment of our encounter on a loop.

I’d deduced Winnie’s dissatisfaction, which she did not wish to communicate for unknown reasons, had been caused by the taste of sperm. She’d appeared earnestly eager every moment precluding my climax, even touching herself during the act. But when I’d tried to kiss her after, she’d wanted to rinse out her mouth first.

Fucking. Goddamn. Sperm.

I couldn’t be certain, but I further hypothesized that since, by her own admission, she’d never given a blow job before today, Winnie had never been the recipient of oral sex either. Perhaps her initial (evidently repulsive) exposure to cum made her question whether her own body would be similarly distasteful? And this fear, this desire to spare me from discomfort, was—I assumed—why she didn’t wish for me to go down on her.

My last several interviews had been spent working through this particular portion of the problem, reaching this particular conclusion, and wishing I could rewind time.

I didn’t often entertain regret, but how I wished I’d gone down on her first. I doubted she’d ever let me now, and I could weep—or punch something, or run a marathon—at the unbearable tragedy of my lost opportunity.

The only mystery that remained was why she’d refused to tell me she disliked the taste. Why not tell me the truth? Did she believe me so fragile? Incapable of receiving feedback? And how could I change this perception? What could I do, change, say to prove I could be trusted? Whatever she needed.

“Byron?” Pamela shuffled a few inches closer. “Are you okay? Can we do the last interview?”

I’d forgotten my manager stood at my shoulder, forgotten she’d asked me about my current state of mind, forgotten where I was.

“Yes, sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes with the base of my palms. “Please proceed. Thank you for your patience.”

I couldn’t wait for this gauntlet to end. Every interview had been a different shade of beige except Harry Lorher, the asshole who’d questioned me about my biological mother. I should’ve been fine. I’d been preparing for today, for going to restaurants, for stepping out in public and engaging in conversations with strangers. I had confidence in my abilities. In addition to taking theory lessons in intimacy and sex from Walter, I’d used the remainder of the last month in New York wisely.

Intense, one-on-one therapy with a world-renowned expert in sensory processing disorders, applying myself to learning coping skills, had absorbed four days of each week since leaving Seattle. I’d also learned to prepare and cook gourmet gluten-free meals every Saturday. A one-day, six-hour class on living with someone with celiac spanned a full Saturday in the middle of the month. Additionally, I’d taken a short course on classroom management each Monday, which afforded me the opportunity of visiting several local middle schools to observe.

I wanted to understand Winnie. I wanted to be better equipped and experienced for her. And for myself, I needed to know we had a fighting chance at building a future. But all the preparation in the world wouldn’t matter if she didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth.

Presently, and despite all the progress I’d made over the last twenty-seven days, the shirt I currently wore itched, the studio lights stung my eyes, and the murmuring conversation originating from my publishing team in the corner revolted my senses like cockroaches crawling behind my brain.

So, yes, I needed this gauntlet of interactions to end. I needed to find Winnie and convince her I could be trusted. I needed her to understand that I would do whatever was necessary to be the kind of partner she deserved, not just for her benefit, but also—and mainly, selfishly—for mine.

Pamela left my side.

The interviewer arrived.

I lifted my eyes and settled a soft focus over the person’s head.

They asked their inane questions and I answered with inane responses, a paint-by-numbers conversation. Minutes stretched on and on, our rote exchange the equivalent of watching a tea kettle heat on the stove, until—at long last—it ended seconds before I boiled over.

Launching myself out of the chair, I strolled past the faces of people I should know but whose names I couldn’t remember in the moment. Cell phone retrieved from my back pocket, I exited the suite, walked down the hall, and arrived at the elevator, all while texting Winnie.

Byron: I’m finally finished with my interviews. If you want to talk, I am ready. If not, I can wait. Either way, what I would greatly appreciate right now is you in my arms, on a bed, somewhere quiet and dark—assuming you wish to see me at all.

Rereading the words prior to sending, I stepped into the elevator without looking up. As the doors slid shut, I nodded at the clear, concise message. Trusting Winnie to tell me to fuck right off if she were still angry, I hit send.

Only then did I look up from my phone and realize I shared the elevator car with Harry Lorher, the asshole interviewer from this morning.

“Mr. Visser.” He smirked, inclining his head, his unctuous stare slithering over me. “What a coincidence.”

“Fuck off.” I turned my glare to the “smart” phone that had just been responsible for making me stupid and careless. Checking the text I’d sent seconds ago, I saw Winnie hadn’t yet read my message.

The man made a sound like a tsk. “You know everything you say to me is on the record. I’ll have to print that. I owe it to my readership to let them know if you’re the entitled, privileged, spoiled snowflake you pretend to be. On the other hand, you could change my mind.”

“Quote me on this: Anyone who purposefully reads your sedimentary fecal residue is a leeching shit stain and can also fuck off.” I glared at the panel of numbers, realizing I hadn’t yet selected a floor and neither had he. Reaching forward, I chose the lobby. The last thing I needed was this asshole knowing where he could find me.

Harry Lorher chuckled, and I sensed him turn to face me. “So hostile, and for no reason. I’m giving you a chance to set the record straight and let people know your side. I just want to talk. I don’t understand why you’re so antagonistic when anyone tries to know you, understand you. Don’t you owe your readership more than one honest interview every five years? Don’t they deserve to know who you are?”

I said nothing and I tuned him out, counting the floors as we descended. Like throwing pebbles at a boulder, he repeated the same questions as before—about my mother, about her response to my success, about my feelings on being called a mistake. Thankfully, he only talked, he didn’t approach or try to touch me. But by the time the elevator doors opened on the ground floor and I walked out, my nerves were shot. All I wanted was a tight, soft, heavy blanket and a dark room void of sound, light, and assholes.

Or, more precisely, a dark room void of everything but Winnie.

I escaped Harry Lorher by entering the room service kitchens where I’d cooked Winnie’s breakfast earlier that morning. The walk-in freezer wasn’t dark, but it was dim, and it provided relative quiet. Unfortunately, it also didn’t have any cell reception. Putting the phone away, I waited.

I waited, leaning against shelves stacked with frozen hamburger, and closed my eyes to count my breaths, one number for every inhale and exhale until I reached ten. Then I began again. I waited, tucking my hands beneath my arms to keep them warmish, my shirt no longer itching but rather offering necessary insulation. I waited until nothing seemed loud, not even the inside of my brain or the hum of the freezer’s compressor, and only then did I open my eyes and check my watch. The interviews had ended over forty minutes ago.

Time to leave.

Withdrawing a pair of small over-the-ear Bluetooth headphones from my shirt pocket, I set the app on my phone to a playlist of Seattle rain sounds. I then shoved my hands in my pant pockets and strolled through and out of the kitchens, my attention alert for Harry Lorher, or any of the other interviewers, or any person whose face sparked with recognition upon spotting mine.

Thankfully, I didn’t see Harry Lorher, and no one approached by the time I made it to the private elevators by the VIP check-in. I thought about confirming with the concierge to ensure Winnie’s gluten-free dinner had been sent up, but I decided against it. I didn’t wish to speak at present.

Navigating to the suite proved equally uneventful, but—to be certain—I walked past my door twice, doubling back. Content and convinced no one followed me, or watched, or tracked, or traced, I tugged off my headphones, returned them to my shirt pocket, retrieved my key card, and opened the door to the suite.

The image of Winnie filled my vision upon entering, sitting on the little couch, her laptop balanced on her lap, a cup of tea in her hand. A peaceful oasis, everything kindness, tranquility, and beauty. Tension left my neck and lower back. I exhaled a silent breath, and she turned her head toward me, eyes the shade of sweet spice connecting with mine.

“Hey,” she said softly, lifting her laptop and placing it on the coffee table, a frown pulling her eyebrows together. “Where have you been? Did you get my text?”

“I didn’t get your text,” I managed, my throat dry and rusty. I remained by the door, ready to leave if she wished. The mere idea of leaving her now made my lungs cramp in revolt and my bones brittle with exhaustion. Yet I would go if she still needed space.

Setting her tea down next to her laptop, she walked over to me, her fingers twisting in front of her. “Your manager called to check on you, said your number went straight to voice mail. I tried calling too. It’s been forty-five minutes. Where have you been?”

“Sorry. I was. . . sorry.” Too much had happened, the questions Mr. Lorher asked were not ones I’d ever willingly discussed with anyone. But I would tell her the story as soon as I could. Contemplating the events in this present moment felt too much like reliving them. I changed the subject. “May I stay?”

“What? Stay?” Her lovely gaze filled with confusion.

“Do you want me to go? Do you need space?”

“No. Stay. Please stay.” Winnie reached for my hand with both of hers, her body stiffening as our skin made contact. “Byron, why are you so cold?”

At her touch, some fundamental aspect within me eased, a cellular shift. My throat loosened, breathing came easier, spoken words and internal thoughts were friends again. These same phenomena had occurred last night on the way home from the restaurant.

“May we discuss it later?” I asked, eternally grateful for this woman who wove both serene and chaotic magic into the tapestry of my life, seemingly without ever consciously trying. “I’ll tell you, but not right now.”

“Okay.” She pulled me forward, toward the couch. Her phone buzzed and chimed on the coffee table. She didn’t glance at it, but she did change direction, moving us toward the bedroom as though rethinking and then readjusting our destination. “Do you still want to cuddle on the bed?”

Oh God. Yes. Please. Fuck, yes, I thought.

But all I said was, “Please.”

Judging by her grin, the single word must’ve sounded heavy with the entirety of my viewpoint on the subject.

“Hard day?” Her phone buzzed and chimed as she spoke. Then chimed and buzzed again.

I considered the question. I wanted to ask her about earlier, when she’d left me, but not now. Not yet. Not until I could figure out how to prove I was trustworthy.

Presently, she smiled just for me, beauty personified after so much ugliness. I wanted what she offered in this moment, and I couldn’t think beyond it to my earlier concerns.

Thus, determined to keep things simple between us, I decided to answer her question with a double meaning. “Some parts were harder than others.”

She laughed, her eyes dancing. Winnie opened her mouth, hopefully to respond in kind, but her phone rang, bringing us to a halt on our journey to the bedroom. Frowning, she leaned to the side and inspected the screen. Then, releasing me, she picked up the phone and rejected the call.

“It’s Amelia. I’ll call her later,” she explained, reaching for my hand again.

My attention snagged on her computer screen. “Am I interrupting? Do you need to work?”

“No. Not at all.” Her lips curved, her gaze seemed hazy as they continued to hold mine. “I’m just checking the status of some applications I submitted. No biggie.”

“Applications?” I frowned at her computer, then at her. “Are you wanting to switch schools?”

“Oh, no. It’s not for teaching jobs. It’s for a side-hustle.”

“Side-hustle? I thought you were going to work for Amelia’s company?”

“Well, I didn’t get an interview for that position.” She tugged on my hand. “So I decided to apply for similar ones.”

I didn’t move.

Her phone rang again. Again, she glanced at the screen and rejected it.

“You didn’t get an interview?” Floored by this news, I peered at her phone. “Does Amelia know? Is that why she’s calling you?”

“No, Amelia doesn’t know. But it’s fine. Actually, it all worked out really well.”

“It worked out well?” What? Why wasn’t she upset?

“It did work out well, and now it’s fine.” She shrugged, like all the work she’d done, all the hateful comments she’d endured, like it was all just nothing. Like her feelings were nothing.

I blinked at her, endeavoring to bring her more sharply into focus. She’d wanted that job desperately enough to do those challenges when she couldn’t stand breathing the same air as me. Her shrugging it off now couldn’t have made less sense.

“You really wanted that job.”

“I did, but—like I said—it’s fine.”

Fine?

“No. It’s not fine. They didn’t even call you for an interview? You need to talk to Amelia.” A suspicion, a hunch if you will, held me in place. A sense that an imminently unraveling mystery lay just beyond the horizon of this conversation persisted, and it demanded I abandon my plans for simplicity.

She let my hand drop. “No, I don’t. I don’t want to bother her with it.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “What are you talking about? How would it be a bother? She’s your best friend, you’ve known her for years, you two—”

My building rant was cut off by the sound of Winnie’s phone ringing again. She glared at the screen and answered via speakerphone. “Hi, Amelia. I have you on speaker. Byron had a hard day and—”

“I’m not calling about Byron. Winnie, we need to talk. It’s important. Where are you?”

“We’re in the suite, but—”

“I’ll be right there.”

Winnie spun away from me and paced over to the window. “Can it wait? We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“I’m sorry, it can’t. I just got an email from my work with the final list of candidate interviews, and you’re not on the list. I don’t understand what happened, but I wanted you to know, I’ll take care of it. I’ll figure it out and get you on that list.”

Winnie peeked at me, her lips pressed in a line, and she took Amelia off speaker. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

What the hell was wrong with her? Was she a robot? Did she not have feelings? Why wasn’t she upset? Why hadn’t she gone to Amelia?

I didn’t hear what Amelia said in response, but I imagined it closely resembled what I’d been thinking. Winnie huffed and appeared flustered.

“No. No, stop. Honestly, don’t worry about it. I’m not surprised. They never called, and—”

Amelia shrieked, saying What, or What the hell, or something similar, necessitating that Winnie hold the phone away from her ear. I didn’t follow precisely what came after, but it sounded like a lament and a tirade, which elicited another loud exhale from Winnie.

“Calm down. I’m fine. It’s totally okay. I—Amelia? Amelia?” She removed the phone from her ear again and looked at the screen. “She hung up!” Winnie turned to face me, her eyes wide with shock as they studied the phone. “I can’t believe she hung up on me.”

“She’s angry,” I gritted out, working to control my own rising temper. “Can you blame her?”

Her shocked gaze moved to me. “Why should she be angry with me? I didn’t do anything.”

Exactly. I paced over to her, reminding myself not to yell when all I wanted to do was erupt. “I know you asked me to cease giving you unsolicited advice, and I promised I would, but I’m breaking that promise. I was wrong. Never expecting anything from other people doesn’t mean you have no self-worth, Winnie. It means you don’t give other people enough credit, you don’t believe they have worth.”

“W—what?” She winced. “What are you talking about?”

I backed away rather than lean into her space. “Why didn’t you ask Amelia for help?”

“Like I said, I didn’t want to be a bother.”

“Can you hear yourself? She’s your best friend. It wouldn’t have been a bother. Why can’t you ask for help?”

Her mouth opened and closed to no purpose and I knew. I knew. I could see where before I’d been blind.

“All this time . . .” My stare grew unfocused. “I thought I needed to change and learn to deserve you, for you to trust me. But that’s never been it, has it?”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never—”

“You once claimed that I treated you like an infant, but it’s the other way around. You treat everyone like an infant. Everyone. Assuming they’re going to let you down or aren’t capable of functioning at your level. You think you’re better.”

Winnie gasped, and before my eyes I witnessed her temper catch up with mine. “I do not!”

“You do. And you know what? You are. You’re fucking amazing. But you never expect anyone else to be anything but incapable of measuring up. Or you only expect them capable of letting you down.” I turned and paced to the other side of the room, unable look at her. All the pieces were coming together too quickly.

She followed me, tripping over her words. “You—you are capable. You—”

“I think you even admitted it once. You said—that morning in my room—you said you never asked for what you wanted. You said something like you knew better than to be brave. Do you love me?” I asked, speaking stream of consciousness, unable to shut the hell up since it all made so much perfect, elegant, horrible sense. Her patience, her easygoing acceptance of everything and everyone, no matter how poorly they treated her.

“I—I love—”

“No, Win,” I ground out. “Not like that. I know you love everyone. Are you in love with me? Are you invested? Would your heart be broken if we didn’t work out? Would you be devastated?”

Her breathing changed again, grew labored, her eyebrows pulling together. “I’d understand if you decided—”

“That.” I snapped my fingers, pointing at her, perhaps appearing a bit wild. “Right there. That’s the problem.”

“Problem?”

“I don’t want you to understand if I let you down. I don’t want you to understand if I’m an asshole. I want you to expect better. I want you to expect everything.”

Crossing her arms, Winnie lifted her eyes to the ceiling, now glassy with unshed tears, her chin wobbling forcefully.

And just like that, all the anger and frustration evaporated, leaving behind only a sour flavor of misery. I had no way to fix this. She had to fix this.

“Okay. Byron, listen.” She pressed her palms together, clearly fighting to keep her tone even. “You—you asked me yesterday if it would be so bad to push you out of your comfort zone. But I don’t know how to do that. I don’t want to pressure you. I don’t want to hurt your feelings or make you—”

“Why the hell not? Pressure me, Winnie! Pressure me to be everything you deserve.” I captured her hands between mine. “Expect me to exceed your expectations. When you don’t, when you make excuses for me or assume I’m going to disappoint you—that disappointment is all I’m capable of—can’t you see that makes it impossible for you to love me? If you’re always guarding your heart, it’s never open to me.”

“I don’t understand you.” She turned her fingers, tangling them with mine. “How can you say you’re a disappointment? You are hugely talented, and—and successful. Your books are—”

“I’m not referring to fame and money. We both know those are meaningless to you.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“You do not treat me or speak to me as though you believe I am capable.” I extracted myself from her grip. “And if I hadn’t just witnessed that phone call with Amelia, I would’ve taken it personally. But I see now, I understand now, it’s not personal. If you—what did you say? You don’t want to bother her? If you’re not willing to bother Amelia, your closest friend of six years who has proven herself countless times, how can I ever trust you to bother me?”

She reached out and grabbed my arm, her grip like a vice. “That’s completely unfair.” Her voice wavered but she didn’t cry. She was too stubborn to cry.

“Which part?” I asked softly, though I could guess her answer.

“All of it. I do not think I am better than anyone else. And coming from you, you who can’t stand anyone, or give anyone the time of day, or—”

“I do not like people. I have never claimed to enjoy people. But you do. And why is that? Why do you like them when you believe people—all people, even me, even Amelia—will eventually disappoint you in some horrible, unforgivable way?”

Her mouth snapped shut, her eyes betraying uncertainty, and I could see I’d hit a nerve. I’d spoken a truth about her, one she’d taken as self-evident and never, or seldom, examined for veracity.

“You don’t know this, but—” I had to clear my throat in order to speak around the cinching tightness. “I thought I was a problem. I thought I needed coaching and classes. I thought I could learn how to be what you need. I thought I could be better for both of us. I want to be. But can I? Will you ever trust me enough to be honest with me? Is there anyone you’re honest with?”

Her breathing had quickened, and I could see her uncertainty persisted, yet she swallowed rather than spoke.

And what could she say? I was right.

Shaking my head as I shook her hand off, I placed essential distance between us, wanting to see her clearly before I left. I needed to leave. I needed to dissect this new problem that, quite possibly, had no answer. It wasn’t something I could solve by myself. No classes or courses existed for me to take. I wasn’t the one who needed to change.

“Byron, I—” She gulped, her fingers twisting. “I want to be honest with you.”

“Do you?” I backed away toward the door.

“I do. But I don’t . . .” she said, her tone croaky and cracking. “What if you don’t want me anymore? What if I’m honest, and then you stop loving me? Or what if my expectations are too high? Or what if I push you when I shouldn’t? What if I lose you?”

Her questions drove the air from my lungs. I found I needed a second or ten to find my voice before I could respond. “Before I left Seattle, when we were in my bedroom and we fought, you accused me of wanting everything immediately, on my terms, without risking anything in return. That’s what you’re doing to me right now.”

Her face began to crumple, and the sight plucked at my internal strings of shame and remorse. I hated her tears. I loathed her sadness. I wanted only her happiness. But if there was one experience with which I had intimate familiarity, it was that love isn’t love when it enables selfish, destructive behavior. Love isn’t love when it makes excuses for abusive and hurtful choices. It becomes twisted, a perversion. It becomes cowardice.

Even so, the instinct to comfort her and apologize nearly overwhelmed the knowledge that coddling her now would only cause our ruin later. Thankfully, she regained control over her features before I could lose control of myself.

“The thing is, Fred. Standing on this side of your fortified heart? It makes me feel like shit.” I backed toward the door, not knowing where I’d go. Perhaps back to the numbing freezer. “So far, the way I see it, knowing what I know now, I’m the only one who has been taking any risks here. If you want me, if you want to be with me, you’re going to have to risk more than your pride. It’s not enough. Like you, I deserve more. I deserve everything.”