Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

We debated what to do on the way back to our apartment, opting to walk in the rain instead of taking the light rail. I still wanted to delete the video. I thought that’s what Byron would want, and the longer it was up, the more people would see it.

Amelia remained adamant that we call Byron first, that deleting it might bring it more attention than leaving it up. In the end, she convinced me not to delete it yet, mostly because nothing could ever truly be deleted from the internet, and to leave a voice mail on his cell. Byron was likely to hear about it—from his publicist, publisher, or agent—soon. Better for us to tell him, so we could apologize profusely.

“I’ll call him again.” Amelia tossed her keys into the basket by the front door as we entered and then draped her rain jacket on a kitchen chair. “I’ll call him and tell him it was my fault, then you ask him to call back when he can, and that’ll be it.”

I trailed after her, dumping my belongings on the table, and peeled off my coat. “What can we do to make this better? Should I make him cupcakes? What does he like?”

“He likes darkness, rain, and silence,” she replied, then laughed. “Actually, like you, he likes See’s candy. Dark chocolate. But don’t buy him any, my apology should suffice. Hopefully.” She chewed on her thumbnail. “Okay, let’s do this and wait for him to call us back. That’s all we can do.”

I didn’t want to wait. The longer we waited, the more eyes would see that video. “How mad do you think he’ll be? On the Muppet Scale?”

Our junior year of college, we binged The Muppet Show and often used the Muppet Scale to describe how angry we or others were in any particular situation. It’s difficult to stay angry when discussing the Muppets, with Sam the Eagle at the low end and Miss Piggy finding Kermit canoodling with another pig on the high end.

“Maybe Kermit being kept in the dark about the banana sketch?” Amelia made a considering face, darting into the kitchen and flipping on the tea kettle.

“That mad?” I tucked my hands under my chin to warm my fingers.

She set her phone on the counter between us, blowing out a breath that made her cheeks puff as the phone rang on speaker. “Okay, here goes nothing.”

He answered after one ring. “Amelia.”

“Byron!” She stared at me over our kitchen counter, her expression pained and panicky and likely a mirror image of mine. “You answered.”

“Yeah.” The sound of his deep voice made my stomach swirl and tense. Oh God. This is going to be bad. “What’s up?”

“Uh . . . Heeey,” she said weakly, licking her lips. “How ya doing, Byron?”

“What’s wrong?”

Amelia grimaced. “What makes you think anything is—”

“You’ve called me ten times and haven’t left any messages. You okay? What happened?”

“I’m fine. But—” Amelia placed both hands flat on the countertop and lowered her head, looking defeated. “Okay, okay. Here’s the deal, I’m going to get straight to the point.”

“Please don’t. You know I adore playing your little guessing games.”

“Holster the sarcasm for five minutes and listen. So—” she gathered a deep breath “—I made a mistake.”

“Okay . . .?”

I unfurled my fingers to cup my neck on either side, my hands still freezing. This was it. She’d tell him and he’d lose his fracking mind. I just knew it.

In what I considered a huge overreaction, Byron had taken down all his social media accounts after a fan shared a recording of him at Comic-Con. He’d been comforting a crying reader who’d become overwhelmed with emotion upon meeting him. His arm around her shoulders, he consoled her, letting her cry against his chest while the whole of the internet swooned at his display of compassion. Even I—who avoided him at all costs—thought the whole thing had been sweet. Astonishing, but sweet.

Meanwhile, he’d been so angry about being filmed without his consent, Byron had deleted all his profiles the week after it had gone viral.

I’d never discussed the matter with him or asked why he’d taken such drastic action after such a benign recording. Nor had I been privy to his wrath at the time. However—given his reaction to a video that made him look like a saint—I felt certain he’d reach at least that level of angry now.

“And, well, here’s what happened”—Amelia scrunched her eyes shut—“I accidentally live-streamed that video of you and Winnie yesterday, it uploaded and posted. But I swear, I thought I’d saved it in drafts. And I didn’t realize what had happened until this morning.”

I tucked my fists under my chin again, shifting my weight from foot to foot, staring at the phone on the counter and half expecting it to explode, or at least start smoking like in a cartoon.

But it didn’t. Byron said nothing.

Several seconds ticked by, then several more.

Amelia opened one eyelid and then the other. “Byron? Did you hear me?”

“I did.”

We looked at each other. I could see his serene tenor did nothing to ease her anxiety.

She soldiered on. “And now it’s been viewed, uh, almost two million times.”

“Huh.” Sounds from his side told us that he’d stood or moved in some way. “Well that explains all the other calls this morning.”

“From whom?”

“Publisher, agent, publicist.”

“What did they say?” Amelia asked while we traded another stare, and I knew she was thinking what I was thinking.

He sounded too calm. Granted, I’d never witnessed an angry Byron. With me, he was all robotic monotone and boredom. The closest I’d ever seen him to approaching truly angry had been yesterday when Jeff messed up all our takes. And even then, he’d been mostly chill.

But I assumed, since he and Amelia had been friends forever, she’d seen him angry before.

“I didn’t answer the calls,” Byron said, his tone still unruffled.

“Right, of course you didn’t.” Amelia sent the ceiling a beseeching look. “But listen, it’s not Winnie’s fault. She had no idea.”

Complete silence on his end. Then, “Does she know?”

“I told her before I called you. We were going to leave you a message together.”

Another pause, the sound of something rolling over hardwood—maybe an office chair? “Is she there?”

“Yes, she’s right here, and you’re on speaker. But this is my mistake so I’m the one telling you.”

Byron cleared his throat. “What does she want to do?”

“I don’t know. But she thought you would want to delete it. I figured we should check with you first.”

“Why delete it?” he asked, like the very idea was preposterous, maybe the worst idea ever. “If it’s been viewed almost two million times, that’s good, right? She has new followers?”

“Yes, but—” Amelia glanced at me, looking for help.

I sighed, yanked up my proverbial big-girl pants despite feeling slightly nauseous, and stepped up to explain my reasoning. “Hey, Byron.”

“Fred.”

I slid my teeth to the side but powered through the spike of irritation at his use of “Fred.” He’d used my real name yesterday—a fact I hadn’t allowed myself to think about—so now I knew he did, indeed, know my real name. Which meant he called me Fred as a nickname. On purpose. Why would he do that?

“Listen,” I croaked unevenly, swallowing the unsteadiness before forging on, “I suggested we remove the video because it felt like an invasion of privacy, but Amelia asked me not to delete it and to check with you first. Say the word and it’s gone.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Pardon?” I asked, not understanding.

“Do you consider the video an invasion of your privacy? Or mine?”

The spelled-out question surprised me, sent hot, flustery flutters twisting in my stomach. Did he know I’d lost my head during the filming yesterday?

I had to work to infuse my words with false confidence. “Your privacy, of course. You agreed to help show Jeff what to do, not to do the challenge with me and have it posted publicly. I’m sorry this happened.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“Even so, it’s up on my account. I will delete it now if you want.” My stomach continued to riot and twist. I placed my hand over it.

He didn’t seem angry, and that was good. And if he’d realized my foolishness yesterday, so what? It’s not like I would see him again anytime soon. Hopefully, by the time our paths crossed again in the distant future, he’d forget all about it.

But then he asked “What do you want to do? Do you want to delete it?” and my brain froze.

Why is he asking me?!

Now I looked to Amelia for help. She stared at me wide-eyed, then shrugged.

“Win?” he prompted, his voice low and oddly soft. “Do you want to delete it?”

“I don’t really feel like it’s up to me,” I answered.

“Let’s say I was okay with leaving the video. What do you want?”

I continued staring at Amelia across the kitchen peninsula, silently imploring her to answer for me or give me some hint as to what he wanted me to say. This felt like a trap.

Frowning, Amelia mouthed, “Don’t look at me.”

I sighed, frustrated and flustered. “Well, it doesn’t make much sense having it up since the rest of the challenges will be done with Jeff.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I remembered how Jeff had dropped me last night the second he heard from Lucy. So, no. No challenges will be done with Jeff.

“Or someone else,” I amended, cringing.

Amelia sent me a sympathetic look. I waved away her pity, waiting for Byron to respond. He didn’t say anything.

“Byron?” I strained my ears. “Are you there?”

“I’m coming over.” A door opened and closed on his side of the call, followed by the sound of jingling keys.

“What?” My eyes widened as they locked with Amelia’s. She looked just as surprised as me.

“I’ll be there in . . . ten minutes. Unless you want pastries. Do you want pastries?”

I stared open-mouthed at nothing, unsure how to respond to his bizarre question. Was he serious?

“Bakery Nuevo or Macrina?” Amelia piped in immediately. “Either is fine. But if you’re going to Macrina, pick me up some of their everything bagels.”

I reached over the counter and smacked Amelia on the shoulder, sending her a severe frown.

She glared at me in return, whispering, “What? I’m hungry. I haven’t had lunch.”

“I’ll be there in twenty. Don’t delete the video.” Without offering a goodbye or even a small hint as to what he was thinking, Byron ended the call.

Twenty minutes later, my stomach in knots, I sat on the couch as Amelia jogged the short distance to our apartment door. Then I stood, thinking maybe that would be better. Then I sat again, rubbing my forehead and giving myself another stern talking-to.

Stop it! You have nothing to be nervous about. He probably didn’t notice or care about you spacing out while sitting on his lap yesterday. He’s probably used to women getting lost in the hypnotic rings of his gorgeous eyes. Just act normal.

Problem was, acting normal in front of Byron usually meant ignoring him, or saying as little as possible so as not to be criticized. I couldn’t ignore him today, which meant this meeting would likely end with me feeling like a buffoon.

Voices filtered to me from the entryway, and I heard the sound of paper bags exchanging hands followed by Amelia’s exclamation, “Bagels and scones? I love you. You know I love you, right? Well, I do. So much.”

“I know,” he said, the deep cadence sending a shiver up and then down my spine. I shot to my feet, deciding that standing was best. Or maybe I should sit?

Amelia strolled into the room, her nose stuck in one of the bags. Byron followed right behind her, his eyes colliding with mine. Rather than lower my gaze as per usual, this time I held his and lifted my chin for good measure. I was both used to and unused to his stare. Used to it because he stared all the time. Like Amelia had pointed out on Friday, Byron stared at people. He observed and watched. He just did. But I was unused to meeting his eyes, as I did now, and as I’d done yesterday when I’d sat on his lap.

I couldn’t be certain, but his expression struck me as bracing. Had he been anyone else, I would assume this meant he was here to deliver bad news and had brought the scones and bagels as a peace offering, or as a way to soften a blow.

“Fred.” He gave me a stiff nod as he pulled off his jacket, his gaze as watchful as ever.

I twisted my lips to the side and returned his nod. I couldn’t ignore him, true. But I could say as little as possible.

“The scones are from Nuflours and they’re gluten-free.” Byron placed his coat over the back of a chair.

My attention shifted momentarily to where Amelia moved around the kitchen. She’d already withdrawn three plates from the cabinet.

“Thank you. That was really nice of you,” I said, not hiding my confusion. How does he know I’m celiac?

Amelia only knew because we lived together. My allergy made me feel like death, but it wasn’t anaphylactic in nature. I’d never explicitly told anyone in college, never brought it up or asked for a gluten-free option in restaurants. As a general rule, I avoided restaurants. My uncle used to enjoy berating the servers, and I’d never had a relaxing restaurant dining experience until college.

Unfortunately, in my experience, nine times out of ten the server would forget I was gluten-free and I’d end up being that weirdo who ate nothing on their plate. On the rare occasions I went to a restaurant these days, I only ordered whatever was certain to be wheat-free, least likely to have cross contamination, and was cheapest. Over the years, I’d developed the habit of carrying gluten-free protein bars and snacks with me.

It’s not that I wanted to hide my allergy, it was more that, as I grew up, peoples’ reactions varied, and I found it easier to say nothing. I never knew if I was going to get a side-eye of disbelief or an avalanche of sympathy and questions like, Then what on earth do you eat?

I was surprised Byron knew.

“I’m making more tea. What kind does everyone want?” Amelia asked, placing a scone on one plate and bagels on the others.

Byron, his hand braced on the same chair that held his jacket, shook his head. “Nothing for me.”

“Not even a bagel?” Amelia sent him a perplexed look.

“I already ate.” His attention returned to me, scrutinizing, watchful.

I crossed my arms, they felt weird hanging next to my sides, and got right to the point. “I can delete the video.”

His jaw ticked. “Jeff and Lucy are getting back together,” he said, then also crossed his arms. The intensity of his watchful scrutinizing seeming to increase tenfold.

“We figured.” Amelia saved me from having to respond, carrying two plates over to the kitchen table. “Lucy texted him last night right after you left. He said he had to go meet her, then we left.”

Something like surprise flickered behind his gaze, and he nodded, but still watched me. “I doubt Lucy will let him do the videos—the TikTok challenges.”

I crept over to the table, standing next to Amelia and inspecting the scones. Blueberry. My favorite.

Meanwhile, Amelia snorted. “Yeah. You’re right. We’ll have to find someone—”

“I’ll do it,” he said.

“What?” Amelia reared back.

“I—you—you what?” I tried to speak around my malfunctioning tongue. He couldn’t have possibly said what I thought he’d said.

“I’ll do it.” Byron moved his focus to Amelia. “I’ll do the videos. With her.”

“You will?” Amelia’s eyebrows sprinted to her hairline. We were in a similar state of shock.

“Yes. But I have stipulations. And I want something in return.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and addressed Amelia exclusively, like I wasn’t in the room and this wasn’t my project.

Ire replaced surprise, and I lifted a finger to object. I hadn’t asked him for help. And if he offered to help, I wasn’t sure I wanted his help. I knew he looked down on me, my choices, my career. So how would doing romantic challenges with Byron even work?

Before I could pair my raised finger with an objection, Amelia grabbed my hand and removed it from the scene of our debate, stepping slightly in front of me. “Sure. Yes. Anything you want.”

“What?” I snapped.

She shushed me, stepping more completely between us. “What are your stipulations?”

“I don’t want an audience.” His eyes, hooded and remote, slid over Amelia’s shoulder to tangle with mine. “If or when we do the videos, it’s just me and Fred.”

I frowned, but I wasn’t all that surprised by this stipulation. Byron didn’t like crowds. I suspected that anything more than two people felt like a crowd to him. Even so, this stipulation would exponentially increase the logistical difficulty of the project.

Twisting my objecting finger out of Amelia’s grip, I moved to stand at her shoulder. “Then who will hold the camera? Filming without a third person holding the camera will only increase the likelihood of a sloppily framed recording. Having a camera person ensures we’d both stay in the shot and only have to do it once or twice.”

“How do most people do these things?” Byron pointed his question at Amelia. “Is there usually a third person in the room filming?”

“I don’t think so.” She picked up her bagel and tore off a piece. “Usually, the person doing the challenge sets up the camera facing themselves and hits record, checking every so often that both people are still in the shot and letting it film whatever happens. I actually think your stipulation is a good one. It’ll make the videos feel more authentic, real.”

Since Byron addressed his questions to Amelia, I decided to address my objections to her as well. “But, again, if we have someone filming, we can reduce the chances of having to record the same video multiple times in order to get it right. Like the Toxic Dance Challenge. We’ll be moving around a lot.”

Amelia was right of course. Setting up my phone to record it myself would be more authentic, so I didn’t really understand why I continued to push the issue. Except . . . The idea of doing some of these challenges with Byron, the two of us in a room and no one else, it felt too intimate. Am I really thinking about doing this with him?

On the one hand, two million views and counting on a single live video spoke for itself. At this rate, I would have no issue reaching the needed number of followers in two months.

And yet, on the other hand, I only ever thought of Byron as Amelia’s friend and Jeff’s roommate and a guy who intimidated the heck out of me. He and I had never been alone together, not once that I could recall, and now we were going to be touching, kissing, capturing everything on video, intending to share the moments with (ideally) hundreds of thousands of people, if not millions?

“Wait—wait a minute.” I lifted my hands and gave my head a quick shake. “I don’t know if this is a good idea. It made sense with Jeff because—”

“You wouldn’t be pretending with Jeff,” Byron finished my sentence, his eyes dropping to his shoes while an acrimonious-looking smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” I ground out, batting away the embarrassment at my admission. “But since—it’s just—with you, I don’t—”

“You don’t like me.” His gaze lifted abruptly and he gave me the inclement burden of his attention. “Say it. Be honest.”

I swallowed convulsively, my chest hot and tight. I didn’t say things like that. I didn’t say things to hurt people, or that were hurtful, even if they held a kernel of truth. “Byron—”

“But, if we do this,” he continued, his tone a shade mocking to my ears, “if you pretend with me, you will amass enough followers to get your job as a brand manager for Amelia’s company.”

“Community manager,” I grit out, correcting him. He made it all sound so sordid and underhanded, like I would be twirling my thin, waxed mustache while duping young women into considering a career in STEM.

I crossed my arms again, wishing I could put a wall between me and the unsettling, hypercritical intensity of his focus. Instead, I pointed out the obvious, “Clearly, you don’t much care for me either. Neither of us would enjoy this. I don’t understand why you’d agree to it, or what you’d get out of it, or why you’d consider it in the first place.”

“I’m not casting aspersions on your character, Fred.” He mimicked my posture. “I’m stating fact. And since you’d be pretending with me in order to achieve a goal—increasing your body count on Instatok so you can get the job—then you might as well commit to it fully.”

Instatok? Body count? Rude!

I tilted my head to the side, narrowing my eyes on him. “Commit to it fully? What does that mean?”

“You want people to respond to you? Follow you? Well, people respond to authenticity. The videos should look and feel as authentic as possible, right?”

Reluctantly, I eventually conceded. “Right.”

“Thus, my stipulation stands. If you want me to do this, then no third person holding the camera, no one else in the room.” He’d placed his hands on the back of the kitchen chair and leaned slightly over it, adding with a whisper of a smirk, like the words were a dare, “Just you and me.”