Not So Nice Guy Page 8

  “Sam…Samwich…Sam and cheese.” Each of my nicknames feels like he’s plucking my heartstrings. He bends so we’re face to face. “I did it because it’s time you and I stop dancing around the obvious, this thing we have between us.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “You’re right. I’ll make myself clear.”

  His blue eyes are smoldering and a jolt of fear sparks down my spine.

  “Err…or you could just shake my hand, turn, and call it a day?”

  He frowns. “What are you scared of?”

  I wave off his question. “Oh, lots of things, really. The usual: spiders, roaches, ghosts. Also, losing my best friend because he thinks we should rock the boat.”

  “It’s not like that.”

  His calm demeanor has me incensed. “What would you call our phone call last night?! Idle chitchat?”

  “The exact opposite, in fact. Listen, we’re not going to do the friends-with-benefits thing. We aren’t going to just have sex and keep things casual.”

  “Of course. Why would we? That sounds much too easy.”

  “When you’re ready, I’m going to ask you out on a date.”

  “A date?! I don’t even want to hang out with you as a friend right now! You stole my bears, and my flowers!”

  “No. Remember?” He finally sounds exasperated. “I gave you the flowers.”

  True, but they burned me up with jealousy so much I tossed them. Now I’m even more angry with him.

  I poke his chest and his hard muscle sends a fissure down my finger bone. Great, I’ve probably broken something.

  “Don’t try to slip out of this through a technicality, you jerk.”

  His hand wraps around mine so I can’t pull it away, and we might as well be in the 1800s because him touching my hand feels inappropriate and intimate and are there nerves in your hand that connect to your groin?

  “I’ll buy you a million bears if that’s what you want.”

  Good, let’s focus on the real issue. He lied to me and betrayed me, but it’s the conspicuous lack of dime-store bears I’m truly angry about.

  “No! Nothing you do can make up for this…this deceit!”

  The very edge of his mouth tips up. “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Unhand me.”

  He steps back and pinches the brim of his nose like he’s trying not to laugh—or scream.

  “Clearly you need some time. Do you want to bike together to the carnival in the morning?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He steps back and heads for the door. “Then I guess I’ll just see you there.”

  Yes! YES YOU WILL!

  8

  I A N

  For the record, I didn’t volunteer to sit in the dunking booth at the Valentine’s Day Carnival. Someone (take a guess) wrote my name in bold on the sign-up form. Conveniently enough, she opted to operate said dunking booth, meaning she’ll get to watch me get drenched dozens of times in between taking tickets and resetting the dunk mechanism.

  The carnival officially starts at 10:00 AM. I was hoping the storm from yesterday would preclude the outdoor activities, but probably due to Sam’s voodoo magic, the sky cleared up and the rain gave way to a warm front from the south. It’s sunny and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I’m up on the platform, waiting to be dunked, and Sam is down on the ground chatting with Logan. He brought her coffee this morning. How charming. Oh, and there’s a small teddy bear too. Sam hugs that bear against her chest like she’s never wanted anything more in her entire life. The show is for me.

  “Let’s get this party started!” someone shouts near the back of the line.

  Yes, there’s a line.

  There are so many people lined up to dunk me I’m sure the astronauts can see the queue formation from the space station.

  “Kyle, come dunk Coach!”

  “Steven! Mr. Fletcher is in the dunking booth!”

  Bianca is first up. She’s wearing a teasing little grin, and every time I accidentally look her way, she waves excitedly.

  Sam cuts in front of her and holds out a palm impatiently. “Tickets.”

  Her bear is forgotten somewhere and Logan is gone.

  “How many?”

  “Five. Read the sign. Next.”

  “Here!” Bianca says impatiently, shoving a pile of tickets at Sam. “Just take them all.”

  Sam feeds the tickets into an empty coffee can then hands Bianca three balls.

  She’s about to let one loose when Sam cuts in again. “Hey! Scoot back! You’re supposed to stay behind the white line.”

  Bianca misses every one of her throws. Her balls land with soft thuds in the grass and when Sam turns to pick them up, she’s wearing a big ol’ smile. Our gazes lock when she comes near the booth to pick up a particularly bad toss, and that smile fades.

  “What?”

  “You’ve got your work cut out for you,” I say, tilting my chin toward the line.

  Her eyes narrow into slits. “You know they just want to see you in a wet t-shirt.”

  “Funny, that’s the same reason I wanted to sign you up for the dunking booth.”

  “NEXT!” she shouts.

  The Freshman Four each take a turn, and not one of them hits the target. The crowd is starting to grow anxious. Like a medieval mob, they want action. They’re out for blood. Sam picks up another round of balls and turns to take them to the next contestant, but then she hesitates, spins on her heel, and studies that target. Her head tilts and I can see her mind at work. “Maybe the people just need a little tutorial.”

  She takes one hesitant step toward it.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  Another step.

  “Samantha Grace Abrams,” I warn.

  It’s no use. She takes one more step then proceeds to feign a huge, slow-motion tumble in which she trips forward and has to break her fall with one thing: the target.

  The platform disappears out from underneath me with a quick whoosh and then I drop into the water.

  Fucking hell. Warm front or not, it’s still February. The water is cold.

  When I surface, Sam’s standing just on the other side of the tank. We’re at eye level. She’s sweet and innocent, a baby lamb.

  “Oops.”

  “If you step any closer, I’m bringing you in here with me.”

  Her eyes widen and she scurries back to the line of contestants.

  The dunkings are sparse throughout the rest of the morning, until the Freshman Four subcontract the throwing work out to a few sharpshooting baseball players they were able to find. “Just helping raise money for the education foundation!” they explain, fanning themselves while I clamber back onto the platform. “It’s all for…for the kids.”

  Additionally, Sam dunks me at least a dozen times by herself. Any time I grow courageous and toss out a barb or a flirtatious comment, I go under. By the end of my shift, my t-shirt is plastered to my skin. My hair is slicked back. I feel invigorated and refreshed. By contrast, Sam is sweating. Her eyes stick to my wet shirt and then she peels them away slowly. A moment later, they slingshot right back to where they were.

  “How you feelin’ down there, champ?”

  “Hush up, you.”

  A replacement arrives to relieve me of my post: Mr. Jones, the potbellied basketball coach. As soon as we swap places, the platform creaks and the line disperses. People scatter and flee the scene.

  “Aw c’mon now!” Mr. Jones teases. “Just ’cause I don’t have washboard abs like Mr. Chemistry Man over there?”

  When I reach Sam, she hands me my towel and keeps her focus on the sky.

  “Here, cover yourself. You’re indecent.”

  “I’m wearing a bathing suit and a t-shirt.”

  “Yes, and women have been going into shock all morning at the sight. I’ve heard the first aid tent has run out of beds, so just do us all a favor.”

  “Us?�
�

  “Shut up. C’mon, you’re going to treat me to lunch for subjecting me to the last two hours of torture.”

  “Hold on, I have a dry t-shirt I want to change into.”

  I lead us into the deserted field house behind the carnival. Sam crosses her arms and watches as I shake out my hair and tug my shirt off overhead.

  “WHOA! Warn a girl, will you?”

  I shake my head and bend down to riffle through my bag for my dry shirt. I take an obscene amount of time. Sam fidgets and groans, and eventually she bends down and yanks the bag out of my hold.

  “Here, just let me.”

  We’re so close, and I realize now that Sam’s not completely dry either. She’s been standing next to the booth all morning getting splashed. Her white t-shirt clings to her body the same way mine did. I can see the outline of her pale pink bra, the curve of her breasts.

  “You’re dripping on me,” she says, though her voice has lost all of its edge.

  “Sam—”

  “Hold on, I’m going to find it.”

  She thinks my gruff tone is from annoyance, but she’s wrong. I’m seconds away from peeling that shirt off over her head. Any other time, I’d do it, but there are students just outside. The timing isn’t right.

  “Ah, here it is!”

  She stands and holds the shirt out to me with a proud smile. I force my gaze north of her neck.

  “That one’s for you. I knew you’d get wet, so I brought two.”

  She’s perplexed. Her head tilts to the left and her soft mouth is so fucking close to mine.

  She’s hesitating, so I pinch the hem of her shirt and shoot her a look: May I? For a few moments, she doesn’t move. She’s calculating her next move, playing out every possibility in her mind. I know she’s envisioning me taking her right here. I resist the urge to bite my lip. Eventually, she raises her arms slowly, and I peel the material off fluidly over her head. For a few brief seconds, she’s standing there in pale, pink lace and shorts. I can see everything from her neck to her navel. Her bra conceals nothing. Her creamy skin is damp. Her stomach is quivering. She’s cold. Goose bumps bloom across her shoulders. My hand reaches out for her waist and my fingers grip her, hard. A war is waging within me. I want to push her up against the concrete wall. I want to dip my fingers beneath the waistband of those shorts and press her cold skin against mine. I could warm her up so easily, fill her up so easily.

  But, I don’t want to be friends with benefits. I want more. Before my resolve cracks, I tug the dry shirt down to replace hers. She’s suddenly covered from neck to thighs. Her arms are hidden underneath. She looks like one big black armless blob. Good.

  “Cute. Now let’s go get you some lunch.”

  If I think I’m going to get any chance to discuss things with Sam during the carnival, I’m sorely mistaken. We’re surrounded by teachers and students the rest of the morning and early afternoon. Sam insists on eating a barbecue plate and then a funnel cake and then, while wiping powdered sugar from her lips, she asks if I think it’s a good idea for her to get a deep-fried Snickers.

  “I think you’re getting dangerously close to the competitive eating zone.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s not dangerous, just means I’m getting to my sweet spot. Pun intended.”

  It’s true, she can eat a lot of sugar, but I think she’s using carnival food to bury the mix of emotions swirling inside her. My suspicions are confirmed when she is suddenly way too interested in playing all the carnival games. She aims a water gun and throws darts at balloons and tries to land hoops around bottlenecks. She loses at everything and whisks right on to the next activity. I know she’s doing it on purpose. She knows we have to eventually address the elephant in the room.

  I want us to be more than friends.

  Sam wants to continue living in delusion.

  By the end of the afternoon, we bike back to her apartment and she’s quick to tell me she needs to nap and shower and get ready for the dance. Sugar is crystalized on her bottom lip. Her eyes are wild. If I wrapped my hand around her wrist, I’d feel her pulse pumping a mile a minute.

  “Sam, you can slow down. Nothing has changed.”

  She’s already squeezing herself through her half-opened door, pushing it closed behind her.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Okay, well bye then! See you at the dance!”

  Then the door is slammed shut in my face.

  I’d completely forgotten about the dance, to be honest. Back when I signed us up, it was my way of ensuring I’d spend Valentine’s Day with Sam even if I wasn’t technically with her. Pathetic, I know.

  I work out and shower, but there are still a few hours to kill. I decide to FaceTime my parents, which I immediately regret because they only care to talk about one thing.

  “TELL US ALL ABOUT YOU AND SAMMIE WAMMIE!”

  “She doesn’t like that nickname,” I remind them.

  My mom rolls her eyes, pushes my dad out of the frame, and gets so close to the camera that I can see up her nose. “Did you take her out to the Olive Garden yet?”

  Why is it that all parents eventually start adding “the” before every single business name? It’s just Olive Garden.

  “No.”

  “Well you’ll bring her home for Sunday dinner soon right?”

  “We don’t do Sunday dinner,” I remind her. “Also, you guys live four hours away.”

  “Well I’m thinking of implementing it, especially if you start dating Sam!”

  “There’s a good chance she just wants to stay friends,” I say, breaking the news to them and myself all at once.

  My dad grunts, steals the phone from my mom, and then I’m treated to a close-up of his ear canal. I’m not sure he realizes this is a video call. “Listen here, son, if you need some tips and tricks, you need to listen to your old man, not your mom.”

  I wipe my hand down my face. Calling them was a mistake. I’m going to start being one of those kids who only talks to his parents at holidays and funerals—weddings too, if I’m feeling generous.

  “I gotta go, guys. Bad connection.”

  “We can hear you just fine, sweetie!” my mom insists.

  I hang up and toss my phone across the couch.

  This is a complete disaster. I’ve thought a lot about how I would transition my relationship with Sam from friends to…more. I was going to do it slowly, carefully. She’s like a rabbit, timid and jumpy and mostly wants to be left alone so she can eat in peace. She’ll talk herself out of anything if you give her long enough to think about it, and above all, she fears change. Last year, they swapped her classroom and she cried about it for a week. Then, for the next month, she kept accidentally going to her old classroom instead of her new one.

  “I’ll never learn! This is ridiculous! They can’t just move me three rooms down!”

  She even typed up a multipage essay outlining why it was important for her to get the use of her old classroom. She printed it out and had me read it aloud over dinner. I made it halfway through then proceeded to rip it up over the trashcan and tell her she was crazy.

  We didn’t talk for two days.

  Eventually, she realized she was being unreasonable.

  Another time, I tried to convince her we should move West Wing Wednesdays to Tuesdays because I wanted to check out this new trivia night at a bar down the street.

  “But it’s an alliteration, Ian. West Wing Wednesday—get it? Without the Wednesday, it’s anarchy. I won’t abide lawlessness.”

  Some people might think I’ve wasted good years being “just friends” with Sam when I actually wanted something more, but really, it’s provided me vital information I can use to my advantage. I know her favorite things (citrus-flavored candy, especially if it’s sour) and I know what she hates (strangers who breeze by without a thank you when you hold the door open for them). I know what kind of guy she needs (me) and what kind of guy is all wrong for her (Logan).

  In other circumstances, I would
have taken my time during this transition. Phone sex would have happened weeks into dating, after I’d planned and discussed it with Sam ad nauseum. I’d have provided her with diagrams and flow charts. But, Sam ruined that the day she told the school we weren’t dating. Sharks prowl in the water now, and I’ll be damned if I step aside and let Logan woo her with coffee and cheap teddy bears.

  It’s time to break out the big guns: Signor Armani.

  9

  S A M

  I can’t stop looking at Ian. We aren’t even talking. He’s across the cafeteria, stationed at the punch bowl, and I’m on the other side of the room, wishing for a pair of binoculars so I can inspect every delicious inch of him.

  “Ms. Abrams, you look radiant tonight.” It’s my student Nicholas. He’s trying to get my attention. “You know, like Wilbur in Charlotte’s Web—not that I’m saying you look like a pig, it’s just…never mind. Hey, would it be too forward of me to ask for your company during the next dance?”

  I shove him a few inches to the right so I can still see Ian over his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah, Nicholas. That’s great.”

  He shrieks. “Are you serious?!”

  Oh no. I jerk my gaze toward him and see his eyes welling with tears. What have I done?

  “Nicholas, god no. Sorry, I was distracted. Obviously I can’t dance with you. I’m a teacher. Principal Pruitt wouldn’t allow it.”

  He fists his hands with determination and spins on his heels. I think I’m done with him for the remainder of the evening but then I catch sight of him over by Principal Pruitt. They both turn in my direction. Nicholas clasps his hands together in front of his chest in prayer. Principal Pruitt laughs and pats him on the shoulder then looks my way so he can throw me a thumbs-up. Oh goody, permission—just what I wanted.

  Nicholas finds me at the end of the next song. I now notice he’s wearing a bowtie and a fancy pair of glasses he must keep tucked away for special occasions. They’re horn-rimmed. He’s also wearing a boutonnière on the lapel of his tuxedo. Most other students are just wearing jeans. I like the effort and tell him so as we go out onto the dance floor.