Enemies Abroad(78)
Chapter 2
Ian
Sam and I have been friends for a while now—so long, in fact, that I know she isn’t into me. Here are four times she’s made that perfectly clear:
-She once told me she feels nervous whenever we’re too close. “You’re the bull and I’m the china. You could probably sit on me and squash me to death.” The last guy she dated was short enough to fit into her jeans.
* * *
-She goes for boring business types, guys who spend their first month’s paycheck on an expensive frame for their MBA certificate.
* * *
-I once overheard her on the phone swearing to her mom that we were “never, ever, ever going to be more than friends.” It sounded like a Kidz Bop version of Taylor Swift.
* * *
-Oh, and there was the Halloween party last year when she dressed up like Hermione and I tried to kiss her and she laughed in my face…and then puked on my shoes.
Today is Wednesday, which means Sam is already at my house when I get home from soccer practice. I’m the head coach of Oak Hill’s men’s JV team. We’re undefeated, and Sam’s never missed a game even though sports aren’t really her thing.
“Please say you’ve already started dinner, Madam Secretary,” I say when I walk in and drop my bag.
“It’s in the oven, Mister President.”
She’s at my kitchen table, hunched over with her back to me. I can’t tell what she’s doing until I get closer and lean over her shoulder.
She’s sprinkling glitter onto poster boards, adding the finishing touches to bright neon signs. They say, GO OAK HILL SOCCER and COACH FLETCHER IS #1! Construction paper and glue and markers litter my table. It’s a complete mess.
“Are those for the game tomorrow?”
“Wow, aren’t you the master of deduction,” she teases before catching a whiff of my sweat and pushing me away with her hip. “Go shower. You stink. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes.”
I don’t argue. I worked out with the team today and I’m sure I smell terrible. I walk into my room and yank off my shirt. I never bother closing the door as I undress because Sam never bothers to look.
Every Wednesday, she and I have a standing commitment: West Wing Wednesdays, hence the nicknames.
This tradition started out differently. In the past, it included other friends and significant others. The friends have either moved away for jobs or had children. Our significant others have disappeared too. It’s not a coincidence. None of Sam’s boyfriends have ever liked me. It could be that I’m not very buddy-buddy with them. I don’t let them drink my beer. I kept calling the last one Biff when I knew his name was Bill. It always ended up making him irrationally angry, which made it easier for me when I had to watch him kiss her good night.
When I walk out of the bathroom after my shower, Sam has set out our dinner plates on my coffee table. We share a Blue Apron subscription and switch off making the meals. Tonight, she’s also filled our glasses with cheap boxed wine and has included a bowl of reanimated tater tots courtesy of the lunch ladies at Oak Hill.
Sam props her hands on her hips and glances up at me. We’re wearing the same West Wing t-shirt that promotes a mock 1998 presidential campaign for Bartlet. I ordered us the same size. It fits me fine. On her, it’s a boxy dress. She’s a pipsqueak—a beautiful pipsqueak, though I know if I told her so, she’d scrunch her nose and blurt out a change of subject. Tater tots are getting cold! On some level she has to know she’s attractive; I’m sure enough guys have told her so over the years. She has high cheekbones and a full, feminine mouth. Her fair skin and dark red hair and large blue eyes are the stuff of castles and fairytales. If she went to Disney World on vacation, small children would group around her like a mob, staring up with doe eyes and begging for photos.
She’s caught me staring.
Her head tilts to the side. Mine follows.
“What is it, Mr. President? An emergency? Do we need to head to the Situation Room?”
I lick my thumb and drag it aimlessly across her cheek, her forehead, her chin.
“You just had some glitter on your face,” I lie.
I move around her and take a seat on the couch, trying to refocus my brain. I’m hungry for food, not Sam.
“Looks good.”
“It’s tandoori chicken.” Her accent turns hoity-toity and British when she continues, “I’ve chosen a robust red for pairing and only the finest tots of the potato variety.”
She takes a seat beside me, her feet propped up on the coffee table. I know she’s wearing shorts under the t-shirt, but every week, the illusion plays dirty tricks on my brain. I’ll have to take another cold shower once she leaves. My infatuation with Sam is a major drain on our planet’s supply of freshwater.
We’ve finished all of the seasons of West Wing once already. We could move on to a new show, but there’s comfort in tradition. Besides, it’s not like we watch it that closely. Usually we’re doing other stuff too, like now: Sam’s done eating and is back at the kitchen table finishing up her poster boards.
Her phone is sitting on the couch beside me and it lights up with a notification from a dating app. The accompanying sound effect grabs her attention.