Not So Nice Guy(35)

I’m so emotionally frustrated—and so sexually frustrated—I could scream. In fact, I do. A tiny freshman boy runs past my classroom door, probably trying to get to his class on time, and I don’t hesitate to shout, “No running in the halls!”

His face crumples in fear. I slam my classroom door closed and listen as a snarky senior laughs. “Sheesh, Ms. A clearly needs to get laid.”

Finally, somebody gets me!





12





I A N



It’s Wednesday…West Wing Wednesday. Four days since the kiss, and four days since I’ve talked to Sam. I don’t have a plan. I’m not trying to punish her; I’m just trying to regain some semblance of control. If she wants to stay just friends, that’s going to be hard for me. We’ve crossed a line. I can’t erase that kiss or that phone call, and if she wants me to try, I’m going to need some distance. It gets lonely standing out on a limb all by yourself.

Still, I know I’m being a jerk. Her face was the saddest thing when I brushed her off in the hall yesterday, but what does she expect? I’m not a saint. I’m a guy who’s in love with his best friend, a woman who seems to eat her cake but also keep it in a hermetically sealed cryopreservation tank for all eternity.

Life continues on in the four days since we last spoke, albeit way shittier. I take my anger out on my soccer players. They think I’m an asshole for making them run so many laps at practice all week, but I run with them, insisting that if I can do it, so can they—except I have a secret weapon they don’t: heartache. I think I could run from here to Alaska if I had to, Forrest Gump style.

I step into the shower after practice and crank the temperature until it’s scalding. I stick my head under the water and close my eyes, thinking of Sam. She’s not going to come to West Wing Wednesday. She isn’t going to show her face. There are Blue Apron dinners in the fridge going to waste because I’m not going to cook meals meant for two people and eat them by all myself like a caricature of a lovelorn schmuck.

I think I hear a noise out in my living room. I pause and tilt my ear in that direction.

Suddenly, my shower door is yanked open. I think I’m about to be stabbed like I’m in a Hitchcock film.

“FUCK!” I shout, nearly punching Sam in the face before I realize it’s her. “Can you not?”

She ignores me and steps into the shower fully clothed. I blink, trying to determine if I’m having a hallucination. How many laps did I run today? Can a person succumb to heat stroke without realizing it?

“I know this is a bad idea,” she says, holding up her hands to block the spray from the showerhead. It’s futile. She’s soaked within seconds. “I almost didn’t come. I sat outside your house for like thirty minutes, trying to cool down and debating whether or not I’d come inside. Your neighbors think I’m a juvenile delinquent casing the neighborhood. Move over.”

“What the hell?”

She pokes my chest so I have no choice but to forfeit some of the hot water.

“I said scooch.”

“You’re still wearing your shoes.”

She kicks off her tennis shoes aggressively, yanks off her socks, and tosses them out of the shower. Then she looks back up at me. “Better?”

I’m completely nude, obviously, and she’s standing there in a soaked cotton t-shirt and jeans. “What the hell are you doing?”

She pushes my chest. “Looking for a fight. I’m pissed…I think.”

“Want to wait until I’m finished here?” I’m having a hard time defending myself while holding a hand over my dick.

“Obviously not.”

“Why are you pissed?”

I think if I had a shirt, she’d grab me by the scruff. As it is, she goes on her tiptoes and wraps her hands around my shoulders. My muscles flex instinctively beneath her touch. It’s a warning of sorts: she might be the one doing the touching now, but only because I’m allowing it.

“Because you’ve broken me in half.”

That’s when I see the sadness in her expression, her downturned mouth, her huge worried eyes. She sounds deeply troubled and I’m intrigued by her sudden bout of honesty. It’s why I’m not pushing her out of the shower…or up against the tile.

“How so?”

“I made two kids cry at school today. I’m an angry fireball. I can’t stop thinking about you kissing me.” Her hands dig into my shoulders with each word she speaks.

“Are all those things related?”

She sidles up closer and her chest hits mine. Her jeans brush my legs. My hand stays firmly planted in front of my groin. “Listen up, you, I’ve had enough of this. No more silent treatment. No more pretending like we aren’t friends.” She’s wiping her wet hair out of her face. We’re both drenched—drenched and angry. “If there’s no going back, I need you to bang me against this tile so we can figure this out once and for all. C’mon, let’s go.”

“That’s probably not a good idea.”

My refusal works her up even more. “Oh yeah? You keep pushing and poking and finally I’m giving in, whether you like it or not.” She steps back and tries to pry her t-shirt off over her head, but it’s stuck to her like a second skin. “Dammit. Hold on.”