Shuffle, Repeat(20)

Friends?

? ? ?

On Monday, I hop into my seat, slam the passenger door, and immediately turn to Oliver. “Are we friends?”

He stares at me. “Where is this coming from?”

It’s coming from him buddying up to my mom and her not-boyfriend. It’s coming from him acting like he gives a crap about me. It’s coming from me giving a crap back.

“Answer the question.”

“Ye-e-e-e-s.” His expression falls somewhere between amusement and confusion. “We’re friends.”

“Cool.” I fasten my seat belt.

Oliver shakes his head and pulls out of my driveway. “You’re weird.”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t have straight, popular”—I pause, editing the word “hot” from my litany—“jock dude friends. I don’t care about high school traditions and I don’t hang with cheerleaders, and now my senior year is really different from how I thought it would be, especially the part where you and I…”

“Are friends.”

“Right. That.” I tuck a leg underneath me to get comfortable on the big seat. “As it turns out, you’re reasonable to hang out with. You’re nice to my mom. Your girlfriend even seems okay.”

“Sounds like friendship.”

“You’re kind of like an extra gay boyfriend, except you’re straight.”

Oliver frowns. “Or I can be your straight guy friend…since that’s what I actually am.”

“It’s just that it so rarely works.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s almost never even. Someone always wants to make out with someone else. The only way it really happens is if one of the two people is shockingly unattractive, which means that the shockingly unattractive one is attracted to the attractive one, but the attractive one is so far beyond the shockingly unattractive one’s league that everyone knows it’ll never go there.” I suddenly realize the implication of what I’ve just said. Luckily, Oliver saves me.

“You, June Rafferty, are in zero danger of being shockingly unattractive.”

He says it in an offhanded way, but it stops me in my tracks. And then, because I don’t know what else to do, I return the compliment. “Back at you,” I tell him in what must be the world’s most obvious statement ever.

“So we’re outliers?”

“Yes, we’re outliers,” I say. “And here’s the thing—”

“I thought you already said the thing.”

I mock glare at him. “Here’s another thing. I can objectively ascertain that you’re an attractive dude and…” As if on autopilot, Oliver preens and flexes his muscles. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry.”

“Your hair and your eyes and the muscles and everything. I mean, I get it. I get the Oliver Flagg thing.”

Oliver looks surprised. “There’s an Oliver Flagg thing?”

“Hush. I’m on a roll here. So you’re attractive and we can both admit that, but since I am not personally attracted to you, it makes this friendship thing between us something that is manageable. More than manageable. It’s desirable, because you can fulfill a role that no one else in my life does. You can give me the straight male honest take on things.” Oliver waits until I flutter my fingers at him. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

He makes a very solemn face. “You should know that there is one thing I will not do and one place I cannot go.”

“What?” I’m a little worried about what he might say.

“If you ever—and I mean ever—ask me if you look fat in a particular article of clothing, it’s a deal breaker.”

I laugh and he smiles along with me. “Agreed. I promise to never ask you that. We need to draw the line somewhere.”

“How about this,” says Oliver. “How about we draw the boundary at truth in general. If you have a stupid fight with Itch or if you spill pizza on your shirt or get spinach stuck in your teeth or have toilet paper stuck to your shoe, I will absolutely tell you.”

“How come I’m such a hot mess in this scenario?”

He holds up a finger. “Still my turn.”

“Sorry.”

“If I ever edge too far into douchey locker room territory, you will tell me.”

“You mean if you act like Theo?”

Oliver smiles. “Yeah. If I act like Theo.”

“All honesty, all the time. I like it.” I thrust a hand toward him. “Let’s shake on it. I mean, when we come to a safe stop at an intersection, of course.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Too corporate. Let’s fist-bump.”

“Hitting awfully close to locker room territory already,” I tell him, but I hold out a fist and he gives it a gentle tap with his own.

“Friends with honesty,” he says.

“Friends with honesty,” I answer, wondering how our social circles are going to react to this strange new arrangement.

He slides me a sideways glance. “Tell me more about this Oliver Flagg thing.”

“Shut up.”

But as we head into the parking lot, I realize there’s a thought jostling to move to the top of my brain—a thought that I keep trying to flick back into the subconscious shadows. When I pull my jacket tighter and exit the car, I have to acknowledge it, because it’s right there, trying to escape to the surface.