Best Friends Don't Kiss(3)

Her superficial smile and perfectly made-up face stare back at me from her profile picture as I wipe spittle off every neighboring surface and the front of my shirt. It’s a bad idea—I can see it from a mile away—but I can’t stop myself from clicking on her name and scoping out her account.

It’s almost impossible to believe we used to be best friends in elementary school.

She pouts her lips and makes devil’s horns in front of our high school football field, her psycho-cheerleader persona ever important in the popularity-driven appearance of her profile picture.

I scroll down her newsfeed to the notification of a new status and read through it with poorly concealed distaste.





CoLLeGe oRiEnTaTiOn LOLZ


The photo attached shows her wearing a scrap of clothing barely big enough to cover her nipples and holding up a red Solo cup while a party rages behind her.

I roll my eyes at the expected cliché. Honestly, this photo fits perfectly with the million and one annoying memories I have of her from high school.

For four years, Callie and her bitchy groupies Carrie and Connie—otherwise known as The CiCi’s—made it a point to let me know they thought they were better than me. Prettier than me. More popular than me. Blah, blah, blah.

So far, I can’t see that she’s making any effort to change.

With a middle finger flipped toward her stupid face, I ignore her friend request—because, no thanks, I prefer to keep my distance from satanic prom queens—but with nothing better to do, I can’t stop myself from spying on her profile a little more.

Photos of her totally awesome summer and her totally hot boyfriend Kyle. Posts about how much she loves her totally amazing dorm room at the University of Vermont.

Basically, everything is just totally perfect in Callie Camden’s life.

Gag me.

Without delay, I click out of her phony profile and start to check up on a few of my actual friends from high school, but I don’t get very far before I catch a dancing red and orange glowing light out of the corner of my eye.

My neck spasms as I jerk my head in the direction of the aura, and my eyes widen so far, they test the constraints of my lids.

Holy Shit! My hot plate is on fire!

I haven’t even officially started college yet, and I’ve already set my dorm room on fire while my roommate Desi is out for the night at some frat party? And I thought my messy tendencies would be the thing to put her over the edge.

This can’t be happening!

“What the hell do I do?” I screech into the void.

I try like hell to remember anything I’ve learned about fire safety in as few seconds as possible, but when all I can come up with is Stop, Drop, and Roll, full-blown panic sets in.

I manically search my dorm room for something, anything, to fix this, but the anxiety is too much.

Before I can stop myself, I sprint toward the door, in the direction of the hallway.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing this, but whatever I’m planning on doing comes to a complete stop when—bam!—I barrel into something just outside my door.

We both grunt at the impact, and irrational hope takes hold immediately.

“Please,” I beg. “Tell me you’re a firefighter!”




Luke



“Please! Tell me you’re a firefighter!”

Big, entrancing blue eyes stare into mine pleadingly, but it’s my first day at college—my first day in a co-ed dorm—and I can’t help looking her over before getting into considering her question.

A cute, petite little body, long blond hair that flows past her shoulders and down her back, and the kind of full, lush lips that spur the best kind of tingle.

I’ve heard stories about what girls are like in college, and the idea of this beauty living out some closet fantasy about a firefighter with me on the first night is almost too good to be true.

“Sure I am, sweetheart,” I tease with a wink. “Where’s the fire?”

“In my dorm room!” she shouts back with little to no finesse.

I blink several times. I didn’t realize role-playing fantasies were supposed to be this realistic. “Uh…what?”

“The fire!” she shouts again, jogging a couple steps back and swinging open the door to her room. “It’s in here!”

I follow tentatively, and sure enough, when I peek inside, there it is.

The actual fucking fire.

“Holy shit!” It’s my turn to shout. “There’s a fire in your room!”

“Hello! That’s what I’ve been saying!” she yells back frantically. “How about you tell me something I don’t know, like how to freaking stop it!”

In a rush, I storm through the door and use my dwindling Boy Scout skills to assess the urgent situation.

A small metal pot sitting on a hot plate—on top of an insanely bright and flowery cloth on her desk, mind you—smokes like a motherfucker while flames continue to billow from the bottom of it. I cannot fucking believe the fire alarms haven’t started going off yet.

“I know they said no hot plates in the dorm rooms, but I just figured that was some kind of stupid rule, you know. I mean, holy hell, I didn’t even know that hot plates could catch on fire! I thought they just got hot. Not burst into freaking flames! I would call the fire department, but I’m pretty sure they’d ban me from Columbia forever. Which is sad because I haven’t even experienced my first day!” she exclaims in a nearly incoherent ramble as she paces back and forth behind me. “Gah! Apparently, that no-hot-plate rule is for a reason.”