I have to suppress the urge to run and fling myself into his arms.
Be my friend again, please! I want to shout.
His smoldering gaze warns me away. Even more, it says, That could be us. I could pin you to a locker like that if only you’d let me.
At least I think that’s what it says. I don’t have much time to translate it because he passes me by quickly, without a word. My breath whooshes out of me and it feels like I’ve been shot.
“Ian!” I shout after him impulsively.
He shakes his head and keeps walking. “I have to get back to my classroom.”
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.”
She has to work at it for a few seconds. It’s up covering her eyes now, and she’s a toddler trying to dress herself for the first time. She jerks this way and that, knocking my bottles of shampoo and conditioner to the ground and nearly wiping out when she trips on one of them. I reach out and steady her hips. With a heavy sigh, she finally gets it off and flings it over the top of the shower door. I smirk at her newly disheveled appearance. Her hair is a tangled mess. Water droplets collect on the ends of her dark lashes. Her bra is creamy blue and see-through thanks to the steady stream of water hitting her.
“Come on, Ian! Man up! Just kiss me!”
She’s got herself so worked up, her skin is flushed everywhere.
“No. Get out of my shower.”
I turn my back to her and dip my head under the water. That really pisses her off. Her angry fists pound into my back.
“I’m telling you I want you and suddenly you’re no longer interested?!”
She doesn’t know what she’s asking for, so I decide to show her. I turn back around and my hand drops. I step forward and push right up against her body, tipping my head down to meet her eyes. She wasn’t kidding—she’s a fuming little ball of molten lava. I think she wants to destroy me for doing this to us, for changing our friendship forever.
My hands grip her biceps, which are like two popsicle sticks. My hardness digs into her stomach and her mouth goes wide with wonder.
“Still want to have this conversation right now, Hot Lips?”
She doesn’t answer me. She’s in a daze. I’ve hypnotized her.
“Still think this is a good idea?”
“Everyone at school wants you,” she whispers, eyes wide. “You’re mine and you don’t even know it. I’ve never told you.”
Her admission fucks with my self-control. I want to hitch her legs around my waist so I can burrow myself deep inside her. I’m going to write on her forehead with a Sharpie while she’s sleeping: Property of Mr. Fletcher. Hands off.
“I don’t like the version of Ian you’ve been the last few days,” she says quietly before nibbling on the edge of her bottom lip. She’s refusing to meet my gaze. Instead, she’s roving the contours of my chest.