“Absolutely.” I walked outside and hopped into his car, changing the radio station and answering a few of his questions about Tina.
As we searched for a parking spot near the pier, I prayed to the Best-Friend-Gods that if he changed his mind and decided to get serious with Tina (or anyone else this summer, for that matter) that she wouldn’t turn out to be another Emily. I couldn’t handle another one of those…
Being his best friend was already tricky territory. All of his girlfriends automatically became suspicious when he introduced us. They smiled at me when he was looking, and glared at me behind his back. And, whenever he was on the phone with me, he always had to go out of his way to say, “No, really. She’s just my best friend…” halfway through the conversation. Usually more than once.
There was almost always an ultimatum in his relationships, too: “Are you dating Arizona or ME?!”
Yet, since we’re indeed “just friends”—just goddamn friends (why couldn’t people see this?!), I had no issues with him falling back or not talking to me as much, because months later, the results were always the same: Another breakup. Another late night phone call to discuss what did or didn’t go wrong. Another brief break until he found the next crazy.
In fact, sometimes I wished I could sit with his next girlfriend and say, “Hey, before you start thinking about doing anything stupid and accusing him of something that has never, and will never happen, here are a few facts that will probably ease your mind:
1) I’m not attracted to him. AT ALL. I don’t get what all the hype is about, sorry.
2) I’m not interested in “fucking him.” AT ALL. I’ve had enough great sex to keep me satisfied, and when I’m not with someone, my vibrator serves me just fine with fantasies of celebrities. NOT HIM. #Truestory. And
3) He once saw me naked at a pool party when we were eighteen and begged me—fucking begged me, to put my clothes back on. ASAP. So, yeah. He’s not attracted to me either. Can you promise not to make any accusations about the two of us now?”
Of course, I was sure that scheduling a sit down with a potential girlfriend would lead to more issues instead of alleviating them, so I just went along for the train wrecks—hoping he would one day find someone who wasn’t a psycho.
“Hey, Ari?” Carter waved his hand in front of my face minutes later.
“What?”
“Do you plan on getting out of the car tonight? He opened my door. “Or have you decided that you’d rather handle your * with your fingers for the rest of the summer instead?”
I rolled my eyes and got out, following him inside of Margaritaville.
I ordered the weakest beer they had to offer and surveyed the room. “If this whole casual sex guy thing doesn’t work, do you think I’ll find my one hundred-percent guy before I go off to Cleveland?”
“I highly doubt it.” He smiled, leaning back against the wood. “You have three months until then, and you make guys wait for at least eight before telling them you’ve changed your mind.”
“I’m being serious.” I punched his shoulder. “It would be great to meet a nice, down to earth guy and feel like everything is perfect and right at once, you know? To have all of those right vibes and feelings upfront, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about how it’ll turn out in the long run.”
“You’re talking about insta-love?”
“I’m talking about love at first sight.”
“That shit doesn’t exist” he said. “Any relationship built solely on instant attraction is a recipe for failure. Trust me, I’m the prototype.”
“You’re the prototype for being a man-whore.” I sipped my beer. “It’s not the same thing.”
“If I was a man-whore, I wouldn’t have had six girlfriends over the past two years. Six, Ari.”
“Six girlfriends, five one night stands, four “There’s some girl in my bed and I don’t know her name” mornings, three “Holy fuck, that sex was terrible” nights, and one—”
“Partridge in a pear tree?”
“No. One ‘Please, Ari, come and get me.’” But that was a very close guess.”
“I didn’t know you were keeping count…”
“Only because you make it too damn easy.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He rolled his eyes. “Hey, look over there.” He pointed with his straw. “What about that guy? He looks like he’d be into a few nights with you.”
I spotted the guy he was talking about: He was dressed in a short sleeved white shirt and khakis that complemented his beige shoes.
“He’s cute…” I looked him over again. “I don’t think he’s my type, though.”
“He’s more than your type. He looks like he hasn’t fucked anyone in years.”
I laughed. “No, thanks. What about that guy?” I pointed to a guy dressed in all blue.
“I thought you hated sneaker-heads.”
My eyes roamed down to his shoes and I shook my head. After dating a sneaker-head, I knew those were the type of exclusive shoes that could only be worn by one.