If my life story has one overarching motto, it’s this: Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses. For some reason, Dane has started to, even though he’s always noticed the Pretties, the girls who got all the right curves in all the right places. So different from me, since I inherited a flat chest and a nonexistent waist to hip ratio. “Athletic build” they call it. “Boy body” is what it amounts to. Combine that with bad eyesight and fear of contact lenses, I look every bit the librarian stereotype, right down to the spectacles and twin-set sweaters. Can I help it my workplace is always chilly?
Dane can definitely do better. In high school, the Pretties flocked to him like bees to a honeycomb. He was safe, steady, and trustworthy because he was so… unsexual. Sure, his head turned, but he was always a gentleman. He needs a nice, normal woman, in life, and in the bedroom. I wish it could be me, but it’s not.
His twitching eye accelerates. He’s close to executing what I’ve dubbed the Smack Attack, his relentless attempts to land a kiss. I’ve dubbed my counter measure the No-Fly Zone, because as many times as his lips take flight, they never land. (See above, re chickenshit.)
Bless his heart, he persists. He stealthily pivots, sinking down into the mattress next to me. His arm slides dangerously close, and I smell the clean scent of his deodorant soap as his knee bumps mine. He turns to face me, his eyes fluttering like he’s just been whapped in the face with a dusty pillow. I’ve dubbed this his Lash Bash.
Everything has a name. Organization is key so I can predict his exact sequence. This time, in a break with his usual, he zeroes in on my lips, and I hold my breath. My heart smacks against my ribcage with a pow-pow pound. Dane leans forward. Slowly, slowly. I wait until the last possible second…
The theme from Top Gun blares through my head. Highway to the Danger Zone! Eject! Eject! His lips graze my cheek before I spring off the bed, my legs propelling me across the room. His frustrated sigh echoes off my back as I bend down to peer into the last box he packed. The one that doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds. And thus, our friendship remains strong as ever.
“Damn it, Allie, why do you always do that?”
Or maybe not. Since feigning innocence is my specialty, I meekly answer, “Why do I always do what?” My fingers plow into my hair like they always do when I’m nervous. I wish I weren’t so transparent.
He grunts. “Why don’t you ever just let me kiss you, for God’s sake? Is it so damn hard for you to be spontaneous for once?”
Ouch. If he only knew how much I want to fling my leg over him and ride him like a mechanical bull at the county fair while he smacks my ass raw… I clear my throat and try not to overanalyze the situation. He’s never called me on it before. His fingers tap aggressively against his thigh. Peck, peck, peck.
Chickenshit. Chickenshit. Chicken Little Chickenshit.
“Let’s just finish getting these books into the boxes without breaking the bottoms, okay?”
He throws his hands up and stalks across the room to grab my upper arm. “Why the hell don’t you ever just let me kiss you? Answer me that.” His eyes plead with me. I twist away and suddenly find the carpet more interesting.
“Because, I’m… I just don’t…”
“Because you just don’t what? Look at me.” He nudges my chin with his finger.
I gulp. “What if it sucks?”
“So? Then it sucks. At least we’d know and we could deal.” He throws his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Besides, it wouldn’t suck.”
“How do you know? Why can’t we just stay friends and enjoy hanging out together?”
“Why can’t you throw caution to the wind, just once? Really, Kat, when’s the last time you did something without overanalyzing and planning the shit out of it?”
I shake free of his grip. “Are you asking as the pot or the kettle?”
He closes his eyes, sets his fingertips on his temples, and inhales slowly. “You drive me absolutely, positively batshit crazy.”