The Friend Zone

by Kristen Callihan

I feel ’Londo nod but it’s abrupt as if he’s still fighting his feelings.

  I want to help, but what can I tell him that won’t sound trite? He’s in a shitty position and we both know it. I pinch the bridge of my nose and think of Ivy. She’d know what to say to make it right.

  “I get being afraid to take a stand, change things,” I say. “I think… No, shit, I know that I’m falling for my best friend.”

  “Tell me something we all don’t know, G.” For the first time tonight, Rolondo sounds like his old self.

  I fight a smile. “Yeah, well, she pretty much thinks I’m a manslut so…”

  “Again, tell me something we don’t all know.”

  I glare at him, and he laughs. I deserve it, though. I have been hiding behind a party-guy persona for so long, everyone in my life thinks it’s who I really am. And it doesn’t sit right with me anymore. Sure, that guy has gotten me laid countless times. But I am tired of being shallow.

  Shaking my head, I lean forward and rest my arms on my knees. “It’s probably for the best. What the fuck do I know of relationships anyway?”

  Rolondo snorts. “You’re asking me?”

  “I’m saying we’re both screwed.”

  “Yeah,” he says slowly, almost smiling. “Yeah, I guess we are. I’ll tell you this. You better figure out how to deal with her dad if you do make your move. Mackenzie will kick your ass, for sure.”

  It might be worth it. Sighing, I straighten and roll my tense shoulders. “I’m gonna head out. Just… You’re my friend and my teammate. Whatever you do, I’m with you. One hundred percent.”

  “Thanks, man.” It’s barely a whisper. But I hear it.

  My face feels hot from too much emotion flowing through me for one day. I stand, give him a brief tap on the shoulder, and walk away. Despite what I said, my stomach is queasy with uncertainty. Everything is changing around me, so quickly it feels as if a rug has been pulled from under my feet.

  * * *

  Ivy

  Gray lives with a bunch of his teammates in a house near campus. Normally, I’d look forward to visiting his home. I’ve tried to picture it several times. Gray at his desk doing assignments, or in bed, doing… So, yeah, I want to see where he lives. But now with our fight still fresh in my mind, I hesitate to get out of my car.

  We haven’t seen each other in days, not since that night. Gray has been practicing and then watching game footage like a fiend, learning his competition’s strengths, weakness, and playing style.

  A few texts are all we’ve exchanged. But now he’s heading out of town for his conference championship game, the first stop on the road to the National Championship. I promised to come by before he goes.

  With a deep breath, I leave the quiet confines of my little car—it still carries Gray’s scent.

  The house is a white, center-hall colonial, the type which could be stately and welcoming, but with its peeling paint and barren lawn, just looks kind of forlorn. The four recycle bins, filled with empty soda, Gatorade, and beer bottles, fairly screams “group house.”

  The sound of explosions and gunfire echo from behind the door, and a bunch of guys shout and laugh. I bang on the door hard, hoping someone will hear me over the blasting video game.

  Gray opens on the second knock. I don’t think I’ll ever truly get over how big he is. He dwarfs the doorway, his broad, defined shoulders visible beneath the threadbare team T-shirt he wears. Sweats hang low on his hips, and his toes peek out from a pair of sports flip-flops. I don’t know why I fixate on his toes and the fact that they seem strangely vulnerable, all bare to the elements.

  But I can’t avoid looking him in the eye forever. Especially when he utters a husky, “Hey.”

  He’s giving me a small, hesitant smile. As always, when I meet Gray’s eyes, I’m hit with warmth and a fuzzy happiness that pushes past any other thoughts.

  “Hey. I’m here!” God. Smooth. Real smooth.

  Gray’s face lights with a full grin. “Yes, you are. Come on.” He gestures with a jerk of his head. “Get out of that cold.”

  Instantly, I’m greeted with the overwhelming scent of funk, like gym socks and men’s deodorant and old house. The floorboards are scuffed and stained. And I have to smile because there’s a broom in the corner of the hall with a sticky note that says, Use me, dickwads, before I paddle your ass!

  Gray notices and rolls his eyes. “Dex’s sad attempt to domesticate us.”

  We walk past a pyramid of duffle bags tucked against the hallway wall. To our left, the living room opens up. Two mismatched couches that look in danger of snapping under the weight of six massive guys are positioned around a giant TV. Some war-zone video game is playing, but the guys all turn as one when I walk in.

  “Ivy!” they shout in unison, their deep voices bouncing over me.

  “Boys,” I shout back. I get a few head nods, a couple of smiles, then they’re back to their game. The sounds of war blare throughout the room.

  At my side, Gray takes my elbow. “Let’s go to my room.”

  The stairs squeak beneath our feet. Gray’s room is a welcome surprise. At the back of the house, it’s simple but clean. Orderly. His desk is spotless, as is the floor. A king bed takes up most of the space. A chest of drawers by the door and a worn blue IKEA armchair in the corner make up the rest of his furniture.

  I peer up at the only artwork in the room. “Wow. Where did you get that?”

  Hanging on the wall opposite of the bed, the painting is massive. Done in tones of grays and blues, it’s a close-up of a man’s arm holding onto a battered football helmet.

  “Dex did that,” Gray says, looking up at it. “I loved it so much, I nagged him until he gave it to me.”

  “It’s fantastic.” The composition is simple, but the strength in the arm, the way the hand grips the helmet, speak of suffering, perseverance, and love of the game.

  “Yeah. He’s ridiculously talented. Not that he lets anyone but us know about it.”

  I’m not surprised. A lot of athletes have hidden talents or hobbies they like to do in their down time. “There’s a guy in the NBA who can play the violin like a master. But he only performs for his teammates.”

  “Who?” Gray’s voice is curious but subdued. Our fight stands between us, and I hate myself for what I said to him in the heat of jealousy and defensive anger.

  I give him a forced smile. “That’s his secret to tell.”

  Gray shakes his head. “Tease.”

  He flops on his bed, the frame screeching in protest, and promptly lies back, tucking his arm behind his head. Okay then, maybe I’m the one overthinking things. Taking a breath, I sit next to him. Gray has other ideas and tugs me down next to him. I land with an “oof” and he grins.

  “So.”

  “So,” I repeat, rolling on my side to face him. “You ready for the game?”

  While his team is favored to win, anything can happen on the field.

  “Fuck yeah. We got this.” His smile fades, replaced by a searching look. “The bus leaves in three hours, so we’ll be heading out soon. I wish you were coming.”

  Guilt hits me anew. Because I want to at his game more than anything. But I’m staying put and celebrating Fi’s birthday, which happens to be the night before the game. “I wish I were too.”

  “You sure Fi wouldn’t want to celebrate with us? My guys know how to party.”

  Sighing, I flip onto my back. “My dad has ditched Fi on her birthday for as long as I can remember. When we were little, it was for a ball game. Then for championship games. It’s a big recruitment time for him.”

  “That’s kind of shitty of him.”

  I don’t know why I feel defensive of my dad; Gray’s not saying anything I haven’t thought, but nothing in life is straight black and white. “It’s his job. Follow the players. Score the deal. Take care of the client. Talk to sponsors.” I glance at Gray. “When was the last time you weren’t expected to play on or around a major holiday?”

>   “Fourth of July count?” He gives me a cheeky look but then sobers. “I said it was shitty, not that I don’t understand. Which is another reason I haven’t done relationships.” His blue eyes darken. “I hate the idea of doing that to anyone.”

  Sadness sits heavy on my chest. Gray isn’t the type of person who should walk alone through life. But it’s not like I can protest his choices. A selfish part of me doesn’t even want to encourage him to find a girlfriend, something I know would put even more distance between us. Which makes me all sorts of wrong.

  I pick a piece of lint off his comforter. “Anyway, Fi’s kind of touchy about her birthday and football. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near a game during her time. I’m not going to ask her to change her plans. No matter how much I want to.”

  Gray’s voice is soft and low. “I get that too.” He sighs as well. “Fuck, how I get it. Aside from my mom, I came second—hell, more like fifth—to football.”

  “And yet you love it.” I glance at his strong profile. He’s frowning up at the ceiling, but as if he feels my stare, he turns.

  Joy fills his expression. “I do love it, Ivy. It gives me a high unlike anything else.”

  He says it with such reverence, I find it hard to swallow. I’ve never loved anything that way. A strange sort of yearning fills me. To love something with that intensity. To be loved in turn, put first above all things. How would it be? If Gray’s love of football is anything to go by, it would be the best thing in the world.

  “I envy you,” I say, my eyes focused forward so I don’t have to see his face.

  But I feel him watching me. “Why?”

  “I want that out of life, that excitement.”

  “And you don’t have it with baking?” Gray sounds genuinely surprised, but his voice is gentle, almost hesitant. Does he pity me?

  I shrug. “Not in the way you love football.”

  His shoulder moves against mine as he takes a breath. “What excites you, then?”

  You. “Sports. Interacting with others…” I shake my head. “Nothing concrete. Nothing flashing a big sign that says, ‘Here is your passion!’”

  He seems to soak this in before responding. “I don’t know, Mac. I still think you’d make a kick-ass agent. Maybe not the sharky parts, but life planning. Marketing and coaching athletes through their social issues.” The comforter pulls as he rolls fully on his side to face me, and I can’t help but turn my head. A shock of dark gold hair flops over his forehead as he peers at me. “You should have seen the way you lit up when you talked to the guys about that stuff.” The corner of his lip curls upward. “It was beautiful.”

  My fingers dig into the worn comforter beneath me. “I don’t know, Gray… I’ve grown up hating my dad’s job half the time.”

  “And what about the other half?”

  My free hand lifts in a helpless gesture. “Fascinated, jealous that he got to do those things while I was left behind.” I sigh and shake my head again. “It’s complicated.”

  Gray nods. “Family stuff usually is. Just remember, you’re not your dad.”

  “Thank God for that,” I quip, earning a snicker from Gray.

  “Oh, hey…” Gray leans over me as he reaches for his bedside table, and his chest presses against mine. I suck in a breath so my breasts aren’t touching him, but he moves away just as quickly, now holding his phone. He flops back down next to me.

  A few swipes and he draws up his email, then hands me the phone. “Check it.”

  I scan the email, not understanding at first. Then I truly read it, and I feel a little sick. “Gray…”

  He talks over me. “See? Totally clean.”

  I click off the screen, not wanting to look at his sexual health report. He’s healthy, and I feel like shit. “W-why did you get a health check?”

  His shoulder moves against mine as he shrugs. “You got me thinking. I mean, I’ve never done it without a condom, but like you said, oral…” He shrugs again. “Just thought it was a good idea.”

  “Jesus.” I toss Gray his phone, and he catches it against his stomach, frowning as he turns.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” I press the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Fuck.”

  “Mac.” Annoyance and worry color his voice. “Why are you freaking out? I’m clean.”

  I turn and find his face inches from mine.

  “Because I feel like a total asshole, that’s why.” I hold my palms to my hot face, blocking him out. “You got a checkup because I shamed you—”

  “Oh, please,” Gray says with a forced laugh. “I get checked out once yearly. Just moved it up on my things-to-do list, was all.”

  I don’t lower my hands. “Uh-huh.”

  “Mac…” Gently, Gray pries my hands away from my face. A groove runs down either side of his mouth. “Come on. It’s no big deal. In fact, it’s pretty cool. I’m healthy, and believe me I plan to stay that way. No more stupid shit for me.”

  “Gray.” I lick my lips, and his gaze follows, his brow furrowing. And the uncomfortable tension that began with our fight grows even more. Suddenly, I’m tired. Down to my bones. My hand feels heavy as it lifts and cups his cheek. “Win this game, and I’ll make you any dessert you want.”

  I don’t know what else to say. Or to do. Something broke between us when I let my jealousy get the better of me. Now our friendship has shifted. He’s my favorite person in the world, but I no longer feel at complete ease with him. I don’t know what the fuck I want, but it isn’t this strange new thing that we have going.

  I sit up as Gray grins wide, oblivious to my unease. “Anything, Mac?”

  I keep my back to him, making a pretense of smoothing my hair. “You saying there’s something I can’t make?”

  The bed dips as Gray sits up too. “I was gonna win the game regardless, but now? Icing on the cake, baby.”

  I roll my eyes and stand. “On the cupcake, you mean.” Quickly, I bend over and give him a peck on his forehead. “Give ’em hell, Gray.”

  I pull back to go when a touch on my cheek stops me. Gray’s callused fingertips are gentle on my skin. “Ivy,” he says with hesitation.

  “Yeah?” I don’t know why my heart is pounding. Only that the look in his eyes is intent yet almost afraid, like he’s struggling, and I’m not sure I want him to say whatever it is he’s going to say. But then slowly his hand glides over my cheek. It’s such a tender caress that my heart gives a little flip.

  “Every inch, Ivy.”

  My brows knit as I search his face. “What does that mean?”

  Gray shakes his head, his mouth tilting with a faint smile. “Nothing really. Just something I say before a game. For luck.”

  Swallowing hard, I touch his face. His jaw is warm and rough with stubble. “Well, then,” I say. “Every inch.”

  The broad line of his shoulders sags on a sigh, and he nods as if I’ve given him a rare gift.

  I leave him then, relief mixing with a strange sense of wrongness within me.

  Eleven

  Ivy

  With Gray out of town, I find myself struggling with an excess of restless energy. I don’t know what to do with myself. And, really, I should be figuring it out. I’m a college grad without a job. I know what I want to do, but I dread telling my dad, who’s been footing my bills until now.

  Skin twitching and gut clenching, I soothe myself the only way I know how. I bake.

  Hours later, the house smells of golden, buttery-sweet goodness. I have enough donuts to feed Gray’s entire team. Which sucks since they’re not around to feed.

  Fi arrives just as I finish glazing the last batch.

  “Hermey, Rudolph, and Yukon Cornelius, what the hell smells so good?” Like a tracking dog, she stalks into the kitchen and nearly sticks her nose into a tray of donuts. “Is that bacon on the top?”

  “Yup. Honey-chili bacon. I’m trying to break out from the standard maple bacon.”

  She picks up a donut and takes a
bite, groaning as she does. “You done good, Iv.”

  I select a raspberry-filled with a toasted marshmallow topping. The flavor combination is reminiscent of peanut butter and jelly, but not as heavy and more creamy. Fi steals a bit of it and groans again.

  “Hey,” I say with a laugh. “Don’t go getting me sick.”

  “Bah. I’m not sick any longer, and if you were going to get sick, it would have already happened. Ooh…What’s that one?”

  “Christmas donut. Eggnog flavor with a burnt rum-sugar crust like you’d get on a crème brûlée.”

  “Yum.” Fi continues to munch on her bacon donut and speaks around a mouthful of food. “So what’s with all the baking? You channeling Mom?”

  Hedging from answering Fiona, I reach for the bottle of red wine on the counter. “Want a glass?” I ask instead.

  She eyes me for a moment then shrugs. “Red wine with donuts? Why not?”

  I don’t talk until we both have a full glass of wine. “I like baking. It relaxes me.”

  “Of course you do. It’s in our blood. I mean, I hate it but…” She grins, her cheeks plumping, before becoming serious. “Seriously, Ivy, why are you cringing like a guilty convict over these donuts?”

  I take a sip of wine and glance away. “I realized today that I bake best when I’m tense.”

  The kitchen wall clock ticks away as Fi watches me. “You bake a lot, Ivy Weed.”

  “I know.” Before me is a sea of donuts, each perfectly frosted. “I’ve always thought that I should join Mom because I was good at baking. I like working with my hands, working the dough and coming up with new flavors. I like feeding people. But lately, I’ve started to think about how I want to live. The thing is, Fi, I want to be excited.”

  “And baking doesn’t excite you?” She glances at the donuts.

  “It inspires me, makes me feel good. But running a bakery? I hated it.” A flush washes over me as I confess. Because I did hate that part. I’d hated getting up before dawn, always being on my feet, worrying about the store and customers. Before, I’d pushed that concern to the back of my mind, but now it’s too close to ignore.