A Very Friendly Valentine's Day

by Kayley Loring

  “On the contrary.” I hold up my notebook. “I’m in here with my thoughts and one of the greatest women in American history. Are people having fun out there? It’s a good party, right? Do you think they’ll go home soon?”

  “Bird…” He rubs his forehead, like I’m giving him a headache. “Why did you force yourself to throw a party if you don’t actually want people to have fun in your home?”

  “I totally wanted people to have fun here. I just don’t see why they need to stay for more than two hours. Isn’t there an after party they can all go to now? Or, I don’t know…maybe someone could…” I smile at him, batting my eyelashes.

  He crosses his arms in front of his chest. His sweater is thin and tight, and he looks like Captain America. It’s so annoying. “I am not going to pull the fire alarm.”

  “Fine,” I huff. “Be that way.”

  He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, about a foot away from me. “What are you working on?” he asks, shaking his head.

  “When you put on Hamilton, I had an idea for a hip-hop musical about Lucretia Mott!”

  “Oh yeah?” He lies down on top of the coats, raising his arms above his head to touch the wall behind him. This causes the bottom of his tight sweater to rise up, exposing the pelvic area above his jeans. There are a couple of notable and surprisingly attractive protruding veins on his lower abdominal area—the common iliac arteries, if memory serves. And the upper portion of his groomed sagittal hair growth below the naval, otherwise known as his happy trail, is visible. And it’s a very happy trail indeed.

  “There a part in it for me?” he asks. He is languid, and his deep voice is somehow even huskier than usual.

  He’s nursed two cans of Guinness over the course of a few hours since he’s driving tonight. Still, it has taken the edge off, and he is just a tad flirtatious with me. It never used to unnerve me when he gets like this because he’s a flirt.

  Eddie Cannavale flirts with women. That’s just what he does. He likes to make women feel beautiful and he’s good at it.

  I could see that he was making a special effort to not be flirtatious with me when we became friends in college—in a good way—and that actually made me feel special. He’s like a brother to me. I mean, I don’t have an actual brother, so I don’t know exactly how brothers treat their sisters. But it has always comforted me to think of Eddie as “like a brother to me.” Lately, though, whenever he lowers his voice that tiny bit, whenever he alludes to our relationship in some way…it makes me a little uncomfortable. It may just be that I can sense a little more tension because he hasn’t actually put his P in a V for about a month and a half, I think, since he’s trying to be faithful to Alana… Which is like saying he’s trying to be faithful to a phone app basically, but whatever.

  I can feel him staring at me as I study his impossibly tanned and taut skin.

  I slowly meet his heavy-lidded gaze and clear my throat as I open my notebook. “Of course. You could play Charles C. Burleigh. He was an abolitionist lecturer and close friend of Lucretia Mott’s.”

  “Close friend, huh? And what is this future Tony-winning musical going to be called?”

  I raise my pen in the air. “It’s Gotta be Mott!”

  “Hot to Trot with Mott,” he offers.

  “Like it or Mott, Here I Come.”

  “I’d Rather Mott, Thanks.”

  “Nice to Meet Ya, You Can Call Me Lucretia!”

  “Too Mott to Handle.”

  “You have no idea who Lucretia Mott was, do you?”

  “She was one of the witches on Vampire Diaries, right?” he deadpans. He is currently the star of another CW show and always pretends to only know anything about teen pop culture just to annoy me. I toss my pen and notebook at him, and he laughs. “She was an equal rights chick.”

  And now I’m the one who’s relieved. “Yeah. She was an equal rights chick.” He hands me back my notebook, and I reach for the pen that landed on his chest. He grabs my wrist before I pick it up.

  “You’re not seriously thinking about this though, right?”

  I carefully pull my arm away from him and snatch the pen. “I’m serious about everything—you know that. I mean, I know it’s a little outside my area of expertise in art history… Oh my God, you’re right! I should write a hip-hop musical about Mary Cassatt!”

  “Bird. You’re not writing a hip-hop musical about anyone. You’re hiding. In your bedroom. At your own party. It’s sad.”

  “You’re just saying that because you don’t think there’s a good part in this for you—but there is! Mary Cassatt became great friends with Edgar Degas! You could play one of the great impressionist painters.” My heart is racing now. “There could be a dance number with rapping ballerinas! Oh my God, this is brilliant.” I scribble in my notebook. “Why aren’t you excited?”

  “Just friends again, huh?”

  “Yes! Just friends. He was a great supporter of hers.”

  “You’re still avoiding the party.”

  “So are you.”

  “Baby, I am the party.” He bolts upright, his face suddenly so close to mine, I catch my breath. “I flew down here for this and you’ve been avoiding me all night.”

  “No, I haven’t.” I have. I totally have. He flew from Ohio straight to Vancouver for work after his brother Brady’s wedding, so this is the first time I’ve seen him since The Voicemail. I’ve tried, I’ve tried, I’ve tried to forget about it. I try, I try, I try to look away from his pouty lips. But they’re so flippin’ flappin’ big and soft and so flingin’ flangin’ there. An island of dusty rose-colored flesh in the midst of all those golden planes and angles and dark stubble. It’s almost inconceivable that those lips have never once met mine in the six years we’ve known each other. “I was attempting to circulate and socialize with other people. That’s kind of the point of having a party, is it not?”

  “For most people, sure. But you’re being weird.”

  “I’m always weird.”

  He laughs, just a little. A quiet little appreciative laugh, the kind that I’ve always thought was reserved just for me. “Yeah. You are.” He stares at my mouth, in a very un-friend-ly way, and I think all of my internal organs just started doing the Macarena. “Birdie…” he whispers.

  Nuhhh! is the involuntary noise I make in response.

  “I didn’t just butt dial you when I was in Ohio, did I?”

  It’s only after I swallow hard that I realize how much I’ve been salivating. “Hmmm?”

  “I called and left you a message. I blacked out, but I keep getting these flashes of memories. I don’t know what I actually said. I just remember how I felt when I called you…”

  I shake my head, or at least I think I do. Denial is my instinct here. Denial is the oxygen that keeps this planet of male-female friendship inhabitable. Denial is the gravity that keeps us from crashing into each other and then floating off into separate atmospheres indefinitely.

  “Tell me.” He speaks so softly I can’t quite tell if it’s a demand or a question.

  There’s music and laughter and chatter outside my bedroom door, but inside there are just two people who are holding their breaths and waiting for the other to do something to change the world. I’m not ready for the world to change. Kissing Eddie was not on my list of New Year’s resolutions and it never has been. But if he just tilted his head one inch in either direction, leaned in a few inches toward me, I have this terrible feeling I would be here waiting for him as if it’s what I’d been waiting for all along.

  I’m aware of his whole body stiffening, everything except his jaw, as his lips part the tiniest bit. He rests one hand on my thigh and slowly reaches around my waist with the other…and then he pulls the phone out of my back pocket. Laughing, he leans back, holding my phone and guarding his face with his forearm as I pummel his bicep with my fists.

  “You turd! Give it to me!”

  He lies back again, rolling onto his stomach as he attempts to type in a c
ode on the lock screen. “You saved my message, didn’t you?”

  “Eddie.”

  “I want to hear it.”

  “It’s not on there anymore!”

  “Liar. You wouldn’t care if I had your phone if it wasn’t.”

  “What makes you think you’re the only one leaving me messages I don’t want you to hear?” I try to sound coy, but I’m not the actor here.

  I reach around his back, trying to grab the phone from him. We’re both laughing, even though I’m really, really mad at him. He suddenly flips around to face me, and now I’m lying on top of him. My torso is flat against his. We’re both breathing harder than we should right now. He has this playful glint in his honey brown eyes. I can see almost all of his teeth as he smiles at me, and those damn dimples make me forget about trying to get that phone from him. I’ve never been on top of him before. I’m just mesmerized by his features from this angle, from this close.

  We’ve hugged each other a million times since we met, and every single time I’m as alarmed by the smooth, hard topography of him as I am by the gentle way in which he holds me. But we aren’t giving each other a friendly hug right now. And I’m slowly becoming aware of a part of him that is getting a little bit harder than usual against my thigh. His expression is now so serious, I almost want to ask him if he’s okay.

  But I also don’t want to know the answer because I’m not okay with this. I push myself up, palms against his chest—I can feel his hard nipples through the thin sweater, and I realize his hands are on my waist. He’s let go of my phone and he’s holding me tighter. Maybe he’s helping to push me away. But he glances down at my cleavage. His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare. He makes a quiet guttural sound and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

  I am fully aware, all of a sudden, that it’s up to me right now. The future of our relationship is in my hands. His eyes flick back up to meet mine, and without a word, he’s telling me that he would kiss me if I wanted him to. That it would be okay—that we would be okay—and all I’d have to do is lower myself down a little…

  “Oh, my Lord! Are y’all finally bonin’ in here?” The music and chatter from outside the door get louder for about two seconds before my friend Layla walks in and shuts it again. “Because I’ve had a very longstanding bet with Trevor that y’all finally do it before you turn twenty-seven, and I could really use the money for a new pair of boots.” She attempts to strut, but mostly stumbles, toward my bed and collapses on top of it, right next to us. “I think I’ve had enough to drink,” she states, staring up at the ceiling. “And I can’t decide who to go home with tonight.”

  Eddie’s eyes snap shut as he exhales, his hands dropping away from me. I sit up and gingerly move off of him without disturbing his, um, moderately firm appendage. And then I quickly get up to take a seat on the other side of Layla so I can focus on her very important problem right now. It’s very possible that Eddie wants to dropkick her for cockblocking us, but I could just kiss her.

  Because I wasn’t ready to kiss Eddie.

  Because I need time to think.

  Because this might be a real thing that might really happen, and I don’t want to ruin a six-year friendship just because of a moment.

  Layla is from Texas, and we were all in the same American Novel class at UCLA. The accent that she mostly has lost since moving to LA always seems to find its way back when she’s drinking. And like most of our friends from college, she has never understood how Eddie and I can be just friends. Fortunately, she is so delightfully self-involved, we haven’t had to explain it to her.

  “What are your options?” I ask her while I straighten myself up. “The guy with the beanie?”

  “Been there done that with Beanie Guy. However, yes, he is an option. Edward—what’s the deal with your scruffy actor friend?”

  I try to glance over at Eddie without moving my head. He slowly stands, adjusting his belt and shifting around. “Logan? He’s a good guy, he’s single, but I don’t think he’s your type.”

  “He’s not. I think he’s into Birdie,” she says in a sing-song voice. “He was asking me about her.”

  Once again, I try not to make eye contact with Eddie while still getting a sense of his reaction to this news. “Oh. Hah! I doubt it. We were only talking for about fifteen minutes. He just wanted to know what an archivist does.”

  Eddie runs his fingers through his hair. Vigorously. “I think he might have gonorrhea. I’d stay away from him. Just to be safe. Nice guy, though.”

  “Guess I won’t invite him to my party, then. Are you guys comin’?”

  “You haven’t invited me to anything,” I tell her.

  “Right. I just decided to have a V-Day party. On Valentine’s Day. For singles—y’know? So we can all have somethin’ to look forward to, even though we’re all probably gonna die alone.”

  “I’ll be in New York,” I say at the same time that Eddie says it. And then we both say, “What?!”

  “You’re going to New York? Since when?”

  “I just bought my tickets yesterday. I forgot to tell you. Why are you going—I thought Alana was maybe coming out here for Valentine’s Day.”

  “She booked some big gig, so she needs to stay in town for it. I found out I’m not in the episode we’re shooting that week, so I’ve got time off.”

  “Alana, the model?” Layla asks, looking back and forth between Eddie and me. “That’s still a thing?”

  Now I’m looking straight at Eddie, but he won’t look at me. Because what the frack was he doing almost kissing me if he’s going to see Alana in New York for Valentine’s Day? “Yeah. It’s a thing,” he mumbles.

  It’s. A. Thing.

  Which means that thing that almost happened on the bed just now was not a thing. Either that, or it means Eddie isn’t as good a guy as I thought he was. And I refuse to believe that.

  Therefore, the almost thing on the bed just now was not a thing.

  Resolved!

  “Well, gosh!” Layla sits up and pats me on the thigh. “Now you can meet Alana too! That’ll be fun, hey?”

  Eddie shakes his head and goes to open the door. “Fucking awesome chatting with you as always, Layla.” He starts to walk out, giving me a quick over-the-shoulder glance as he does. “We need to talk about New York,” he says like he’s scolding me. Like I’m in trouble for not telling him I planned a trip to New York.

  I do not respond because if he can make plans to go to New York without telling me, then my travel plans are none of his business.

  But my nipples are basically saluting him and trying to follow him out of the room.

  Shut up, nipples. That’s enough out of you.

  And then he leaves the door open and I watch him go over to talk to his friend Logan.

  Layla gets up to check herself in the mirror and fluff up her hair. “Well. That was one hell of an awkward moment I walked into.”

  “No, it wasn’t. I mean, you certainly made it awkward, but it wasn’t a moment-moment. He’s still like a brother to me. It was an awkward broment.”

  “Babe. If he’s a brother to you, then I’m callin’ social services on your ass. I’m tellin’ you, girl.” She applies lip gloss and then smacks her lips together before continuing. “Y’all need to either hit it or quit it. I swear I have no idea how you’ve gone this long without bumpin’ nasties, but guys and girls do not attach themselves to each other like y’all have unless there’s a serious attraction. He’s had a froner for you ever since you met.”

  “What’s a froner?”

  “A friend boner. Boner for a friend. And you can still possibly get away with a little ‘get it out of your system’ sex after a six-year froner. But a seven-year froner will either lead to a bitter friend breakup or marriage. Pick your poison.” She adjusts her boobs in her bra and then spins around to face me. “It’s showtime.”

  Eddie

  The One with the Broguemance Fail

  Here are all the reasons I have co
me to believe that Birdie Beckett has zero interest in me as a potential boyfriend: One—she only dates nerds. She literally told me her ideal man is Harold Ramis in Ghostbusters. Two—I have never once caught her eye-fucking me and she has never once commented on my looks except to joke about it. And everyone, I mean every girl I’ve ever met since I was sixteen, eye-fucks me and comments on my looks. Three—she’s an archivist for The Getty, from a wealthy LA family, with degrees in art history and library sciences. I’m a guy from a middle-class family in Ohio with a BFA in Theatre who gets paid to play teenagers on TV.

  Here’s why I’ve always thought it’s a bad idea to put the moves on her: she’s the most down-to-earth and reliable friend I’ve had since I moved out here. With all the different people I work with on TV and movie sets, there’s an intense kind of bond until the wrap party, and then we all go our separate ways. Actors live the life of a vagabond, but Birdie’s my home in LA. She’s the only person not related to me who’s treated me the same whether I was an acting student or the star of a TV show or one of a million actors in LA who was constantly auditioning for parts. I don’t want to screw that up. And historically, I have found that no matter how hard I try, my romantic relationships always get screwed up eventually. That right there is the only reason I need.

  Am I attracted to her? Yes, I am. But I can be attracted to someone and know that we aren’t right for each other—I think Kim Basinger is hot as shit even in her sixties, but I wouldn’t date her. Probably. Well, never say never.

  Here’s why I’m starting to wonder if it would be a smart idea for Birdie and me to hook up and get the sex thing out of our systems: Reasons one and two—I have now seen her nipples up close and personal, and I really fucking liked what I saw and I can’t stop thinking about them. Three—I don’t need any more reasons. But I liked the way it felt having her on top of me, and I liked having my hands on her and I know for a fact that she would have kissed me if Layla hadn’t walked in on us. And it would have been hot. Four—she deserves to be fucked right by someone who knows how to make her feel good and she deserves to be fucked right by someone who cares about her. There’s exactly one person on earth who fits the bill, and that’s me. Five—we’re still in our mid-twenties. This is still an acceptable time in our lives to make the mistake of having hot sex and then getting back on track as friends. Probably. Or maybe we get married because we want to justify the mistake—not the worst outcome in the world. We can make it work. Six—still thinking about her beautiful perky tits.