Then I’d artfully arranged them in communal sitting spots around my house. Where they remained today, unopened. I’d never even read them. If I wanted to know something about fashion or houseplants, I used the Internet. Meanwhile, they still looked cute, so I kept them. I even dusted them when I cleaned.
So if Jonah accidentally spilled his supper on them... I wasn’t going to be mad about it.
“I’m just teasing you, Eliza. You know that, right?”
I took exactly one second to pull my shit together. He would know something was up if I took longer, even an additional second. But I needed the short pause to bury the offended teenager who was madly in love with him and resurrect the strong, confident, happily single twenty-seven-year-old woman he knew as his best friend.
“Yep.”
It wasn’t that I was wearing a mask or pretending or lying or anything else that wasn’t the whole truth. This was who I was. I was a successful, badass, independent female that was growing her business, taking care of her skin like it was a side hustle, drinking enough water—at least once or twice a week—working out semi-regularly, and occasionally investing in her retirement, however minimally and inconsistently that might be.
I didn’t need Jonah’s pity. Or his random attempts at hooking up when he’d been single for a stretch and was particularly horny. Had I wondered what it would be like to have sex with Jonah? Obviously. How could I not? He was everything I found attractive in the opposite sex. Not just because he was unfairly handsome, but because he really did have a great personality too. He was kind, generous, and so funny. He took the time to check on me after I had a bad day. He noticed the smallest details about me. He listened to my opinionsandremembered themand thentook them into account when appropriate.
And more than all that, he wascomfortable. Like a security blanket in the form of a human being. It would be so easy to fall into something quick and easy with him.
But then what?
How would we recover afterward? How would he go back to being my security blanket? How would we reestablish boundaries and friendship and our easy familiarity? We couldn’t. It would destroy us. Permanently.
And I wanted to be friends more than I wanted one great night and then a lifetime of awkward regret.
So upon remembering all the reasons I was awesome and would eventually find a real, living, breathing, not-childhood-crush boyfriend, I rolled my eyes at him and added, “Listen, if you can’t keep it in your pants tonight, I’m kicking you out.”
“I shouldn’t have poked the bear. I realize that now.” He actually sounded repentant, but I enjoyed making him suffer.
Brandishing my fork at him, I reminded him, “I’m not your fuck buddy, Mason. If you can’t hang out and be cool, I’m sending you home.” I eyed his plate. “And I’m keeping your leftovers as reparations for the emotional trauma of being your friend.”
He stabbed his fork into a big bite of potpie. “I get it, Liza. Geez. I said I was sorry.”
Now I felt bad for making him feel bad. Which was the stupid power he and my brothers had over me. Ugh, I wanted to stab my fork into my forehead just like Jonah had his food. Why was I like this?
I reached for the remote instead, hoping we could just move on and forget any of this had happened...ignoring how good it felt to flirt with him.Andhow off the charts our chemistry was. Why? Because none of that mattered. We’d known each other way too long and seen way too much stupidity for anythingromanticto happen between us.
He’d been the first to come to that conclusion. And I’d agreed with him shortly thereafter.
“The second season ofThe Witcheris on.” It was my peace offering. Either he was going to take it or we’d spend the next hour flipping through shows and being miserable with each other before he made up an excuse to go home.
“You hateThe Witcher.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t understandThe Witcher. But I don’t hate Henry Cavill. So I’m just saying... if your secret nerd heart wants to fill up on sex-driven fantasy to fill the fathomless void in your soul, you have my support.”
He made a sound in the back of his throat. “The Witcheris not sex-driven.”
Despite the weirdness between the start of the evening and now, I had to press my lips together to suppress a smile. “Then why did Yennifer get the glow up, Jonah? Why do they have Henry Cavill strutting around shirtless everywhere? Sex, baby. Let’s talk about it.” I cleared my throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”
He stabbed another bite of food while I pulled up the right streaming app and hunted for his favorite non-survivor show. “There are elements of sex,” he clarified. “But the show is story-driven. Those character arcs, I mean... it’s genius.”
“The show’s story walks in drunken circles. The only thing making sense in that show is sex.” I shot him another look. “Kind of like your life.”
His lips twitched. “Now she’s got sex jokes.”
I laughed out loud, dispelling whatever tension was left between us. “Oh, I always got jokes about you, Mason. Always.”
He grabbed the remote from me and turned the volume way up. “Yeah, yeah. If you want to talk about sexual harassment. I’m fairly confident this is the definition.”
I finally tried my food—which was rich, flavorful, and ridiculously delicious—but didn’t push him on the sore subject anymore. It took fifteen minutes into the episode before we were totally back to normal. He kept pausing to explain what was going on since I hadn’t grown up playing the video game or reading the book as he had, and we fell back into that safe, cozy spot where we spent most of our time as friends.
Well, for at least the next three episodes.
