As I carefully inspect the precarious shoe situation, I say, “I don’t really think of it as dating. It’s more like…shopping. Shopping for a wedding date. I’m basically going to the mall.”
“As someone who lives and dies by romance novels, I don’t love where you’re going with that analogy.” Drew has always been the one in our friendship with the mushy, hopeful heart, and honestly, that’s part of the problem.
Not that he has a mushy, hopeful heart. I love that about him. Gah,love. Jesus.
It’s more that he’s a lovebug through and through, and if I take the wrong step toward him while bumbling my way through adulthood, he could end up splattered on the sole of my shoe. A fate far worse than loving him from afar. At least from afar, I can’t fuck it up.
That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. A smaller than small part of me knows I’m being governed by fear here.
Fear of awkwardness, rejection, having to find a new living arrangement because I’ve irrevocably fucked up the best friendship I’ve ever had by choosing to catch feelings after one almost-magical New Year’s Eve.
Drew wants it all. The commitment. The cute Instagram photo shoots. The getaways and late-night phone calls. The whole works.
I think I want that stuff too. I think I want to give him that stuff.But I can’t plant romantic roots until I’m firmly progressing on my career path toward comedy stardom. With my family breathing down my neck, seemingly ready for me to fail, I need to prove that this move to New York City was forsomething.
For now, I’m fine—or pretending to be fine, depending on the day—with casual, don’t-bring-him-back-to-the-apartment flings. It all provides ample fodder for my stand-up material. Leave the strings for the puppets, I always say. (I don’t really, but maybe I should start?)
Which is why when I turn around with two pairs of matching shoes, one in each hand, I’m hit with a niggling sense of mourning.
There’s Drew. Handsome as ever, even in a pair of pale-pink sweatpants and a matching crewneck. Someone who would make an excellent wedding date, and an even more excellent life partner. Someone who supports me and loans me socks and has kissed me on exactly two occasions (once for practice, once for…pleasure?) and hasn’t curled away in disgust—which has happened to me in the past, mind you! But in fairness, I had eaten a shitload of garlic knots before said kiss, so I was basically vampire-repellent and this dude was wearing guyliner and a vintage My Chemical Romance T-shirt. You do the math.
I can’t even keep a pair of damn socks together. How on earth could I keep a couple together when one half of that couple isme? Drew deserves more, better,the world. All I have to offer is this: half-heartedly begging for a pair of clean, matching socks on a Saturday night mere minutes before I need to leave for a date I don’t even want to go on with a guy named Harry who’s way out of my league. Honestly, Harry and I might even be playing two different ball games, but he asked me out and I’m really in no position to upset a potential wedding date at this juncture.
“Which pair?” I ask, forcing myself back to earth.
Drew deliberates with keen eyes. “Neither of them match the socks. And, now that I’m looking, the socks don’t match the pants. Do we need to get you a sticker system so you know what goes with what?”
“I could always lie and say I’m color-blind.”
“You could always stay home and watchDrag Racewith me like you promised,” he says.
Drew isn’t exactly a social butterfly. When we moved to New York City from our New Jersey suburb together (my idea, mostly) after high school graduation, I was the one forcing him out of the apartment on a Friday night. I was the one nudging guys to go up to Drew and ask for his number. It’s not that Drew isn’t friendly. He’s got the kindest smile and the weirdest sense of humor, but outside of our apartment and the bookstore he works at, he’s more bashful than you’d expect from a guy who takes up so much physical space. Whose bright-red hair and fair skin literally demand your attention in every room he enters.
I look him right in the ice-blue eyes and urge myself not to get lost in them. Not even for a second. Because if I do, there’s no going back. I’ll be in lounge pants and a John Mulaney T-shirt before I can even cancel on Harry.
Harry!I check my phone and remember I’m going to be late. Probably later-than-late now, but I’m hoping this guy is one of those dudes who finds messy, blundering guys charming. I grab the nearest, least wrinkly shirt I can find and throw it on. “As much fun asDrag Racesounds, I have to go. If you’re still up when I get back, we can roll a joint and watch and bitch, but right now I need to make sure I’m not flying solo at my sister’s wedding.” Drew visibly sags at this. “Tonight, why don’t you read that hockey player/swimmer romance you’ve been excited about? What was it called again?”
“Rink or Swim.”
“There we go! I knew it had a silly name.” All his favorite books do, but I don’t even make fun of him for it. He’s never once made me feel bad for the number of times I rewatch a streaming stand-up special for the quiet comfort and familiarity. “Read that, and by the time you’re done, I’ll be back and you can tell me all about it. Okay?”
He nods. “Okay.”
I’m hustling toward the door, scooping up my keys, my wallet, my light jacket.
Stupidly, I kiss him on the cheek even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know his soft, freckled skin under my lips will make my heart flutter. Even though I know it’s going to make giving Harry a chance a zillion times harder than it should be. But I do it anyway because I’m a fucking rebel literally without a cause, and when I pull back, Drew smiles the friendly smile that powers my days, keeps me up at night, and never ceases to buoy me.
“Wish me luck?”
“Good luck,” he says genuinely.
And then the door shuts between us.
Chapter Two
THREE MONTHS LATER
The elevator doors open onto the Doop headquarters.
