The three dot bubble that tells me Alex is typing appears on the screen, then disappears. I watch it happen two more times, my stomach sinking with each passing second while Alex probably tries to figure out a polite way to tell me to fuck off.
I’m about to start typing again, to apologize for flirting or maybe change the subject entirely and pretend it never happened, when my phone buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call.
Alex is calling me, and against my better judgement, I really, really want to answer the phone. I do a quick scan of my surroundings, making sure there’s nothing incriminating in my living room like stray sex toys or wrappers from the Taco Bell I definitely wasn’t supposed to eat for dinner, then swipe to answer.
“You know, they say only psychopaths call people who have texted them,” I say in lieu of a hello, figuring it's best if I go with deflection and somegentle teasing. But when Alex comes into view on the other side of the screen, my mouth goes dry.
He’s shirtless, laying back on a couch with a hand propped up behind his head. His arm is flexed, and he’s got the cutest little shooting star tattoo on his bicep. His hair is wet, messy and sticking to his forehead. His skin is pink, coated in a sheen of dampness so I can only imagine that he just got out of the shower.
His chest…god, his chest. It's sculpted, bulging with muscle, and, like his face, completely hairless. A stray droplet of water slides down his pec to the top of his stomach, carved out by abs and a waist I could easily grab a handful of. I can’t see past his belly button, and that’s probably a good thing because I know whatever he’s got going on below the belt—be it pajamas, a towel, or nothing at all—is sure to make my brain go fuzzy.
“Hey, talking on the phone is a lost art. Don’t you remember when you were a kid and used to sit by the landline in your room and wait for your friends or your crush to call you? I swear I spent hours laying in bed, yapping the night away as a teenager.”
I don’t want to mention that I didn’t have a landline in my bedroom as a kid, or that half the time, Mom could barely afford the phone bill. It wasn’t until I was old enough to start mowing lawns forcash that I was able to score a prepaid cell phone and a couple hundred minutes a month, and I certainly wasn’t going to waste those talking to kids I saw at school every day.
So I just nod and move right along.
“You played amazing tonight, Alex.”
“I know, right? I mean, I don’t want to toot my own horn or anything, and obviously it's a team effort, but…”
Alex purses his lips and makes the most ridiculous horn sound, sending spittle flying everywhere and turning his cheeks red. I burst out laughing, unable to keep my composure when he’s carrying on like that.
“Did you call me just to brag and practice your trombone impressions?” I manage to ask between chuckles. Alex is laughing too, the smile on his face so wide it looks like it might split in two.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone who so effortlessly radiates joy like he does.
“Nah, I just want to see your face while we chat. Is that okay?”
Ah, hell. There goes my heart, skipping away, tossing flower petals and mooning.
Why? Why does this man have to be so fucking cute?
“Yeah, that’s okay, Alex.” I say, even as my tongue feels like it's sticking to the roof of my mouth.
Being his friend might turn out to be the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. But as I watch Alex move around, propping his phone against something and tucking his hands under his chin, I find myself memorizing every inch of him like this. The way he curls in on himself, the way his abs ripple with each inhale of breath, and that smile. The one that seems to take over his whole face, tugging at the corners of his lips and shining through his sparkling brown eyes.
Fuck it. I don’t care how hard being just friends with Alex will be for me. I’ve never seen a smile so captivatingly beautiful in my life, and I’m claiming it all for myself.
6
TRAGICALLY HETEROSEXUAL
Alex
“Want to play more of the question game?” I ask, watching through the screen on my phone as Elliot curls up into the corner of his sectional couch, a red and gold Redwoods throw blanket draped across his lap. He’s wearing a cropped t-shirt again, this one sporting the logo of a popular energy drink. It's much shorter than the one he wore to the club, the hem hitting right at the top of his ribcage. And when he leans back and lays his head on his forearm, I get a glimpse of the underside of his nipples and the black band of his underwear poking out of his sweatpants.
There is no reason that a peek of boxer briefs and the sight of all that bare skin should make me feel like I need to avert my eyes, and yet…
It's just because this friendship is new. That’s the only reason my cheeks are flushing and my palms are sweaty.
“Hell yeah. I think it’s my turn to ask, so…what’s your zodiac sign?”
“Pisces. My birthday is March 13th, and I was born during a full moon in the Year of the Tiger.”
“Pisces, I should’ve known. You’ve got that creative, intuitive, compassionate thing in spades.”
“Is creative your nice way of saying I’m kind of a weirdo?”
