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Admittedly, whenever I try to map out the progression, it never seems terrible. Step one is Facebook friendship. Step two is unreadable emoji. Step three is probably going to be occasional head nods in each other’s direction, not the destruction of the world as we know it.
But my feelings aren’t logical. Every time I tell myself to accept the request, I cycle back to that memory of Blake looking in my eyes and telling me that I’ve never been invisible to him.
And yes, my attraction makes a little too much sense. Blake has symmetrical features and meets generally accepted standards for masculine appeal. In addition, he’s rich, smart, and powerful. I can tell myself that it’s ridiculous as often as I like, but I’m fighting years of social programming. Even a hint of interest on his part is enough to spark my subconscious desire.
That’s precisely why—logically—I want nothing to do with him. Television and books have all led me to hope, to believe that magic happens. Experience tells me that fiction is fiction and that hope leads to disappointment. Even assuming that he liked me, we’ve already proven that we’re too different to get along in reality. Nobody will ever take care of me but myself, and I can’t let myself believe anything else.
Friendship with Blake is not safe. It’s not even Facebook safe.
I slip into a seat in the hall for the class we share a minute before lecture is scheduled to start. Blake always sits in the third row. Not that I’ve looked for him before; it’s just that he’s the kind of guy that I can’t help but notice.
I’m taking out my notebook when there’s a rustle beside me.
“Hey.”
I swallow at the sound of that voice and turn my head. Blake is tall—so tall I have to tilt my head back to look at him. He’s standing beside my chair. I have nowhere to run, as I’m locked in place by the little desk arm in the theater seat. And it’s just as well, because running away right now would be ridiculous.
“Mind if I sit next to you?”
I do mind, actually. Next comes duck emoji and, according to my mental progression, the zombie holocaust. I wrestle with myself for a few moments before I decide that it’s better not to admit that I care.
I shrug. “Go ahead.”
He sits.
There aren’t many students in the very back row. Blake sits immediately next to me, not leaving an empty seat between us, and that feels weird. It’s a violation of the rules of personal space. When there’s only one other person on the bus, you don’t sit right next to her. Not unless you know her.
And it feels like Blake takes up a lot of room. Even though I can’t point to a single physical point of contact, I can sense him next to me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t look at me. I can’t even smell him. He’s just…there, being Blake Reynolds, taking up a lecture hall’s worth of personal space in one single seat.
When the professor begins, I have every excuse to ignore Blake. I try to do so. But he’s not ignoring me, and I can’t help but notice him noticing me.
He takes desultory notes on a tablet, but mostly he listens. His head tilts in my direction occasionally.
Nope. I’m not going to care. I ignore him harder, concentrating on the professor at the lectern below.
I’m trying so hard not to pay attention to him that I jump when he slips a folded piece of bright yellow paper under my arm.
It’s a flyer for some meeting. On the back, he’s scrawled a single sentence.
After considerable thought, I have decided to take back my apology from the other day.
My heart begins to beat a little more quickly. I’m not sure what he means by that. By the way he glances at me, he wants me to ask for an explanation.
Still a nope. Not going to let Blake distract me. Especially if he’s decided to be a jerk. As soon as class is over, I’m going to click “ignore” on that damned friend request. And I’m not going to be distracted by him ever, ever again.
I stare at the professor for five more minutes, not hearing a word of the lecture, until finally I give up.
Are we nine, I scrawl in return, and passing notes in class? Apparently we are.
Instead of frowning when I hand this to him, the corner of his mouth lifts in appreciation.
Don’t blame me, he writes back. If I had your number, I would have just texted you.
He catches my eye as I look up from the paper. He holds my gaze, and a hint of electricity arcs between us.
I swallow and scribble out a response. I can’t tell if that’s a hint that you want it or a statement of fact.
He ducks his head. Cut me some slack. My media training didn’t cover the old-fashioned art of paper-based flirtation.
That last word hits me first—flirtation. I feel a wave of heat. Is that what he’s doing?
Maybe. I look over at him, look back at the paper, and feel that stupid, illogical flutter.
Okay, definitely.
And that’s when the first part hits me. Media training?
If I needed proof that we are totally different animals, this is it. I’m not sure what media training entails. Thousands of dollars, I suspect. At least. And I can’t even afford a smartphone.
I remind myself of all of this, and still I find myself responding—not just to his words, but his tone. Poor Blake, I write back, a little more slowly. Was that not age inappropriate enough for your dad?
He presses the back of his fist into his mouth as if biting back a laugh. But he writes back immediately.
See? If I weren’t me, we would totally be friends.
I glance over at him. This, this, is exactly why I haven’t accepted that damned friend request. Because he is him. He’s the same guy who opines about the social safety net when he’s never, ever needed it. His father owns a company that has an annual revenue larger than the GDP of most countries. We’ve barely spoken. We’re not friends. I’m just fighting my stupid, social programming, and he’s…
I tilt my head and glance at him. He’s smiling at me. Making my social programming act up. It’s hitting me on the head and saying, see? I told you so.
I shake my head. If I weren’t me, I write back, we would be. I’ll accept your apology, but that’s all that’s happening.
He frowns when he reads this. Too bad, he writes in response. Apology already withdrawn; it’s too late to accept it now. I, on the other hand, have magnanimously decided to accept the offer you made on Monday.
I consider this.
1. You spelled magnanimously correctly without autocorrect. That paper-based media training must be good for something.
2. WTF? What offer?
He looks over at me and raises an eyebrow. When he passes the paper back, I get: You said that I wouldn’t make it two weeks if I had to live your life. I don’t want two weeks. I want the rest of the semester.
I look over at him. He’s watching me intently, his eyes narrowing on mine. I look down at the paper. I don’t want to be intrigued. I don’t want to be interested. I don’t want to wonder what he means, what this entails. I don’t want to k
now about him.
My pen moves up the page and slowly, very slowly, circles the WTF I wrote earlier. I draw a few arrows pointing to it and add a smattering of exclamation marks around it, just in case he misses it. In case he’s not watching over my shoulder. I pass this over to him.
Come to lunch with me, he writes back. I’ll explain everything.
4.
TINA
Blake stops by his car on the way to lunch. “I have to put on my disguise,” he explains.
“Your disguise?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks to the car. He doesn’t take out a key. He doesn’t need to. As he approaches, the silver handles—which used to lie flush against the door—extend toward him. He opens the back door, revealing a surprising jumble of stuff: bright red running shoes, a crumpled towel, a handful of books, and myriad old receipts.
“Apparently,” I say dryly, “your media training also failed to include the old-fashioned art of cleaning up after yourself.”
He just laughs. “You sound like my dad. He’s a neat freak. I drive him crazy.” He pulls off his coat and then, as I’m watching, takes off his tie and unbuttons his blue-collared shirt. He removes this all in front of me. I catch a glimpse of a silver watch at his wrist.
Now that he’s stripped to nothing but a white undershirt, I can see his upper body. Blake is all lean muscles. That tattoo I glimpsed before is a complicated computer circuit board. The artist who did it has imbued the tat with a sense of a subtle glow, making it seem like those are real circuits embedded just below his skin. Despite myself, my fingers itch to touch it, to make sure that’s all real muscle and not actual metal. The art climbs from his wrist all the way to his shoulder; from this angle, it makes him look like he’s a cyborg in some science fiction film.
It’s freaking brilliant.
He rescues a dark blue Cal sweatshirt from the pile of crap and pulls it on. The shirt is overlarge; it completely swallows his wrists.
