Page 46 of Friendshipped
Trevor opens the antibacterial ointment and dabs it carefully across my knee. Next, he tears open a Band-Aid and sticks it to my skin, mindful to avoid the cut. When he’s finished, he slowly lowers my skirt and gives my thigh a light pat.
“There. Good as new.”
Our eyes lock and I feel … too many things.
My friendship with Trevor has an expiration date. And his upcoming night out with Meg fills me with a heightened sense of foreboding.
If I were a man or he were a woman we’d be friends for life. But we had the misfortune of being a guy and girl who became best friends, and once one of us is in a serious relationship, our friendship will have to be put on ice.
And now I’m picturing Trevor as a woman, wearing a skirt, heels, lipstick … and what else is feminine-Trevor wearing? A feather boa? Oh sweet Mrs. Doubtfire.
I can barely hold in my laughter.
“What are you laughing about?” Trevor asks.
“Just picturing you in a dress and heels,” I say.
Trevor shakes his head and says, “It’s never dull with you, that’s for sure.” Then he adds, “I bet I’d rock that outfit, though.”
“Hardly,” I say, laughing.
I stand up and walk to Trevor’s front door.
“Thanks for patching me up.”
“Anytime,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Okay.”
I shift my weight a little.
“And, rain check on movie night for the two of us, okay?” Trevor asks.
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll even buy black licorice for you,” Trevor promises.
I give him as much of a smile as I can. He walks over to where I’m standing. My head tilts up to look at him and he looks down at me with his mosaic eyes, the early evening light filtering through the doorway to illuminate the greens and golds as if they’re lit from within.
“One day I’ll convert you to be a black licorice lover,” I tell him.
He doesn’t step back. We’re standing too close to one another for my comfort after the way he tended my wound and how I can still feel the ghosting of his touch on my legs right now.
I shift a little to step backward, but my unsure footing makes me wobble. Trevor reaches out and grabs my elbow to save me from toppling a second time in one hour.
“You’ll make me love black licorice the same day I convince you of the wonders of spicy jalapeño chips,” he tells me.
His hand still cups my elbow. He looks down at where we’re touching and pulls back.
“Not happening. Those things could be used to strip asphalt.”
“And black licorice should be used to fill the cracks in Memaw’s driveway.”
We laugh, temporarily restoring the equilibrium between us.
But, for how long?
Trevor and I seem to be treading water in a rushing river. Life is changing and the current threatens to rip us apart. There’s never been a subject Trevor and I couldn’t talk about. Except this: the way my heart won’t stop wanting so much more with him.
