Page 26 of A Play For The Heart
I expend a vast amount of energy to avoid thinking about the sex dream, only to hyperfocus on the dream and wonder about how it would play out in real life. Is the dream accurate, or would the dream be better than the reality? Super inappropriate thoughts to have about your best friend.
It’s become an exhausting endeavor since I keep coming to a stalemate where I end up convincing myself he might have feelings then change my mind and decide he doesn’t. He’s into me. He isn’t into me. I’m starting to annoy myself with the back-and-forth.
Not once in my life have I spent this much time trying to determine if a man is interested. I am a grown-ass woman, and this is not productive. But I’m also curious to a fault, and if I don’t know something, I need to find out. It’s a fact that Henry has used to his advantage more times than I can count. He can dangle a secret in front of me like a dog with a bone and I’m hooked. He knows it. I know it. It's just a fact.
Iwillfind out if Henry has feelings for me and when he doesn’t, I am going to give Maren a big, fat ‘I told you so’. But to do that, I need to be subtle, which is not my strong suit. My usual method is to pester him until he relents. So instead of coming up with some grand plan to figure it out, I’m just going to do flirty things and see how he reacts. I’ll touch his arm if he says something funny or lay my legs on his lap on the couch. Oh! I’ll graze his arm. That will work. Things that can be friendly but can also be interpreted as more. And if he reacts then I’ll have my answer. I have no idea what I'll do with the information, but I'll burn that bridge when I cross it. It’s not exactly revolutionary science, but it seems foolproof, so it’s the plan I’m going with.
I pull out my phone and commence my investigation.
Me:Movie night?
Henry:Count me in.
I’m running around my apartment like a chicken with its head chopped off when the doorbell echoes through the space. For the past two hours I’ve scrubbed every surface spotless, like the success of my plan rides on a clean kitchen and living room. I hastily pull my hair out of a bun and run my fingers through the blonde curls in an attempt to look more put together. I look down at my tank top and sweatpants, grimacing. It’s not the most jaw-dropping outfit I’ve ever worn but considering I’m on a time constraint it’s going to have to do.
“It’s open,” I yell, loud enough so Henry can hear me.
Henry saunters through the door with a takeout bag and my breath hitches. He kicks the door shut with his foot, flings his shoes off, and smiles at me, bright and open.
My heart stutters a bit at the smile. The sex dream must have altered my brain chemistry. Because I'm looking at Henry and I am seeing a modern-day Greek god, not my best friend for years. It's disconcerting.
Objectively, I know that Henry is attractive. His face is symmetrical, he has piercing, electric blue eyes, and a slightly crooked smile that’s so contagious you can’t help but smile along with him. Not to mention he has a nice, glowing tan year-round that I could never replicate, even with self-tanner. Even though my mind can admit he’s good-looking, I was never impacted by his attractiveness. Now, his stupid handsomeness is stopping me in my tracks. He looks effortlessly put together in a pair of gray joggers and a fitted white t-shirt that does wondrous things for his arm muscles.
Arm muscles I would very much like to lick.
If you looked up the phrase panty dropping in the dictionary, there would be a picture of Henry standing in my hallway.
My life has taken a wrong turn if I’ve reached the point where I’m ogling my best friend and losing my ability to speak just at the sight of him. I blame this entire reaction on Maren and her ‘radar’. There’s no chance I would be having any of these thoughts without her planting the seed of curiosity in my mind. She changed my perspective from entirely platonic to whatever is happening in my brain.... so, this is her fault. I need to stay objective, I don’t need any of my emotions mixed up into my plan, because developing feelings myself only to uncover Maren was wrong would be awkward. I know myself. I have lots of feelings. I am a hopeless romantic. My favorite movies are ones of true love and grand gestures. I want to be loved and if I let myself, I’ll mistake some normal interaction as a romantic gesture. Which would be horrible. That’s why determining Henry’s feelings is imperative. Knowing that will prevent me from reading into what Maren is saying and getting hurt.
Enough staring, Sawyer. It's game time.
I execute the first step of my plan. Give Henry a strong, lingering hug.
“Hi,” I mumble into his chest as I wrap my arms tight around his waist and squeeze. Hard. A quick internet search told me that hugs around the waist are flirty, so that’s what I'm going with. He smells delicious, like eucalyptus and soap and something uniquely Henry. If they had the scent in candle form, I would buy one for every room in the apartment. I linger in his arms for a second longer than I usually would—for my plan, of course—and then pull away. A small shiver racks my body as I leave his warmth.
Henry's eyebrows crinkle together. “Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just missed you.”
Apparently, lingering hugs do not provide definitive results about feelings. I mentally jot that down and lead him into the kitchen.
“I brought some Thai food from a place near here,” he begins pulling containers out of the bag, placing the food on the counter. My mouth begins to salivate from the smell wafting out of the containers.
I nearly squeal with excitement at the mention of what could be considered the best Thai restaurant on the planet. Not even offering Henry a second glance, I swipe the pad Thai off the counter and head towards the small kitchen table. Henry chuckles at my excitement for the food and sits down beside me at the table.
“Be prepared,” I warm him as I begin to dig into my food. “This is thebestThai food you’ll ever have.”
“That’s a lofty claim.” He grins at me, laughing, as I shovel noodles into my mouth. This food is too good to be concerned about how I look eating. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
I stare at him while he brings the fork full of food to his mouth, waiting for his reaction. He begins to chew, and as I watch in rapt attention, I try to gauge his reaction. Except it’s clear he’s trying to hide it from me. His face is stoic as he chews, giving nothing away.
“Well?” I ask, slightly perturbed that he hasn’t admitted to how amazing the food is.
“You were right,” he mumbles in between bites.
I hear those glorious three words and I can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face. Music to my ears.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that?” I ask with all the faux-innocence I can muster. Within moments, half of his takeout container is gone and his fork is drifting toward mine. “Hey! Back off. Eat your own food,” I swat his fork away with my own. I’m ready to fight to the death for my food.
