Page 11 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
The One with the Broguemance Fail
Here are all the reasons I have come to believe that Birdie Beckett has zero interest in me as a potential boyfriend: One—she only dates nerds. She literally told me her ideal man is Harold Ramis inGhostbusters.Two—I have never once caught her eye-fucking me and she has never once commented on my looks except to joke about it. Andeveryone, I mean every girl I’ve ever met since I was sixteen, eye-fucks me and comments on my looks. Three—she’s an archivist for The Getty, from a wealthy LA family, with degrees in art history and library sciences. I’m a guy from a middle-class family in Ohio with a BFA in Theatre who gets paid to play teenagers on TV.
Here’s why I’ve always thought it’s a bad idea to put the moves on her: she’s the most down-to-earth and reliable friend I’ve had since I moved out here. With all the different people I work with on TV and movie sets, there’s an intense kind of bond until the wrap party, and then we all go our separate ways. Actors live the life of a vagabond, but Birdie’s my home in LA. She’s the only person not related to me who’s treated me the same whether I was an acting student or the star of a TV show or one of a million actors in LA who was constantly auditioning for parts. I don’t want to screw that up. And historically, I have found that no matter how hard I try, my romantic relationships always get screwed up eventually. That right there is the only reason I need.
Am I attracted to her? Yes, I am. But I can be attracted to someone and know that we aren’t right for each other—I think Kim Basinger is hot as shit even in her sixties, but I wouldn’t date her. Probably. Well, never say never.
Here’s why I’m starting to wonder if it would be a smart idea for Birdie and me to hook up and get the sex thing out of our systems: Reasons one and two—I have now seen her nipples up close and personal, and I really fucking liked what I saw and I can’t stop thinking about them. Three—I don’t need any more reasons. But I liked the way it felt having her on top of me, and I liked having my hands on her and I know for a fact that she would have kissed me if Layla hadn’t walked in on us. And it would have been hot. Four—she deserves to be fucked right by someone who knows how to make her feel good and she deserves to be fucked right by someone who cares about her. There’s exactly one person on earth who fits the bill, and that’s me. Five—we’re still in our mid-twenties. This is still an acceptable time in our lives to make the mistake of having hot sex and then getting back on track as friends. Probably. Or maybe we get married because we want to justify the mistake—not the worst outcome in the world. We can make it work. Six—still thinking about her beautiful perky tits.
Fuck, I feel guilty. I feel guilty as her friend. I feel guilty as a Catholic man of honor whose ma, sister and nonna would punch in the balls if they knew what I was thinking right now.And oh fuck right—I feel guilty because I’m supposed to be Alana’s boyfriend and I’m finally going to meet her in New York in a few weeks.
I’ve put my buddy Logan into an Uber along with some redhead that I wing manned—okaystrong-armed—him into going home with so he’d stay away from Birdie. They were the last to leave, even though eleven is really early for a party to be over. But I could tell she was getting anxious, so I turned off the music, turned on all the lights and put on CNN. Boom. Instant party killer.
Now I’m pacing around outside her building before going back in to help her clean up. She’s been avoiding me even more since the bedroom incident and I don’t want to leave things hanging. And I also want to see her tits again—but I’mnotgoing to. Unless she decides to flash me again—then it can’t be helped.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket—three times in a row—and I know before pulling it out of my pocket that it’s Alana. She always sends multiple short texts in a row. It’s sort of a signature thing she does that I used to get really excited about—because three texts from a hot model with two million followers on Instagram is better than one.
But now I’m just wondering why she can’t write“Hey! How are you? You busy?”in one message.
But shit—I forgot to send her agood nighttext. For the first time since we started texting. I also forgot to check if she posted anything on The Gram. If I don’t like and comment on her photos, people will think we’ve broken up. Butshewon’t think that—she’s cool. Not cool like Birdie, but she’s really low maintenance for a model. Which is why I like her.
ME: Hey babe! I was just busy thinking about you ;) You’re still up? I’ve been hanging out with a few old friends in LA.
ALANA: Just getting into bed, actually.
ALANA: Looooong day!
ALANA: I forgot you’re in LA this weekend.
ALANA: Thought you might want to FaceTime…
Okay. The dot dot dot is intriguing…
But I can’t.
ME: Oh man, I’d love to. But I’m in the middle of helping my buddy with something.
ALANA: Oh.
ALANA: Okay no problem!
ALANA: I just wanted to show you this new thing I got to keep.
ALANA: From the photo shoot today.
Seconds later, she sends me a selfie. She’s holding up her long brown hair with one hand, her massive puffy lips are pouting, and she’s wearing—hello!—a flimsy little crop top and boy shorts.
Fuuuuck me.That’s hot. She’s hot.
But no.
Nope.
She’ll still be hot tomorrow night and I need to deal with Birdie now before shit gets weird.
Also, it’s not like Alana’s going to have FaceTime sex with me. She’s not that kind of girl. She’s the kind of girl who sends enticing pics just to get me going—but she’s not going to get naked, so we can fuck our hands, separate-but-together. I know this because I’ve asked. Every few weeks. And she’s declined every time. And I respect that.
Unless tonight’s the night she changes her mind?
