Page 36 of A Very Friendly Valentine's Day
The One with Lord Snottington McFartnugget of Fuckyoushire
When I was thirteen, I stole my ma's DVD ofWhen Harry Met Sallyand watched it on Declan's laptop in my room. Not the whole movie—just the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm in the middle of lunch at a deli. I thought it was so hot. I don’t think I even realized that Billy Crystal was in the scene. I had no intention of ever watching the rest of the movie. I just watched that part, over and over, because I'd heard Aiden and Brady talking about it once.
And then, when I was fifteen, I watched that movie with a girl at her house after school. Most of the time, all I was thinking about was whether or not I should try to touch that girl's boobduringthe movie or if I should wait until it was over. But when that deli scene came on, all I could think about was—how did that actor not have a boner while he watched Meg Ryan fake orgasms two feet away from him all day? And then when my first girlfriend made me watch that movie with her when we were seventeen, I thought—yeah, Harry is right. Men and women can't be friends. Because the sex part always gets in the way.
But then, when I met Birdie, I convinced myself that Harry was wrong.
Well, not when I'd first met Birdie. When I first met her, I thought she was the hottest nerd I'd ever seen. I'd imagined getting a fistful of that long, dark blonde wavy hair and tugging on it, just enough to make her gasp. I'd imagined her mouth on my cock, and I'd imagined all the crazy dirty things she'd say to me when I made her come for the first time in her life. Because I just had a hunch that no guy had ever given her an orgasm before—still do.
But after a while, I realized men and womencanbe friends if that’s what they both want. The sex part does get in the way. But that doesn't mean they can't be friends.
I’d like to believe that you can stay friends with anyone for as long as you want to. Even when you're lying in a bunk bed right below your best female friend. Even when she is clearly giving herself a very real orgasm or three, and you're quietly palming yourself because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when Birdie Beckett is four feet over you, moaning into a pillow?
And snorting.
Somehow that didn’t make it any less hot.
I’m glad I brought extra sheets. I’m really glad she seemed to have fallen asleep right after she came, because I came so hard, I had to groan into the crook of my arm, and I swear I made the train rock even harder for a few seconds.And fuck you, Catholic guilt—I’m still being faithful to Alana.
I can hear a couple of young kids squealing outside the bedroom door. Sunlight’s streaming in through the gap between the blue curtains. I can sense that I’m alone in here. Birdie let me sleep in like I’d asked her to. I get up, open the curtains—looks like we’re in Arizona—and find a note in Birdie’s unmistakable, perfect cursive handwriting:
Morning, sleepyhead.
I’m off to have breakfast in the dining car.
Take it easy.
If you aren’t there by the time I’m done, I’ll head over to the lounge car.
xx Birdie
I love how she signed it—as if anyone else would be leaving me a note like this in our private room. I love how she writes “take it easy,” like some sixty-year-old aunt. I wonder if her hand still smells like her pussy…Whoa.
No, I don’t.
Not in the cold light of day.
Not when I have to check in with Alana.
I do find text notifications from Alana when I unplug my phone. But I also have a voice message from my agent’s office, and I’ve got three signal bars, so I call them back immediately.
Her assistant Eric answers. “Rita Baskin’s office.”
“Hey man, it’s Eddie. What’s up?”
“Oh, hey man. I hear you’re on a train.”
“Yep. Headed to New York.”Don’t small talk me now, man. I might lose my signal.
“To meet the IG chick?”
“You got that right.”
“Niiiiiice. Hang on, let me get Rita for you.”
I’ve had the same agent since I was at UCLA. I signed with her because she was kind of hot, but she sounded exactly like Joey’s agent onFriends, and I thought that was hilarious. When you’re eighteen, that’s a good enough reason to hire someone. But she’s actually good at what she does, and she’s taken me with her every time she’s moved to a bigger agency. Now that we’re at one of the biggest ones, I hear from the junior agents on my team more. So, if she’s calling me, it should be actual news. Not someone telling me they’re talking to someone about me doing a guest spot onPretty Little Liarsor some horseshit. Not that that show’s horseshit. But I don’t need another guest spot. I need a fucking grownup role in something that my family can’t make fun of, for a change.
“Cannavale, you there?” My agent might be the only woman left in LA who smokes a pack a day. She coughs into the phone.
