2
The heat from the late afternoon sun is oppressive, and my steps feel heavy as I make my way to the front door of my apartment. Thank God Jonathan’s home. He was away for the weekend, some work conference up in Sacramento, and I can breathe a bit easier knowing that he’s back. I find it hard to fall asleep when he’s not sleeping in the room next to mine, or sitting on the couch downstairs watching TV too loudly. Hopefully, just seeing his face will be enough to get me out of my funk.
The smell of his cologne is the first thing that hits me as I step into our entryway. Musk and sandalwood, his signature scent.
“Jonathan!” I scream up the stairs.
“Greased Lightnin’,” his favorite song from his favorite soundtrack, blasts from the speakers in his room at full volume. I scream again, this time
loud enough to overpower John Travolta.
“JONATHAN!!!”
“Pheebs!” Jonathan turns the music down and makes his way to the bottom of the stairs.
I owe everything to the Grease soundtrack.
—
I had just finished moving into my freshman year dorm at UCLA when I recognized the familiar tune of “Summer Nights” coming from a room at the end of the hall. Grease being one of my favorite musicals (I’m pretty sure John Travolta as Danny Zuko was my sexual awakening), I took it as a sign
that my first college friend had to be the room’s occupant. I gave myself a quick pep talk and mustered up the courage to knock.
Nothing could have prepared me for who opened the door.
I was face-to-face with the most gorgeous guy I’d ever seen. He had a thick mess of wavy dark brown hair that was just long enough to tuck behind his ears, and a tan that made him look like he had spent the entire summer living on the beach. His hazel-green eyes were kind as he angled them down at me, and my neck protested as I met his gaze. He had to be at least a foot taller than my five feet, three inches. Maybe more. He arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow, an invitation for me to introduce myself, perhaps.
But I was so flustered by his appearance that my opening line came out harsher than I intended it.
“Why are you listening to this?” I couldn’t imagine what a guy like him was doing blasting the Grease soundtrack.
He crossed his arms against his broad chest, frowning slightly. “It’s a great song.”
“It is a great song,” I agreed. “Sorry, but when I heard Olivia Newton- John coming from your room, this”—I made a sweeping gesture over his body—“wasn’t what I was expecting.”
He chuckled, and I exhaled. “I’m Jonathan,” he said, opening his door farther to reveal a mess of clothes and moving boxes.
“I’m Phoebe,” I introduced myself, finally. “I can help you get organized if you want. I’m really good at it.”
We got to know each other while I helped him unpack. I learned that Jonathan was from a small town in middle-of-nowhere West Virginia, which surprised me. I had never met anyone from there and wasn’t entirely convinced it was a real place until Jonathan assured me that it did definitely exist and there were actually people who lived there.
“It wasn’t a great place to grow up,” he explained. “There was nothing to do there. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if my parents were less strict, but they didn’t even let me watch TV. We didn’t even have one in the house.
I was so bored.” He told me that when he was younger, the only time he ever got to watch anything was when he snuck over to his neighbor’s house before
his parents got home from work. She was a few years older than him, and while she did have access to a television, all she ever wanted to watch was Grease. And so that was all Jonathan ever watched, too.
“And now here I am, majoring in film.”
“Wow,” I said. “But you’ve seen other movies by now, right?”
“Yes,” he said, laughing. “But I still love Grease the most.”
“I’m glad,” I told him. And I was glad. Thank god for Grease, because if I hadn’t heard it coming from Jonathan’s room that day, I probably would have looked down at my feet every time he passed me in the hallway.
—
Now, twelve years later, the soundtrack to our friendship is the same, only instead of having to lower the volume at ten p.m. in order to avoid noise complaints, we can play it as loud as we want in our own apartment.
I throw my arms around him the second he reaches the bottom of the stairs, knocking him slightly off-balance. He catches us both before we fall.
I step back, leaving less than a foot between us, and look him over. He’s wearing my favorite shirt of his, the green one that brings out the emerald flecks in his hazel eyes. It’s only been three days since I last saw him, but in that time, his stubble has grown out to the perfect length: a little longer than a five o’clock shadow, but not long enough to be considered a beard. I ball my hands into fists at my sides to stop from reaching up and brushing a loose strand of dark hair from his face. Sometimes the way he looks still manages to overwhelm me, like he just opened his dorm room door and I’m seeing him for the first time all over again.
Ironically, though, Jonathan’s looks quickly became one of the reasons I’ve always been so comfortable around him. I’ve never had to worry about something sexual or romantic happening between us because there’s no way someone who looks like that could be attracted to someone who looks like me. Not because I’m some sort of troll, but because I’m not in the same league as Jonathan.
Although I’m not sure anyone is.
He runs his fingers through his messy hair. “Are you gonna be ready to go soon?”
“Yes, give me a few minutes to freshen up,” I say while absentmindedly reaching for my own curls, smoothing down a halo of frizz. Luckily, trivia night at Jeffery’s doesn’t require too much primping.
I make my way up the stairs to my bedroom, subtly taking a deep breath in when I pass Jonathan. He’s been wearing the same cologne the entire time I’ve known him, and it always puts me at ease.
Two years ago, when Jonathan’s roommate moved out and he offered me his second bedroom, I jumped at the chance. I’ve always loved this place and its high ceilings and bright, natural light. Not to mention the bedrooms are huge; though I still haven’t quite gotten around to decorating mine the way I want to. My walls are far too bare and the stack of books piled on top of my dresser needs a permanent home. I’ve been daydreaming about getting myself a nice vintage bookshelf for my collection of romance novels, but the idea of investing in quality furniture in my twenties seems daunting, especially as someone who’s apartment hopped a bunch. It could be a perfect thirtieth birthday gift to myself. Something to actually look forward to about turning thirty.
I open my dresser drawers and stare at the neat stacks of shirts, currently organized by color.
I play around with alternative configurations in my brain.
Of course.
It would make infinitely more sense to organize them by how frequently I wear each one, rather than by color. Unable to stop myself, I start to shift the shirts around, arranging the ones I reach for least in the bottom drawers while keeping my favorites in the top ones.
“Pheebs!” Jonathan yells from the bottom of the steps. “I can hear you in the T-shirt drawers. Trivia starts soon!”
“Sorry!”
I grab a white tee with the Rugrats logo, a new favorite that I thrifted last week with Nora, to much protest. (“You don’t need any more T-shirts,” she
had said. “How about this?” She held up a red corset that I’m pretty sure was intended to be worn as lingerie. “This screams ‘I’m ready to get laid.’ ” I ended up purchasing both, although I don’t know when I’ll get the chance, or the boost of confidence, to wear the corset.) I pair the Rugrats tee with a pair of light-wash Levi’s shorts and a spritz of my new pheromone-infused perfume, which I purchased from an Instagram ad after being lured by the design of the bottle with the word Seduction written in red across the black glass. Thanks to our seductive and captivating fragrance, he won’t be able to resist you was etched below the red name.
I take the claw clip out of my hair to see what it would look like if I decided to wear my natural curls down.
“Nope,” I say out loud to my own reflection, a portrait of a girl who looks like she was electrocuted.
I twist my hair back up into a knot and secure the clip, pulling out a few loose strands that Nora cut shorter to frame my face. I apply a dab of concealer under my brown eyes, and then wipe it off immediately once I realize how cakey it looks on my sweaty skin. I recently learned that liquid blush can be multipurpose, so I apply a thick layer of it on my cheeks and lips.
As I’m placing my discarded pants in the hamper next to my dresser, the tattered letter falls out. Lose your virginity. That’s all I ask. Without thinking about it, I snatch the letter off the floor and stuff it into my bedside drawer, hopeful that I won’t be able to hear it mocking me from inside.
—
Jeffery’s is down the street from our apartment, so we walk. It still hasn’t cooled off outside and the air is thick with the smell of our dumpster wafting over to us from the garage. I gag thinking about what the heat is doing to the rotisserie chicken carcass I tossed in there this morning. I look up at Jonathan
to distract myself from the thought, using his body to shield my eyes from the blinding sun. I have to crane my neck to get a good look at him.
He nods and listens intently as I weigh the pros and cons of my new T- shirt organization system.
“I don’t know why I haven’t always done it this way,” I tell him. “It makes way more sense like this, don’t you think? Or did you like the other way better?”
“No, I think the new way is great. I really do.” He throws his arm around me and gives my shoulder a pat. He must be able to sense that I’m anxious.
He always can. “I wouldn’t just say that.”
My body sags with relief at his reassurance. He wouldn’t just say that.
“It probably isn’t safe for me to cross the street on my own,” I say, recycling the same line that I started using our freshman year, an obvious ruse to link elbows. I reach out my arm, and he takes it without hesitation.
My favorite part of this routine is watching people watch us. People stare at Jonathan wherever we go, and by extension, they stare at me when I’m hanging off his arm. There’s something incredibly satisfying about the idea of passersby looking at us together and assuming we’re a couple. I’d like to believe that people are looking at me and thinking: “That girl in the Rugrats shirt has definitely had sex before.” And with someone like Jonathan, no less.
Of all the clichés that make up my collection of romance novels, the friends-to-lovers trope has always been one of my favorites. So the idea of Jonathan and me being endgame is something that I can’t help but wonder
about.
What if?
What if this is a classic friends-to-lovers situation, and us ending up together isn’t a matter of if but a matter of when? What would I do if he professed his love for me? What if he offers to take my virginity as an act of good faith for my thirtieth birthday present? Would I want that?
It feels wrong to think about Jonathan sexually, and even romantically, but all I know is that if he got down on one knee in the middle of the crosswalk and asked me to marry him tonight, I’d say yes. All of our friends would.
He’s Jonathan.
I know the day will come when he finds someone else to spend all his time with, and our relationship will change. We’re halfway across the street now, and I hold on to him a little tighter while we make the rest of our way.
—
Nothing says welcome to Jeffery’s quite like the sound of everyone’s shoes unsticking from the floor with each step. Squinting through the smokey air, I spot Jerry, our favorite bartender, schmoozing with some other regulars while pouring their drinks. Alex and Meg are already at our usual table to the left, which means, to no one’s surprise, we beat Nora. She’s never once made it to a trivia night on time. In her defense, she lives the farthest away. An entire mile.
I rush over to Meg’s side of the booth and throw my arms around her.
“How are you feeling?”
I already know the answer. Today would have been her one-year anniversary with Jake, her ex, if she hadn’t found him on one of those “Are we dating the same guy?” Facebook groups last month. She’s been so beat up about it that today Alex had to go over to her place and forcibly remove her from the couch in order to get her here. I hate Jake.
I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.
I think I hate him more than Meg does. None of the others seem as riled up as I am, though, and I can’t understand why.
“Oh, I’m okay,” she sighs, running her fingers through her dark hair. I can see the streaks in her makeup from where her tears must have smudged it.
“I hate him,” I whisper under my breath. Loudly.
“Let’s stop talking about him,” Alex suggests. “He doesn’t deserve any of
our energy.”
Oh.
That makes sense. And this must be why the others aren’t being as vocal about their hatred. I guess stewing in it won’t help Meg move on any faster.
Yet another downside to being single my whole life is that when it comes to this kind of stuff, I always feel like I end up saying the wrong thing.
I squeeze Meg’s hand and try to soften my words.
“Where I’m from in New York, ‘I hate him’ is just another way of saying ‘I love you.’ ”
Meg leans her head on my shoulder. “I love you, too. And for what it’s worth, I also hate him.”
Jonathan walks over and pulls her to her feet. “Let’s go take a shot.”
They walk arm and arm to the bar, leaving me and Alex behind. I wait until I can’t hear their shoes squeaking anymore.
“Sorry if I made things worse,” I say, sighing.
“No.” He exhales. “You didn’t. I’m just in a terrible mood.”
I notice the way his blond hair, usually perfectly parted and pushed to the side, hangs down over his eyes. He puts his head in his hands and exhales again. “I didn’t get the part. They went with the other guy.”
“No way,” I gasp, genuinely shocked. Alex has been trying to make it as an actor for years, and this last round of callbacks for the villain in a Netflix slasher comedy seemed really promising. “I’m so sorry. They won’t find anyone who can swing an axe like you.” I would know. We spent quite a bit
of time practicing with a garden rake.
“Thanks, Pheebs.”
I look over at the bar, where Jerry pours Meg and Jonathan a round of tequila shots. Meg slams hers back without flinching.
“On the bright side,” I say, returning my attention to Alex, “I think Meg is on the mend.”
“Another!” I hear her screaming from behind me.
“God, would you look at that?” Alex lets out an irritated sigh.
My neck protests as I turn again to follow Alex’s gaze to the bar, where a tall brunette with full lips and high cheekbones bats her lashes at Jonathan. I watch as he strikes up a conversation. The way people flock to Jonathan has always bothered Alex, who, like the rest of us, has to put in work to get that kind of attention. All Jonathan has to do is exist.
I sigh. I can’t remember the last time someone looked at me the way Cheekbones is ogling Jonathan right now.
“See that guy over there?” Alex points to a lanky blond with a fanny pack standing by the bar. “I’ve seen him on Grindr a few times. Before you guys got here, I asked him if I could take him out for a drink sometime.”
“And?” I ask.
“He said, and I quote, ‘I have dinner plans.’ ”
“Well, when are his dinner plans?”
Alex shrugs. “Indefinitely, it seems.”
Out of all my friends, Alex is the one I’ve always connected to the most when it comes to matters of the heart. When we all get together for movie nights and decide we’re in the mood for something sad, I don’t even need to turn my head away from the screen to know that the sniffles that match mine are coming from him. And whenever we decide to get off the couch and go out, I can always count on Alex to join me in finding a random stranger to fixate on. It doesn’t take much for us. We both have so much love to give, and yet something always gets in the way of finding someone to give it to.
Something like “dinner plans.”
“Is it just me, or is Jerry looking kind of hot?” Alex asks. My eyes wander over to the tattooed tree trunk of a man behind the bar, but Jonathan and Meg slide back into the booth before I have the chance to tell Alex that I can maybe see where he’s coming from. If I squint.
I turn to Jonathan. “That girl was pretty,” I say casually. “Did you get her number?”
“Mm-hmm.” He nods, emotionless. He takes a swig of his beer.
“Are you going to text her?” I ask.
Jonathan pulls out his phone and opens his email, something he only ever does when he’s trying to avoid conversation.
“I don’t know,” he says while looking down. “Do we know how far Nora is?” he asks, changing the subject. “Trivia is about to start.”
I sigh.
I know the brand of toilet paper Jonathan uses. I know the name of his sixth-grade music teacher who “accidentally” sat on Jonathan’s oboe the day
before the holiday recital (Mr. Daniels). I know the way he takes his coffee, his favorite movie theater snack, and that only some forms of dairy give him a stomachache. But I never know what’s going on in Jonathan’s love life. He keeps the details of his hookups close to his chest. There have been a handful of girls who he’s entertained for a few months each, a bunch of one-night stands, and one girlfriend, who was before my time.
And since one of the things I appreciate most about him is that he never pressures me with questions about my love life, or rather, lack thereof, I try my best to extend him that same courtesy. That means not asking too many questions, and sticking to stalking the girls he hooks up with on social media behind his back.
They’re all intimidatingly beautiful with their perfectly shaped eyebrows, button noses, pouty lips, and blown-out hair…. The type of femininity where no one would dare look at any part of them and say, “She must take after her father.” I’m sure none of them even grow hair above the knee.
The only time I really start to question my appearance is when I compare myself to them—the kind of girls that Jonathan wants. I’ve always thought that the slight curve of my nose and my wildly curly hair add character, but when I scroll through the Instagram feeds of these women, I realize Jonathan’s not looking for character. He’s looking for perfection.
Simply put, I don’t think I’m his type.
And sometimes, when I let myself wonder if there’s a chance of us ending up together, I find that disappointing.
