Ten Trends to Seduce Your Bestfriend

It was on the tip of my tongue to remind Byron that I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this with him at all, but his gaze felt like too much, too heavy. My brain went clumsy with the weight of it, and I snapped my mouth shut, not trusting myself to form coherent sentences.

After a disorienting stretch of uncomfortable silence, during which Byron and I glared at each other and I refused to speak, Amelia—mercifully—was the one to break it. “This all makes sense. The more realistic it looks, the better. Okay, Byron. Other stipulations?”

Releasing me from the bear trap of his gaze, Byron’s features seemed to relax a smidge, his focus resettling on Amelia. “I’ve seen the list, so I know what’s on there.”

Amelia tapped her chin thoughtfully. “The list is tamer than I’d like, but Winnie is a teacher and can’t do anything to risk her position.”

“So nice that her employer gets the ultimate say in what she posts to her personal accounts.” He flung his sarcasm around like a Frisbee. “That doesn’t sound like 1984 at all.”

I swear to Newton, if he criticizes my profession one more time . . . I was not a violent person, but I found myself wondering what the air speed velocity of my fist would be if I punched him in the face.

“We’re not changing the list,” I said, seething. “And we’re not talking about my job, or my employer, or my career choices. Ever.”

Other than the slight curl of his upper lip, he continued as though I hadn’t spoken, “The list is fine. But I don’t want to know when she’s going to do the videos.”

“You don’t want to know when she’s filming? You want her to surprise you?” Amelia’s gaze darted to me, then back to him. “You want Winnie to film them whenever and wherever?”

“Exactly.”

An involuntary sound emerged from my chest. “We should do them all at once, knock them out in one day.”

He shook his head, still not looking at me. “Not if you two want it to look authentic. One challenge a month.”

“What? No! Twice a week at least,” I countered. “I only have ten weeks to get this done.”

“It needs to look real, not rehearsed.” He said this so calmly, so reasonably, like I was being ridiculous with my demands. “You have ten weeks, ten videos,” he continued. “Once a week. I don’t want to know when you’re filming. That’s my final offer.”

Byron’s infamous bluntness must’ve been rubbing off on me because I said, “If you’re coming over here, or we’re somewhere else and it’s only the two of us, then obviously I’ll be filming a video. It’s not going to be a surprise, Byron. Why else would we be spending time together?”

His jaw worked, his lashes flickered, but he said nothing.

For some reason, his nonanswer death stare irked me more than usual. “Fine. Do I have to hide the phone too? And pick all the red M&M’s out of your candy bag? What’s next, No Eye Contact Tuesdays? Green towels only?”

“No.” Byron pronounced the word slowly and carefully, his eyes—pointed at a spot on the wall behind and above my head—glittered like icicles. “I don’t care if you put the phone in my face, Fred. I don’t want to practice anything ahead of time. I don’t want to stage it or be given lines to recite. None of that shit.”

“Then how will you know what to do?” I asked, pressing the issue.

His glare cut back to me, burrowed into and held mine for several sluggish beats of my heart before he said, “I think I’ll be able to figure it out.”

“You might have to film it twice. Or maybe three times,” Amelia warned.

He shrugged.

“There will be kissing involved.” I felt compelled to spell it out. “The Kiss Your Crush or Secret Crush Challenge is nonnegotiable. None of the list is negotiable. We’re doing every single one of those challenges, even the Toxic Dance Challenge.”

He shrugged again, looking less irritated but positively disinterested by the prospect, and suddenly tired of the subject.

“Fine,” Amelia said to Byron, then turned to look at me. “Fine?”

I grunted, figuring I was entitled to at least one grunt since he used them so frequently. Let them interpret that as they would.

“So . . .” My roommate lifted her fingers to tick off his stipulations. “You two will be alone when the videos are made. You don’t care if she’s holding the camera while she films and don’t care if it’s all up in your face, but you don’t want to practice your reaction ahead of time or talk it through. And you don’t care if you have to film the same challenge several times if there’s a camera issue or one of you are out of the frame. Anything else?”

Amelia’s summary gave me a moment to stew, to think. I had to admit, when taken together, his stipulations weren’t so bad. Being alone when we recorded and not talking through or discussing the videos beforehand—how either of us would react or what we’d say—should reduce the awkwardness and make the whole ordeal feel less disingenuous.

But it would still be disingenuous, wouldn’t it? Less disingenuous is still disingenuous.

Before I could give that thought the consideration it deserved, Byron said, “I need a date.”

“You need a what?” Amelia and I asked in unison.

“A date. To a thing.” Now he looked at neither of us, his eyes drifting to the kitchen, his expression and tone weary.

“What sort of thing?” I didn’t care that my voice sounded heavy with suspicion.

“An awards thing, and some other stuff,” he said, then cleared his throat.

“Oh!” Amelia snapped and then pointed at him. “You mean the Jupiter Awards?”

“Yes.”

Amelia and I shared another look and I asked, “And you want me to go as your date?”

“Yeah.” He continued his bored examination of the kitchen, like this was the most tedious conversation he’d ever been forced to endure.

Amelia and I swapped another look, and I shrugged. “I guess—I mean, sure. I’ll go. But you could ask anyone and—”

“No. I need . . .” His gaze flickered over me. “I need someone like you.”

I placed my fingertips on the center of my chest, gesturing to myself. “Someone like me?”

“Yes,” he said matter-of-factly, then added with a sardonic lilt, “You’re good at peopling.”

You’re good at peopling. Was that a compliment?

“He’s right, you’re a good choice. You can carry a conversation with almost anyone, no matter who they are or their background.” Amelia nudged my shoulder. “It’s fancy dress. You’ll have to get something gorgeous.”

“Oh no. Please. Don’t make me.” I may have kept my social media STEM focused until now, but my love for getting dressed up was no secret among my friends. Give me any reason at all to wear sequins and false eyelashes and I’d be wearing sequins and false eyelashes and four-inch heels and the reddest lipstick I could find.

“Good.” He nodded, pulling out his rickety old flip phone and glancing at the monochrome screen.

“That’s it? That’s all you want?” I squinted at him, certain I was missing something. Why would the notoriously reclusive Byron Visser agree to suffer through ten TikTok romantic challenges, posted publicly, for one measly date?

“There might be other things,” he mumbled, eyes on his phone.

“Other things?” Amelia made a short sound of impatience. “Byron, you’ll have to be more specific. Winnie isn’t going to agree to something as vague as ‘other things.’”

“There will be other events,” he grit out. “Or there might be. And a trip to New York. I need a . . . person. Like her.”

“Oh. I see.” Amelia nodded as though she truly did see. “This is about the contract?”

“What am I missing?” I inspected my roommate. She didn’t look concerned, but I needed more information—especially if I would be going to New York—before I agreed to his request.

Byron looked at Amelia, communicating something to my friend using his hoarfrost glare.

She then turned to me, presumably to translate the outcome of their staring contest. “Byron’s original contract was only for one book and included availability for interviews, book signings, publicity tours, all of that. But when the first title did so well and they started negotiating for the other two books in the trilogy, his agent was able to get rid of almost all the publicity requirements.”

I was not surprised that Byron had negotiated his way out of publicity, interviews, and book signings. He barely spoke to anyone, he never showed up for the quarterly get-togethers I organized for our college friend group—which, I guess, he’d never wanted to be a part of anyway—though I always made sure to invite him. I’d also invited him to our Stardew Valley Friday night games. He’d never come, not once.

So of course he would leverage the popularity of his first book to get out of having to interact with people.

“But now that the book is nominated for all these awards,” Amelia continued, “the nominations triggered a clause in the contract, which means he does have to do some—not a lot, a few—events. He has to go to the Jupiter Awards ceremony and to New York for some publicity, a few interviews.”

I looked him over, trying to understand what my role in this would be. “You want me to be there for the publicity stuff? The events?”

“I was told I could bring someone,” he said, voice tight, not looking at me in a way that felt pointed.

“That means he wants you to be his buffer,” Amelia translated. “His agent will be there, but he wants you to pose as his date and carry the conversation for him should he be forced to engage in chitchat with strangers. Run interference with fervent fans, give him an excuse to leave if things get weird, that kind of thing.”

“Oh.” I nodded, looking between them. “That’s easy. I can be a buffer.”

“Good.” Amelia looked relieved and thankful, like this favor was actually for her. “I was going to go with him, but now that we got the grant, the timeline of the trips doesn’t work out. But, Byron, you have to buy her the dress for the Jupiter Awards.” With this last part, Amelia pointed at him, her statement surprising me.

As did his immediate “No problem.”

I opened my mouth to say it wasn’t necessary, I’d figure something out, but Amelia wasn’t finished. “And the shoes. And a purse or whatever else she needs.”

“Fine.” Again, his acquiescence was immediate, but this time it was followed by an abrupt “I have to go.” He grabbed his jacket, pulling it on.

I stiffened at his sudden announcement, but Amelia didn’t seem at all surprised. “I also have to get back to work, but we’re decided? You two are doing this? TikTok celebrity and a new dress in exchange for a date to the Jupiter Awards, paid trip to New York, and Byron’s stipulations?” Amelia turned toward the door of our apartment, glancing over her shoulder to peer at him.

I hadn’t quite caught up with the conversation, still wordlessly processing the fact that my friend had negotiated a new fancy dress for me when Byron was the one doing me a favor.

“Yep,” he said, shoving his phone back in his pocket, grabbing his jacket, and turning toward Amelia, presumably to follow her out.

“Wait.” Unthinkingly, I trailed after him and reached for his arm, tugging until he turned. Things didn’t feel quite settled . . . were they?

His stare fastened to where my hand held his forearm.

“So, listen. I—thank you. Thank you for doing this. I know you don’t have to, but thank you. I appreciate it. Thank y—”

“Stop thanking me,” he snapped.

Rearing back, feeling like I’d been verbally slapped, I released his arm and slid my fingers into the back pockets of my jeans, heat rising to my cheeks. I struggled to put the lid back on the box of my long-dormant childhood memories, of being snapped at for no reason, and measured my breathing. How am I ever going to get through this with him?

“Okay. I won’t thank you.” Like when dealing with my uncle or irate parents of students, I maintained a calm exterior. “But just so we’re clear, this means you have to answer your phone when I call or call me back when you can. Since we’re only doing this once a week, if I need to shoot a video for my account, I have to be able to reach you.”

“I always answer when you call.” The look he gave me could only be described as hard.

Actually, no. It could also be described as irritated, or frustrated, or something akin to impatient. Only angrier.

Surprisingly, his anger didn’t fluster me this time. “Byron, I’ve called you maybe twice in six years. This is serious.”

“Do I not look serious?” he asked, sounding like a monotone robot and glancing at the door as though he couldn’t wait to leave.

“You look like someone who is infamous for never answering his phone. Promise me you’ll be reachable when I need you.”

He lifted his chin, settling that unnerving, hooded gaze on me once more. “I promise, if you want or need me, I’ll be there,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

Something about it made the hair on my nape prickle. Was I being unreasonable? Or was he mocking me? “I’m not saying you have to answer if you’re busy. It’s not like I’ll bother you more than once a week. Does that work?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, I get it,” he ground out, turning and walking past Amelia as he opened the door. “When you call, I’ll answer.”

The watch count for the video continued to grow, as did my number of followers. Over the two and a half weeks since the bargain I’d struck with Byron, many of those new followers had also gone back to my older posts across my social media accounts and engaged with my STEM-focused videos.

Viewership numbers were up on all my content, as were comments and likes. More people tuned in for my latest live STEM video—more engagement, more comments and questions about naming conventions for chemical compounds—than for any lesson prior. The video had lasted an hour and I’d drawn the chemical structure for over twenty compounds, answering a plethora of great questions from the audience.

This should’ve made me happy.

Hadn’t I wanted more engagement? More questions? More viewers with an active interest in STEM? Hadn’t I wanted to be a meaningful resource? Yes. I did. And I definitely wanted that community manager position. Any movement closer to the 500k follower goal should’ve made me ecstatic.

Yet, I wasn’t.

I wasn’t happy. Which explained why, on the Thursday night of a three-day weekend, I found myself wandering through the aisles of Phoenix Comics & Games on Broadway, looking to spend my savings for the month by splurging on a new board game.

Instead, I came face-to-face with Jeff Choi.

DARN IT!

Ducking behind the aisle I’d just exited, I turned and gauged the distance to the door. I was average height. Maybe he hadn’t seen—

“Winnie?” Jeff’s voice a precursor to his head poking around the corner, a small smile spread over his face as our eyes met. “I thought that was you.”

“Oh, hi Jeff.” I smiled, waved, and ignored the heavy weight in my chest.

“How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.” Peering down at me with his soft eyes, he sounded and seemed truly interested in how I’d been.

Not only had we not seen each other or spoken since his text from Lucy, we’d stopped playing Stardew Valley together. This wasn’t due to a concerted effort on my part to stop playing with him, but once he and Lucy reconciled, Amelia received a text informing her that Lucy didn’t want him joining the co-op on Fridays anymore.

Amelia, Serena, and I had started a new co-op and named it No Boys Allowed Farms.

“Good. I’m good.” I nodded, allowing my gaze to sweep over the store. In the back, a few people had clustered together to play Magic: The Gathering.

“Are you here to play?” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder.

“Nah. I’m more of a Pokémon Go person.”

His smile widened and his velvet gaze seemed to warm. “Yes, I know.”

We stared at each other for several moments, the heaviness in my chest increasing with every beat of my heart. This was awful. I needed to go. Now.

And so I said, “Well, I should—”

As he said, “I wanted to—”

We both laughed.

I gestured that he should continue. “Go ahead, what did you want to say?”

“I wanted to say I’m really sorry about what happened that day you came over with Amelia. I can’t stop thinking about it.” He shuffled a few inches closer, his gaze earnest and kind. Really kind. Too kind. Making me suspect his kindness was a cover for pity.

My heart sank. The last thing I wanted from anyone was pity, especially from Jeff. “You don’t need to explain.” I lifted my hands between us, perhaps an unconscious movement to ward off his sympathy, and gained a step back. “I’m happy for you.”

That was the truth. I was happy for Jeff. Being with Lucy obviously made him happy. He only seemed miserable whenever she broke up with him.

“Thank you, Winnie. That means a lot,” he said, but then his eyes narrowed, like he had a sudden thought. “Hey, why don’t you and Amelia come over tomorrow? Lucy and I are having a small get-together at the house.”

“What house?”

He grinned. “Byron’s house.”

“You are?” I couldn’t imagine Byron sanctioning a dinner party at his house. With people.

I hadn’t seen or talked to or texted Byron since he’d shown up at our apartment with scones and bagels over two weeks ago. At first, I hadn’t called because of his once-a-week stipulation on recording the videos. But when the waiting period had ended, I’d made excuses to Amelia (and myself) about being too busy. I told her (and myself) I’d call him the next day. Tuesday became Wednesday, Wednesday became Sunday, Sunday became today. I still couldn’t bring myself to call.

Aside from not wanting to be around Byron in general, and not wanting to pretend Byron and I were good friends, the more I thought about the idea of using his fame and elusiveness to grow my social media accounts, the ickier I felt. Add to this a difficult week at work during which half my students had failed a pop quiz and seemed to be struggling with our latest chapter on force and velocity, my inability—due to lack of time—to pull together a new lesson for my social media accounts, and my conflicted feelings about Jeff, and I wasn’t quite myself these days.

I admit it, I’d been in a funk. I’d purchased two tickets to funky town, and I didn’t know how to leave.

“Yeah. A party—a dinner party, I guess. Are we old enough to have dinner parties?” He laughed, making a cute face.

“We’re in our midtwenties, we can do whatever we want. Dinner parties, yacht parties, political parties. But, uh, is Byron out of town?”

“No. Byron will be there.”

I scratched my neck, squinting my disbelief. “At the party? Really?”

“Well, he’ll be at the house. Lucy invited him and got his blessing to use the house, but whether or not he makes it downstairs is a different matter entirely.” Jeff gave his eyes a quasi-half-roll, and I huffed a laugh. We traded a commiserating stare and I felt something in me ease; a worry I’d been carrying around for over two weeks dissipated.

It was nice to see Jeff. And it was nice to see him looking so carefree and happy. He hadn’t been in a good place after Lucy had broken up with him, but now he seemed so much better. And seeing one of my friends happy made me happy.

“Okay, well. I should . . .” My mood lifted, I tilted my head toward the door.

Before I could turn fully toward the exit, Jeff caught my hand. “Hey, Win. Wait.”

“Yes?” I asked, giving him my full attention, and feeling gratitude for the chance meeting. This short discussion had saved me fifty dollars in retail therapy. My savings account would be pleased.

His eyes moved between mine like he was looking for something, but all he said was, “I’m glad we’re still friends.”

I squeezed his hand and then slipped my fingers from his grip, stuffing them into my coat pocket. “Me too, Jeff. And I really am happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “We’ll see you tomorrow?”

Not giving myself a moment to think about it, I said, “Yeah, sure. We’ll be there.”

Even as I left the game shop after we said our goodbyes, the decision felt right. Seeing Jeff with Lucy, seeing how happy he was and working to dispel the lingering awkwardness between us seemed like the answer. Who knows, maybe Lucy and I would become friends, maybe she liked Stardew Valley and would play with us on Fridays.

If this quick conversation was any indication, the dinner party should be exactly the thing to help me secure two tickets out of funky town.