Best Friends Don't Kiss Page 2

  I manically search my dorm room for something, anything, to fix this, but the anxiety is too much.

  Before I can stop myself, I sprint toward the door, in the direction of the hallway.

  Honestly, I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing this, but whatever I’m planning on doing comes to a complete stop when—bam!—I barrel into something just outside my door.

  We both grunt at the impact, and irrational hope takes hold immediately.

  “Please,” I beg. “Tell me you’re a firefighter!”

  Luke

  “Please! Tell me you’re a firefighter!”

  Big, entrancing blue eyes stare into mine pleadingly, but it’s my first day at college—my first day in a co-ed dorm—and I can’t help looking her over before getting into considering her question.

  A cute, petite little body, long blond hair that flows past her shoulders and down her back, and the kind of full, lush lips that spur the best kind of tingle.

  I’ve heard stories about what girls are like in college, and the idea of this beauty living out some closet fantasy about a firefighter with me on the first night is almost too good to be true.

  “Sure I am, sweetheart,” I tease with a wink. “Where’s the fire?”

  “In my dorm room!” she shouts back with little to no finesse.

  I blink several times. I didn’t realize role-playing fantasies were supposed to be this realistic. “Uh…what?”

  “The fire!” she shouts again, jogging a couple steps back and swinging open the door to her room. “It’s in here!”

  I follow tentatively, and sure enough, when I peek inside, there it is.

  The actual fucking fire.

  “Holy shit!” It’s my turn to shout. “There’s a fire in your room!”

  “Hello! That’s what I’ve been saying!” she yells back frantically. “How about you tell me something I don’t know, like how to freaking stop it!”

  In a rush, I storm through the door and use my dwindling Boy Scout skills to assess the urgent situation.

  A small metal pot sitting on a hot plate—on top of an insanely bright and flowery cloth on her desk, mind you—smokes like a motherfucker while flames continue to billow from the bottom of it. I cannot fucking believe the fire alarms haven’t started going off yet.

  “I know they said no hot plates in the dorm rooms, but I just figured that was some kind of stupid rule, you know. I mean, holy hell, I didn’t even know that hot plates could catch on fire! I thought they just got hot. Not burst into freaking flames! I would call the fire department, but I’m pretty sure they’d ban me from Columbia forever. Which is sad because I haven’t even experienced my first day!” she exclaims in a nearly incoherent ramble as she paces back and forth behind me. “Gah! Apparently, that no-hot-plate rule is for a reason.”

  She’s so funny, I almost stop to laugh, but thankfully for the other occupants of this building, the growing, flickering flames somehow manage to win out as priority.

  “Water!” I yell behind me to the pacing rambler as I jump toward the socket which the offending appliance is plugged into and yank it from the wall.

  I hold out a hand, expecting a cup or bucket or something, but when nothing comes, I yell out my demand again. “Water! I need water!”

  “Water!” she exclaims. “Oh yes, I have bottled water!”

  “Get it!” I snap impatiently. In any other circumstance, I’d try harder not to be rude, but we’re about fifteen seconds from setting this whole room on fire.

  After pulling several bottles from a mini fridge beside her bed, she hands them off to me one-by-one, undoing the caps frantically so I don’t have to pause to do it, and I pour them on top of the flames.

  It takes seven fucking bottles before the fire is officially out, and for the first time since she rammed into me in the hallway, I take a full breath.

  “Well, fuck,” I say on a heavy sigh, and she snorts a completely unexpected and yet, somehow endearing, giggle.

  “I cannot believe I almost burned down my dorm room at Columbia University on the very first night.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, and I have to bite back my smile. “Not exactly the first impression they suggested we make at orientation.” I move closer to the charred mess sitting on her desk and open up a window to let out the residual smoke.

  She groans and slaps a palm to her forehead. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Hey, accidents happen sometimes,” I reassure her. “Do it again, and then you’ll be an idiot.”

  She laughs, thankfully, as I intended. And now that the urgency of the emergency is over, I take the opportunity to survey her room beyond the soggy remnants of her contraband.

  “I think you have a casualty,” I comment and nod toward the little green-brown plant sitting beside the out-of-commission hot plate.

  “No.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Teddy 3 was already like that before I got here.”

  I turn to meet her eyes. “Teddy 3?”

  “My plant,” she explains. “Well, my almost-dead plant.”

  I don’t know why it strikes me as cute that she names her plants, but it does.

  “You brought a dead plant to college?”

  She shrugs one petite shoulder. “Almost dead. I’m trying to stop the streak.”

  I quirk an eyebrow.

  “The ‘I can only seem to kill plants’ streak.”

  “So, his name is Teddy 3 because—”

  She shrugs again, nodding to confirm my assumption. “Teddy and Teddy 2 are dead. Like, as a doornail. All shriveled and broken. Not even the main stems survived.”

  “I see.” A smirk consumes my mouth. “Do you have another bottle of water in your fridge for him, then? I’d be happy to extend the scope of my services a little bit.”

  She smiles, and when the skin at the corners of her blue eyes crinkles, a tingle shoots back into my dick—previously put into a medically induced coma by the unexpected flames.

  “That’s okay,” she says, pursing her full, pink lips. “I’ll take care of Teddy 3 later…when I’ve calmed down a little bit. I’ll almost definitely remember.”

  I smile. I don’t know how I can be so sure, but I’d go to Vegas and put down money that Teddy 3 doesn’t see any sort of hydration later tonight.

  “Thank you, by the way,” she says bashfully. “For helping me. And sorry again for the collision in the hallway.”

  “You’re welcome.” I run a hand through my hair. “I am curious, though…” I pause briefly, and she takes that as an indication that I’m looking for permission. The truth is, I don’t know what I’m waiting for. For some reason, I just feel an instinctual need to make sure she doesn’t think I’m trying to insult or disparage her.

  “Shoot.”

  “Where exactly were you headed?”

  “Ohh,” she says, rolling her lips into her mouth. “You mean because the fire was in here?”

  I nod, laughing as I do.

  She lifts her shoulders helplessly. “I panicked.” The pillowy texture of her bright pink comforter fluffs as she plops down onto her bed. “And, apparently, when my fight-or-flight instincts kick in, I just run for the freaking hills.”

  The corners of my mouth kick up into a smile I don’t plan. “Well…” I laugh. “I guess that’s how some people are wired. It’s not a bad thing. As long as you’re not majoring in law enforcement or medicine or something.”

  She grins up at me. “Art major, actually.”

  “Well, thank God for that.” I smirk and glance around her dorm room, taking in several painted canvases above her bed and resting along the wall beside a bookshelf. I don’t know a lot about art, but I know these are good. Fascinating creations with every color of the rainbow. Some abstract. Some looking more like actual photos than paintings themselves. And a few showing a viewpoint that reminds me of famous images I saw when I took an art class in high school and the teacher waxed poetic about Monet. “Did you paint these?”

  She licks he
r lips, nodding just slightly before averting her eyes to her feet.

  I open my mouth to ask her more about them, but she quickly changes the subject by standing up and holding out her hand toward me. “I’m Ava Lucie, by the way.”

  “Luke London.” With her hand in mine, I don’t miss how soft her skin feels as we punctuate our introduction with a gentle shake.

  “Are you a freshman too, Luke?”

  “Yep.” I nod.

  “Cool. What’s your major? Something more attuned to someone with a fight instinct?”

  I smirk.

  “Engineering.”

  “Dayum, no wonder you use your brain in an emergent situation. It probably takes up your whole dang skull if you got into Columbia’s engineering program.”

  “I do okay,” I respond, actually blushing at the compliment. I slide both of my hands into the pockets of my jeans and try to return the sentiment. “And you must be really talented to get into Columbia’s art program.”

  She ignores my comment completely. “What type of engineering are you planning on doing?”

  “Aeronautical. But…well, actually…engineering isn’t my end goal.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “First, engineering,” I explain. “Then, flight school. Then, NASA.”

  “NASA? As in strap me to a rocket and shoot me to the moon?”

  I nod with a laugh. “That’s the one.”

  “Wait…so, it’s possible that the next Neil Armstrong just put out a fire in my dorm room?”

  A laugh bursts from my lungs. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here. I have a long, long way to go before I get even close to that.”

  “I don’t know,” she counters. “One small dorm fire for man, one giant blaze for mankind.”

  I can actually feel my smile in my cheeks. “Now, you just need to get rid of the evidence before our RA sees it.”

  Her eyes nearly bug out of her head. “Oh God. How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

  “How about this?” I offer. “Since there’s no way you’re going to be able to eat that soup, and I was already on my way out to get some food, you come with me to grab a slice of pizza at Antonio’s, and we’ll make a pit stop on the way to buy some shit to clean all this up.”

  “Okay, yeah,” she says with a soft, adorable smile. But just as she grabs her purse off her bed, her cell phone starts to ring. With a small frown, she flashes an apology toward me with her eyes. “Do you mind if I take this real quick?”

  “Of course not.” I shake my head and wait patiently by the door as she puts her phone to her ear.

  “Hi, Mom,” she says quietly. “Yep. Everything is good. I’m officially all moved in… Uh-huh… Do you mind if I call you a little later? I’m going to go grab a slice of pizza with a new friend…”

  New friend. That’s me, I guess.

  I don’t know why it irks me a little that I’m already friend-zoned by this gorgeous, blue-eyed firebug, but it does.

  Considering I have a girlfriend by the name of Sarah at Stanford, it shouldn’t bother me at all.

  October 31st

  Ava

  The moment any woman in the Lucie family reaches the age of thirty and is still single, seriously annoying complications set in.

  How do I know this? Because as a thirty-three-year-old woman in the family, I took a one-way trip to hell three years ago, and my mom and great-aunts made a deal with the devil to make sure finding a husband is the only way I’m allowed to book a flight back.

  A text pings in the ongoing group chat with the three clucking hens, and I sigh as I scroll to read it.

  Mom: Ava, there is a cute lawyer at the dog park today!

  Right below her message sits a candid photo of a guy sitting on a park bench. He’s aesthetically handsome, looks to be early thirties like me, and is smiling down at something on his phone. He has no idea the photo is being taken of him, and he’s a complete stranger.

  Me: Have you lost your mind??? What if he sees you taking pictures of him and gets mad?

  Aunt Poppy: Get real, Ava. We’re smarter than that.

  Aunt Lil: It was a top-secret mission. ;)

  Looks like the whole gang is out and about today…and they’re all clinically insane.

  Mom: VERY top secret. He had no idea.

  Me: Is this the only reason you guys go to the dog park? To stalk men?

  Mom: Don’t be ridiculous. We come to walk Bruce too. Should we give him your number?

  Bruce is my mom’s ten-year-old English bulldog. He’s lazy as hell and enjoys walks as much as I enjoy finding out my mom and great-aunts are sneaking pictures of random dudes in the name of finding me a man—aka: not at all.

  Lucky for him, though, the dog park is only a short walk from my parents’ house. And most likely, he just lies around in the grass while my mom and great-aunts stalk men on my unwarranted behalf.

  Me: Please, I beg of you. Leave that man alone and find something else to do with your time. Pottery. Fly-fishing. I don’t care, just something.

  A minute passes peacefully, and naïvely, I actually think the moment has passed. I go back to lining my eyes with a bold, dark line, but I haven’t even finished one of them when my phone chimes again.

  Mom: Oh, whoops! Sorry, honey, he introduced himself before I got your last message. We just showed him your picture, and he thinks you’re cute!

  A gasp of betrayal is the only thing I manage before fully realizing they played me from the beginning. There’s no way my mom would have known he was a lawyer if she hadn’t talked to him before sending me the message in the first place.

  Help me. Someone help me.

  Knowing the ship has sailed on this mission, and that there’s no way that poor guy is leaving there without my number and a selection of photos, I settle for reminding them of simple geography.

  Me: You do realize that you guys are in Vermont and I’m in New York, right?

  Aunt Poppy: That’s why they make cars and planes, Ava. For hot dates.

  Me: Um, no. I highly doubt Karl Benz invented the car so he could hook up more easily. But you three ARE about to have a hot date with handcuffs and jail time if you keep taking unsolicited photos of strangers.

  Aunt Poppy: Loser.

  Good grief. Damn, Aunt Poppy. Don’t hold back.

  I don’t know what else I’m expecting, though. She never does. And, when it comes to their shenanigans, there’s no end in sight. Thanks to my baby sister Kate and her stupid fiancé Zach, by this New Year’s Eve, I’ll be the oldest and only single Lucie sister left.

  My other sister Emily helped seal that fate by marrying her husband Landon two years ago.

  Aunt Poppy: I’m just being real, Ava. You need to find yourself a man before your little beaver shrivels up.

  Dear God, is this what spontaneous combustion feels like? Is my brain matter seconds away from splattering across the room right now?

  It sure feels like it. I know, once you take out the pushiness and mortification, what they’re all trying to say is that they don’t want me to end up alone. They were all married by the time they were my age, and they want the same security for me. But the world has changed since they were my age. Women don’t need to get married right out of high school.

  Frankly, women don’t need to get married at all.

  There is absolutely nothing wrong with being single and empowered and independent.

  Truthfully, I’d love to find someone to settle down with, but I need to do it in my own time.

  On a sigh, I type out a response that will put an end, albeit temporary, to the peanut gallery’s opinions.

  Me: Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you guys about my little beaver, but I gotta run! I sure hope your husbands don’t get suspicious when they find the evidence of other men in your phone.

  I know well and good that my dad understands my mom is nuts when it comes to her—very much unwanted—mission to find me a man, and
that Great-Uncle Don, Aunt Lil’s husband, and Great-Uncle Al, Aunt Poppy’s husband, gave up on keeping track of their nutty wives years ago. But it makes me feel better to put just a little bit of fear in their hearts.

  Three more texts flash across the screen, but I ignore them and toss my phone back down onto my bed and finish getting ready for tonight’s big bash at our favorite bar.

  I slip on the knee-high white go-go boots I purchased at a secondhand shop and stand up to check out my appearance in the mirror.

  Not too shabby, Ava.

  Tonight’s attire is not my usual choice in fashion, but that’s because it’s Halloween. A bright yellow crop top and miniskirt cover my body, and a vintage silk scarf is wrapped around my head, holding back my long blond locks so they stay behind my ears and fall behind my shoulders.

  And the boots. Of course, I can’t forget about these kick-ass boots. No doubt, I spent a hundred dollars too much on them, but I couldn’t help myself. They are the perfect addition to this year’s costume.

  Also, I will most likely never wear them again, but no need to slave over the details of my irresponsible economics.

  I do a little twirl in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom and grin. Perfect.

  The heels of my boots click-clack across the hardwood floors of my apartment as I head into the kitchen to snag a bottle of yellow Fanta out of the fridge and shove it into my purse, along with my keys and wallet and phone.

  But just before I can sling it over my shoulder, the all-too-familiar sounds of an incoming call stop my progress.

  I reach back into the Mary Poppins-style sack and fish around until I find the noisemaker.

  I just barely pull it out before my ringtone comes to an end, and I glance at the screen.

  Incoming Call Emily.

  I hate to admit it, but the sight of my sister’s name on the screen makes me temporarily consider sending the call to voice mail.