9. Pick-Up Lines
9
Pick-Up Lines
I woke the next morning before my alarm, practically giddy at the prospect of going to school. Which… gross. It wasn’t because of Ben. It wasn’t . But a sneaky little voice in the back of my head said that it definitely was. I ignored the voice, telling my hormones to go fuck themselves.
Running late after spending too long styling my hair—something I refused to dwell on—I parked by the gym. Being late and parking here was a complete accident and not a subconscious plan to run into Ben after rehearsal. I told myself this, but that damn voice called me a liar.
I didn’t see Ben at my locker or in the hallways, and I arrived at lunch in a much more bitter mood than I’d woken with. I grabbed a bag of chips and a soda and flopped down into my chair. Kim sat across from me beside Harris, giggling at a joke I missed, and the brunet ran a hand through his perfectly parted hair, flustered by Kim’s attention. She placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling shyly, and Harris blushed.
The chair beside me scraped against the floor, and I waited for Caroline’s characteristic floral perfume to cloud my brain. Instead, it was spring soap. Kim’s eyes widened to saucer-like proportions, and her jaw dropped. I spun on the blond with a matching expression of shock, and Ben raised a questioning eyebrow as he sat gracefully beside me and set his tray on the table. I recovered quicker than my table mates and relaxed into my seat with a barely suppressed grin. Ben was sitting with me—us—for lunch now.
“Ben,” I greeted him.
“Silas,” he returned before focusing his attention on my awestruck friends. “Hi, I’m Ben.”
When no one spoke, I made hurried introductions. “That’s Kim, and that’s Harris and Jordan.”
Harris and Jordan bounced their eyes between us a few times before shrugging and shaking his hand in turn with similar greetings of “Hey, man.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ben said, ever the gentleman.
I snapped my fingers in front of Kim’s face. “Kim, shut your pie hole. It’s not attractive.”
“When did this happen?” Her voice was an octave higher than normal.
“When did what happen?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you two dating?”
I choked on my sip of soda mid-swallow, and the fizz burned through my nose. I coughed and gagged, trying to breathe and talk without success. My eyes watered as the carbonation fried my sinuses.
“Fucking hell! Are you trying to kill me?” I yelled at her, my face flushing bright red as I recovered from my near-asphyxiation. Ben slapped my back, and I shoved him away violently. “And no, we aren’t… we’re just… no!”
Flustered, I glared at Kim’s confused expression. “You’re not together?”
Ben opened his mouth, most likely to say something embarrassing, but I spoke before he could. “No! We’re friends.”
Caroline finally arrived, and I used this as an excuse to force Ben out of her usual seat. She dismissed the offer with a conspiratorial grin in Kim’s direction and pulled up a chair at the end of the table.
With an interested scan of Ben’s body, she introduced herself, and I scowled as her fingers lingered on his hand. Ben grinned politely but didn’t return the once-over or notice the graze of her fingertips. Fierce pleasure buzzed through my chest, which was stupid and pathetic and many other things I needed a dictionary to explain. Ultimately it made me a sucker, and I wanted to jab myself in the throat with Kim’s plastic utensils.
“So you’re the diver.” Heavy meaning filled Caroline’s tone.
Ben squirmed in his chair. “Well, I don’t know about being the diver, but I am a diver.”
“Aw!” Kim cooed embarrassingly.
Caroline sent me a mischievous wink. “Cute and humble. Good choice, Silas.”
“Shut up!” I tossed my chips at her as both Ben and I avoided eye contact. I glared at my friends, each in turn, my neck hot with embarrassment.
Ben sent me an apologetic smile which I returned by flipping him my middle finger, and he snorted into his Gatorade. He did nothing to stop the mockery thrown my way from my so-called friends. Psh, we would see if I ever did anything nice for him again.
Thankfully, everyone resumed lunch in a less embarrassing fashion, and other than making polite small talk, no one bothered me or Ben. When the bell rang, dismissing us from lunch, we parted ways for a few hours, meeting again outside our sociology class. We sat beside each other and continued the easy conversation we shared last night at the drive-in until the teacher brought the class to order.
I took notes, glancing over at Ben more often than I liked, and my heart squeezed every time I found him doing the same thing. A smile played at his lips as he hunched over his desk, writing into a notebook, and a warm fuzzy tingle trickled through my chest when he glanced up from under his lashes and winked.
As the teacher’s monotone voice drifted over the classroom, paper swished as a folded white slip fluttered onto my desk. In the beginning of my high school career, I ignored any notes sent my way, knowing hurtful words lay within, and eventually people stopped sending them. I searched my surroundings sharply, giving Ben a suspicious glance, but he focused on the front of the room. In fact, he pointedly ignored me, trying way too hard to appear innocent. I skeptically unfolded the paper.
Across the top of the page, in a surprisingly elegant script for a guy, scrawled three words.
How are you?
I shook my head at the predictable question and hovered my pen over the paper for a split second before writing my response.
Fan-fucking-tastic! You?
I waited till the teacher turned his back before tossing the note back at Ben, the page landing with a soft crinkle before Ben snatched it off his desk and into his lap. I felt like a middle school kid again, passing notes in class, and I fought the insane urge to giggle manically at not getting caught.
Ben opened it silently and read it, sending me a droll stare. Moments later, the note touched back home on my desk, and I secretly unfolded the paper in my lap to read what he wrote.
There’s no need to be snarky.
I wrote back hastily and tossed the note over the aisle.
That’s like asking the earth to stop spinning. Physically impossible.
He huffed in amusement as he read my words before replying.
So being a smartass is in your genetic makeup?
I chuckled, ducking my head as the teacher spun around to face the class with narrowed eyes. Ben, innocent as ever, stared straight ahead at the teacher like he wasn’t the instigator, and I waited till the coast was clear before writing back.
Duh… I thought that was kind of obvious.
The paper made its way back to me almost instantly, and I glanced at it, surprised at the lack of reply to my earlier statement. It took me a moment to notice the small note on the bottom of the page.
How about we just text. That’s easier , he wrote, along with his phone number.
A thrill crackled through me as I took in the numbers, but I tried to stamp it down. Get your head out of your ass, Silas! He gave me his number because that was what friends did, nothing more. I tore off the bottom of the page and tucked the piece holding his number into my pocket before scribbling out a snide remark.
Is this your not so subtle way of asking for my number, Adams? I’m so flattered.
I bit my lip to keep from snickering at Ben’s cough, and his mouth widened in a smile to reveal his amazing dimple. He scratched his pen over the paper, crooking an eyebrow at me as he did, and I faced front to keep myself from laughing.
A finger poked my thigh and, without looking, I dropped my hand to take the note he offered. Our fingers brushed a split second longer than necessary, and my whole body jolted from the unexpected contact. I glanced at Ben out of the corner of my eye, but he was completely unaware of the havoc he unleashed on my traitorous body.
I slowly unfolded the page to read his response.
Damn, you caught me! I should have used a pick-up line instead. How about this: I lost my number, can I have yours?
I turned my chortle into a violent coughing fit, but the teacher caught me. “Something to share with the class, Silas?” His mustache twitched in displeasure as I managed to get my amusement under control.
“No,” I cleared my throat. “Um, no, sir.”
Continuing his lecture, he turned back to the board, and I reread Ben’s message. Of course, if I didn’t know Ben, I would take this as flirting, but I knew better. He was being cheeky. Well, two could play at that game.
Ugh, please! I would never give my number out over such a lame pick-up line. You insult me.
The paper returned quickly, and this time I mentally prepared myself for his sass. Of course, he didn’t disappoint.
I should have known you required more class and sophistication. I’m doing a survey to see who has the most 4’s in their number. What’s yours?
Lame! Try again.
I need some answers for my math homework. Quick, what’s your number?
You know, I’m starting to think you don’t actually want my number. You’re disappointing me, Benjamin.
I was on thin ice at this point as our banter teased the line of actual flirting, but knowing Ben was straight made it innocent fun. Right?
After a longer wait, he poked my thigh, and I, once again, lowered my hand. My fingers closed around his, and I shivered when his pointer finger slid across my palm as he released the note into my hand.
Our handwriting mixed together, clean letters and chicken scratch, and I dragged a finger over the places where the curl of his y met the harsh line of my b . I was pathetic. But it didn’t stop me from reading his next pick-up line. Honestly, if he used this on me in real life, he would earn my number, hands down.
I’m no mathematician, but I’m pretty good with numbers. Tell you what, give me yours and watch what I can do with it.
I grinned widely and wrote my response before my brain caught up with my hand, and I stared at the paper in horror.
Not bad, Adams. Better be careful that I don’t take you up on that.
The line of jest disappeared in the distance behind me, and I almost crumpled the page to destroy the evidence. I wrote it in pen and couldn’t erase it, and there was no way he wouldn’t take this as a proposition. Two straight guys might joke about these pick-up lines, but they wouldn’t respond with this. I scribbled the sentence until it solidified into a blue rectangle with a few tears in the weak paper and rewrote my response below it.
Have any of these lines ever actually worked on a girl?
I handed the paper back, ignoring the confused curiosity on Ben’s face. It was the longest wait yet, and I peered over the aisle a few times to ensure he couldn’t decipher my original sentence. His brow creased with concentration as if he contemplated something important, and when I caught his eye, I crooked my eyebrow in challenge.
Finally, he reached across the aisle to pass the note over, and I jumped in surprise as the back of his hand landed on my thigh. The note sat between two fingers as he offered it to me, but the action of touching me was completely unnecessary in this particular situation. I didn’t mind, of course, but it confused the hell out of me as I plucked the paper from his grasp and watched him withdraw his hand.
Butterflies fluttered to life in my stomach as the heat from his hand lingered, searing my skin through my jeans, and I physically brushed the sensation from my leg with my palm. He didn’t want the teacher to catch us, that had to be it. He was being stealthy.
His reply lay at the very bottom of the paper below a few of his own scribbles, and I did a double take when I read it.
No, but it worked on a guy once.
The sentence stared at me from the page, and my lungs froze mid-inhale as Ben watched with a comical smirk on his face. I didn’t even try to hide my shock at his admission, and he made a motion with his finger, instructing me to turn the page over. I did quickly, the hope in my chest crashing abruptly from the one word I read.
You.
Me? Oh. Good one, Ben. Funny joke.
Disappointment rushed through me, turning bitter on my tongue. Of course, it was another line meant to make me laugh. God, I was an idiot to even consider something different.
I blanked out my face, shoving aside my dismay, and shot Ben an exaggerated eye roll. His eyes brightened with merriment as he laughed silently into his palm, and I smiled back, feigning entertainment at his joke. I was so delusional.
That, sir, was impressive. I grant you the utmost honor of having my phone number.
I wrote the words next to my number and tossed the note back to Ben with the heaviest air of sarcasm I could manage without actually speaking. His triumphant chuckle almost eased the crushing disappointment, but I forced myself to grin and laugh as he tucked the paper into his pocket.
We spent the rest of the class doing our own separate things, though every time I glanced over at him, I caught him smiling in my direction. It was a gentle, smooth smile, and I repeated a continuous internal stream of self-loathing comments as my heart swelled and throbbed behind my rib cage.
We were just friends! He was straight and would never be interested in me, and that was a good thing.
Yes, he was attractive and was turning into the coolest person I’d ever met, but I didn’t have to fall for him. I would not pine after some way-out-of-my-league straight guy. I did not need to get caught up in a one-sided romance. I would not like him!
By the time class ended, I finally convinced myself of this fact, but as Ben walked me to the theater room for rehearsal, I questioned my surety. There was a burning in my chest that matched the burning in my pocket—the same pocket currently housing a torn-off piece of paper with ten digits scrawled across it in Ben’s elegant writing.