Chapter 13
I can't sleep. I'm too busy freaking out about the fact that I'm currently curled up in my best friend’s arms, my head on his chest, his heart a steady beat beneath my cheek. He fell asleep almost instantly, the lucky guy, while I lie here wide awake, my mind racing.
This is a bad idea. Cuddling is for couples.
It's intimate and meaningful and everything our little arrangement is not supposed to be. We agreed to be practice buddies, just sex between friends. And I’ll be his fake girlfriend because that’s what he told his dad.
No feelings, no complications. This is practice.
We need the advice. Maybe me more than him, but still! How did I end up here?
He looks younger in his sleep, the lines of stress and intensity smoothed away.
His blonde hair flops over his forehead and my fingers itch to brush it back, to trail over the sharp lines of his jaw, the full curve of his lips.
As I stare at Ryan's relaxed face in the moonlight filtering through the curtains, I know I’m in deep.
My heart squeezes. If this is how he feels…
arms wrapped around me, cuddling without any sex…
why couldn’t he simply tell me he wants to be more?
Why tell his dad that I’m his girlfriend and not care to make it a reality?
Being in his arms makes me feel two things.
First, it feels like this is a shitty way to pull a move on me if he does feel anything for me.
Really, he hasn’t confessed any feelings for me, so what the hell am I doing here?
Second, I think I might be in love with him.
But…I can't go there. Falling for Ryan isn’t an option.
It would ruin our friendship. He’s my favorite person, and those feelings would destroy us.
What’s currently going on between us is already ruining us.
I feel myself slipping away because I can’t… I can’t do this.
Panic claws at my throat, so I carefully extract myself from his embrace, easing out of the bed. I can't stay. I can't risk blurring the lines more than I already have. Ryan is my best friend, the most important person in my life. I won't jeopardize that for anything.
These thoughts are all my assumptions, but I will not stay if he doesn’t confess it. If he doesn’t talk to me about how he feels, I will not stay. I can’t.
Shit, see? This is already going downhill. I can feel it, but how am I supposed to stay away? I simply can’t. I already love him more than I love myself. And I meant it when I said if you find a Ryan Wilder in the world, you hold on tight to him.
I tiptoe out of the room, pausing at the threshold to look back at him. He's rolled into the space I vacated; his face buried in my pillow. The sight makes my chest ache.
I'm doing the right thing…for us both.
I repeat the words like a mantra as I let myself out of his house and drive home through the quiet streets. By the time I crawl into my own cold, lonely bed, I almost believe them.
The next morning, I'm a zombie as I go through the motions of opening up my coffee shop. I didn't get more than an hour of actual sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I ached to be in his arms. I feel like a puppy that just discovered belly rubs.
I'm being ridiculous. It was just cuddling. Friends can cuddle, right? I mean, everything I was thinking last night is wrong, right? What if he doesn’t have any feelings for me, and I made it all up?
This is the issue with new days, I have new thoughts.
The bottom line is that we are friends with benefits now, and it doesn't have to mean anything.
But that's the problem, isn't it? It felt like it meant something. It felt like everything.
I shake my head and focus on setting out the pastries. I refuse to overthink this any more than I already have. So, I bailed on a sleepover with my hookup buddy. So what? It's not a big deal. Ryan probably didn't even notice. He sleeps like the dead after a rough practice.
Still, I can't help but glance at my phone every few minutes, hoping for a text from him. He usually sends me a quick good morning or pops in for his usual Cryin’ Ryan before heading to the rink. But as the minutes tick by with no word, my stomach sinks.
Is he mad that I left? Hurt? Worse, has he figured out the real reason I bolted and is now trying to figure out how to let me down gently?
Ugh, I'm out of control. This is why feelings have no place in situations like these. They make everything messy and complicated. Why the hell did I suggest this in the first place? I am face-palming myself now.
I force myself to put my phone away and concentrate on my customers. I plaster on a smile and make small talk, letting the familiar routine calm my nerves. Everything is fine. Ryan and I are fine. Stop being neurotic, Addison.
We close up the coffee shop, and I head home to eat and get ready for my shift at the sports bar tonight. It feels like hours have gone by when it’s finally time for me to head to my second job.
I've almost managed to convince myself to forget all about Ryan by the time my phone buzzes with a text. I lunge for it embarrassingly fast while I’m clocking in at the bar, my heart in my throat.
It's from Ryan.
Ryan: You didn’t show up for our run this morning
Shit.
My heart has sunken into my stomach, and it’s fluttering around. How could I forget about our run? Oh, no. Shit!
If my actions didn’t shout guilty last night, missing our weekly run definitely is. I stare off into space because how did I forget I rescheduled it for this morning? I was so distraught by last night that my lack of sleep is to blame.
Baddie Addie: [Draft] I’m sorry
I stare at my phone. I’m such an asshole that I can’t even hit send. A big part of me knows I royally fucked up, and I’m just going to let it be. I pause before replying, not sure if I even should because I need to get ready for work.
It’s been an hour into work, and I still haven’t replied. I haven’t checked my phone because I fear that Ryan has messaged me or…if he hasn’t at all. Right now, my mind is all over the place. I don’t know what to do next.
I’m freaked out.
Yeah, you could say that.
There’s a group of women who are taking forever to order their vodka sodas at the bar, but I’m maintaining a happy attitude for the customer’s sake.
“Wait,” one of them says, narrowing her eyes at me. “Are you Baddie Addie?”
I smile widely at her, glad my coffee shop and face are recognized. She's gorgeous—tall and slim with perfect hair and makeup, clearly one of those Instagram model types. Her friends are equally glam, all designer clothes and dewy skin.
“Hi, yes,” I smile. "That's me."
The girl grins. “I knew it! You know Ryan Wilder, right? The goalie for the Seven Devils?”
My stomach does an odd little flip. My smile falters. “Yeah, we're friends. How did you–”
“I saw a pic of you two on his Instagram a while back,” she says. “From a game, I think. You guys are so cute. Are you like his sister or something?”
My smile suddenly goes stiff and brittle. “No, not his sister. Just friends.”
“Oh.” Her heavily lined eyes light up. “So, he's single then?”
I have the sudden, insane urge to lie. To tell this pretty, put-together girl that Ryan is 100% unavailable, so sorry. But that would be crazy. That would be absolute bonkers. Ryan and I aren't together. He's free to date or hook up with whomever he wants. That was the deal.
“Yep,” I say brightly. “Total bachelor. Did you need anything else or just the drinks?”
“Actually.” The girl––Emma, according to her black AmEx––rummages in her purse and pulls out a glossy business card. “Can you give this to him for me? I'd love to get together sometime.”
She winks as she hands it over like we're girlfriends sharing a secret. I take the card with numb fingers, my smile frozen in place.
“Sure,” I chirp. “I'll pass it along.”
Seemingly satisfied, Emma rejoins the conversation with her friends. I stare down at the card with her phone number and Instagram handle. She's exactly Ryan's type–leggy, busty, with a good smile. He'll probably call her the second he takes a look at her profile.
The thought sits in my stomach like lead, heavy and cold. Which is ridiculous. Ryan should date this Emma girl. Or whoever he wants. I don't have a claim on him.
I slide the card into my pocket, vowing to give it to him the next time I see him. We're friends. I want him to be happy. If that means nudging him toward other women, so be it.
I concentrate on work. The easy rhythm of mixing drinks and talking with customers. But Emma and her friends linger at the bar, chatting me up whenever I have a free moment.
“We should totally hang out sometime,” one of them suggests. I think her name is Becca. Or maybe Bella. “There's this club opening downtown next weekend. You should come with us!”
“Oh, yeah,” I glance between their expectant faces. “Yeah, that could be fun.”
They beam at me, already making plans for us, and I fight the urge to squirm. Something about their enthusiasm feels off, calculatingly eager rather than genuine. But I shove the suspicion aside. They're probably just being nice. Not everyone has an agenda.
Still, as my shift winds down, I can't shake the feeling. This isn’t the first time I've been recognized as Ryan's friend . Sadly, it’s not the first time I've felt like someone was being friendly to me because of who I know, not who I am. Girls back in college would try to come on our Wednesday runs. One time I even let it happen. See, I can be nice. Ryan swears that I need to loosen up, but there was that one time I reluctantly said yes. Let’s just say that I never wanted a third runner with us ever again.
All I know is that this is unsettling with Emma and her girl clan. I don't want to be known as some hockey player's plus-one.