Of all the days, it was on my birthday when I realized that Steve had a crush on the pretty girl that worked at Dunkin Donuts.
“Come up to the counter. I don’t bite unless you’re into that sort of thing,” she said.
“Sometimes,” he said to her.
I worked at Victoria’s Secret back in high school. I knew boobs. She was a 34D. Maybe a natural C with extreme padding. Either way, she was bigger than my B cups.
“Don’t tempt me,” she giggled.
I wasn’t jealous.
“I’ll have a chocolate long john,” I interjected. It sounded stupid. She unlocked eyes with him and him with her. They both glanced at me.
“Oh, is this together?” said the counter girl. Her boobs bounced as she reached for his cash.
“Yeah,” I said, my jaw clenched.
Okay. Maybe we weren’t together together like we were in that parallel dimension I dreamed about where Steve and I kissed and groped and licked and rubbed each other, but at this moment, in this universe, we were together.
Steve took the coffee and smiled at her. She returned his smile. She handed me the bag without looking at me. I took my anger out on the poor donut and crushed it under my closing fist.
“She’s nice,” he said as we stepped outside. The steam from the coffee and his breath merged in the winter air.
“You should’ve asked for her number,” I said all cool, managing a smirk like I was one of the guys, elbowing his parka. To him, I was one of the guys. He could tell me anything.
“I know where she works,” he sipped his coffee.
Then I did the universal thing no woman should never do: point out to the guy that they are smitten with that some other girl is pretty.
It only makes you feel like shit when he says, “Yeah, she totally is.”
Why did I need that confirmed? Why did I need confirmation that she was prettier with her flawless skin and her big boobs and fucking bangs that framed her face so that she looked good even under that stupid Dunkin Donut visor?
I looked stupid in any hat. My head was big and my hair so thick it was like putting a sock on a bowling ball.
I wasn’t jealous, really.
Steve and I were friends. Good friends. Such good friends that he told me after a few months that he was in love with someone he couldn’t have. “She’s a friend’s girlfriend,” he said. I felt bad for him. I felt bad for me. I knew how it felt to really want someone who doesn’t want you.
“You need to move on,” I said and wanted to add, ‘With me.’
We had my birthday dinner at his place. He played the guitar and sang to me. Maybe it was the five martinis I had or the fact that I was tired of keeping it inside, but I said, “Steve, I like you. You know like that. More than friends.” I’m pretty sure, it came out more jumbled than that.
We were both on the couch and Steve put his drink down. I put my hand on his arm. His skin felt soft and warm. Footsteps from his upstairs neighbors paced back and forth and the ice in my drink clanked together as I took the last sip.
His silence was killing me.
I said what he couldn’t, “I know you don’t like me that way.”
“You’re a good friend. I’m just not attracted to you in that way,” his voice wasn’t loud or filled with pity. It was just a statement, a fact he meant neither to hurt me or make me feel rejected. But I felt both.
“That’s cool,” I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed say to that?
“I don’t ever want to intentionally hurt you,” he said. I could see the blue in his eyes behind his glasses.
“I’m not hurt,” I lied. “I’m really fucking tired, though. I’m going to go home.”
“You can’t drive like this. Just crash on my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
He thought I was too exhausted to argue, but I was too hurt to argue. He lifted me off of the couch and took me to his bed.
“I got this,” I said and thanked him.
“Happy birthday,” he said and shut the door.
I took off my shoes and jeans and crawled into his bed. The pillows smelled like him along with the blankets and the whole fucking room. I had many times pictured myself in his room, in his bed, but never alone.
Happy fucking birthday to me.
Cyn Vargas has been recognized twice by Glimmer Train as a Top 25 Finalist award & an Honorable Mention in their Short Story Award for New Writers contests. She’s currently a MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Columbia College Chicago where she is a Follett Fellow. Her work has appeared in Word Riot, Curbside Splendor, The Subterranean Quarterly, among others. She writes because it’s her way of legally exposing herself in public. www.cynvargas.com.