Bound to Accept

  Bound to Accept by Nenia Campbell

  BOUND TO ACCEPT

  by Nenia Campbell

  Nenia Campbell (c) 2014

  Dedicated to:

  my readers

  Chapter One

  Fire drill at office. It's like high school all over again.

  I look at Tristan's text, and sigh. Even though it's perfectly platonic, and nobody else would look at it and think twice, reading his words makes me feel all swoony.

  And why? Because I'm one of those foolish girls who has gone and fallen in love with her best friend. This isn't a sudden mistake, either. The kind that can be gotten over with a weekend of heavy drinking or a one-night stand. I've suffered bravely through my plight for fourteen years.

  That's over half my life.

  How depressing.

  What's even more depressing is the fact that I can, under no circumstances, never, ever let him know.

  Yeah, right. WHAT DID YOU DO?

  At least I'm smart enough to know that Tristan and I have a good thing going. Taylor Swift songs aside, sometimes boys and girls really are better off as friends. Sex tends to over-complicate things—or so I've heard. I mean, we can't all have the When Harry Met Sally ending.

  I'm so hot, I guess I must have set off the fire alarm.

  I've given myself this pep-talk more times than I care to count—“Face it, Kelly,” I tell myself, “you've been friendzoned. Put on the glasses and deal with it”—but hope springs eternal.

  My phone chimes again. What are you doing right now?

  Just woke up. About to start writing. You?

  Waiting for fire drill to end. Texting you and Ashlee.

  Ashlee. My mood sinks. Ashlee is his girlfriend.

  How is Ashlee? I type reluctantly.

  Good. We're going out later.

  Every time I see him, my head spins and my heart races. He moves so confidently, with a slight swing of his shoulders that reminds me of a tiger at the prowl. It's predatory, and so at odds with his gentle nature that it makes me think he's got a dark side.

  All friends have secrets. We're like three-dimensional shapes on paper; we all have hidden sides. And there's some secrets we don't even reveal to ourselves.

  I wonder what Tristan's secret is.

  Do I even want to know?

  I've tortured myself about his feelings for me for years. All those sideways glances, where he's almost caught me looking at him just seconds before I look away. There's an electric moment, and each time, I think it's going to be 'The Time'—the moment he tells me he's loved me all along.

  It never happens.

  He flirts like the devil, too. Even with me. He'll say things like, “you always think the best of me, don't you?” with this distant, sad expression that makes my heart ache. A couple of times, when he was really drunk, he said, “Kelly, you know I love you.”

  On one of those instances, he pinned me up against a sofa and nuzzled my cleavage as he tried to pull down my dress. I'm so pathetic, I might have even let him if he hadn't called me Rachel while he was doing it—the name of the girl he was dating at the time. He was really, really wasted.

  Looking back on some of the books I've self-published, I guess it's pretty obvious that I'm smitten. The boy-falls-in-love-with-best-friend-and-realizes-she's-soulmate theme is prevalent in all my published works. Even in my fantasy series about an ancient race of dragon warriors, the two main characters grew up in the same village together and gradually realize that they're in love. I am so hopeless.

  My readers seem to enjoy my books, though. I like to think my popularity is due to the fact that we've all fallen for our best friend at some point, regardless of our sexuality, but it's most likely because I don't shirk on the torrid, so-wrong-it-must-be-right sex.

  Whatever the reason, my fanbase is devoted enough that they pay rent and most of my bills. I can say I write for a living and have it almost be true. My parents help out with the food stuff, and of course it helps that I don't drive. I probably should drive, but in San Francisco it isn't really necessary and it's expensive as hell. Free parking here is rarer than a blue diamond, and just as pricey.

  Tristan's texts seem to have stopped for good. He must be back at the office now. It's almost three. He gets off at four, and he's probably going to meet Ashlee then.

  I bite my lip and try not to think about what they're going to be doing, or how much I want to be in her place, or how creepy putting so much thought into this makes me feel.

  To take my mind off Tristan, I brew some coffee. I like the way the rich, sultry aroma makes my apartment smell. It's decadent—one of the few frills I permit myself.

  I take my favorite mug down from the cupboard, the one with the picture of Grumpy Cat on it (I woke up once, it was awful) and make myself a latte.

  (What if he's kissing her right now? Squeezing her breast? I wonder if his hands would be big enough to hold my whole entire breast in his hand.)

  I carry the mug of coffee to my desk, and start on my current work-in-progress. It's about this woman who is in love with her best friend. She works at a nightclub where she wears a mask while dancing. One night her best friend comes in, and she has sex with him, only he doesn't know it's her. I haven't decided how it'll end.

  (Have they had sex, yet?)

  It doesn't seem like I'm making much progress, but my ringing phone startles me into looking at the clock. Nearly six. And that's Tristan's ringtone. I know, because he has his own. Smash Mouth's “Walking on the Sun.” I think I showed great restraint in not making it “Why Can't We Be Friends?” Because that really would be creepy.

  Where is my phone? I know I had it with me. We were texting earlier. I tear apart my room, throwing clothes aside, dumping out purses.

  Phone! Where are you?

  The ringtone is nearing the end of its loop; soon it will take Tristan to voicemail and I'll have to wait at least a half hour before calling him back. Then I see it on the seat of my swivel chair. I was sitting on it all along.

  I make a swipe for it and the phone skitters to the floor. Fuck. Without thinking twice, I dive. Grab it. “Hello?” I say breathlessly. “You still there?” Please, please be there.

  “Hey.” That's all he says. Hey. But my brain immediately shoots into warp-speed, trying to think of all the ways that could mean, “I am desperately, madly in love with you.”

  It doesn't help that his voice is pure sex, either. Like he's just woken up. There's a ragged snarl in his voice, like frayed velvet, and I could listen to him talk for hours. And he always sounds like that, like he just finished screaming himself hoarse after an intense bout of really hot sex.

  That's something else I've tortured myself about. His girlfriends. He always seems to have one, and I'm sure he's had sex with them. I mean, I'm not going to kid myself. He's very attractive and he's also nice.

  No, however much I might wish otherwise, there's never been a shortage of women willing to date Tristan.

  I thought things would get better after high school, and especially after college. More tolerable, at least. They haven't. If anything, my jealousy has gotten even worse because now I have a whole slew of other things to worry about. What if he marries her? What if they have babies?

  Oh God, I hope he's not calling to talk about Ashlee. But he probably is. He sounds a little upset. She probably did something. I'll have to console him without sounding too enthusiastic in my condemnation of his girlfriend. This requires a set of mental gymnastics so complex that I usually feel too drained to do anything but nap afterward.

  I take a deep breath. “Hi,” I say brightly. “How are you?”

  “I've had better days.”

  “Well…how did your date go?”

  “Are you doing a
nything right now?”

  I'm a little startled by the apparent non-sequitur. I stare at my monitor. My two characters have just started having sex. “No,” I say, after a pause.

  “Want to meet somewhere?”

  So he wants to talk. Which, knowing him, means girl trouble. The date clearly did not go well. My mind is spinning. Could this be my lucky break? Or does he want to get back together with her?

  I hope he doesn't want me to help him win her back. I draw the line at standing outside his girlfriend's window holding a boom box playing Peter Gabriel's “In Your Eyes.”

  I mean, I have my pride. Not much, but some.

  “Let's meet at Tapioca Barn.”

  Even if he does want to get back together with Ashlee, I'll still be able to drown my sorrows in a cup of boba.

  “The milkshake place?”

  “Bubble tea.” I can't help correcting him. He should know this. I've only set him straight a million times.

  Tristan laughs. “Right. Bubble tea. See you soon, then.”

  “See you soon,” I say.

  He hangs up, leaving me wondering why I am such a fool. But only for five minutes or so. Then I start to wonder what I should wear. Not that he'll notice.

  But still.

  Tristan Lesauvage isn't some A-list actor lookalike, but I think he's very good looking. Dark brown hair. Piercing green eyes. Kind of tan, in the sense that he's got a healthy glow from being outside a lot. (How he manages this as an engineer, I will never know.) He used to be a little on the heavy side, but once we entered college he got really fit—and I was afraid to make my move, because he might think I was only going out with him because he'd shed the extra pounds. Teen movie makeover, in reverse.

  We've been friends since middle school. I wasn't really into girly things, so while my peers were catching up on Gossip Girl and going shopping at the nearby outlet mall, I was hunkered down in the corner of the cafeteria playing my Gameboy Advance. One day, a plump boy in a red checked shirt with a mop of unwieldy hair joined me.

  “What are you playing?” I asked him.

  “Pokémon,” he said.

  “Cool.”

  “You?”

  “I'm playing Harvest Moon.”

  He nodded. I nodded. It was like two old souls greeting each other in a bar. We went back to playing our respective games, and I wasn't at all surprised when he showed up the next day. What surprised me was that he never left.

  He's easy to pick out at Tapioca Barn, with his tall build and broad shoulders. Me, I fit right in with the rest of the geeky hipsters frequenting the joint. Nobody even spares me a second glance. Even Tristan does a double-take. But then he smiles that slow smile that makes my heart feel like a Peep in the microwave and he takes off his glasses, folding them up into the pocket of his jeans.

  He must not have changed from his date with Ashlee. He's wearing expensive jeans, and a black button down over a white undershirt. The jeans make his legs look really long, especially with the way he's sprawled in the chair.

  “Nice shirt,” he says, referring to the My Little Pony shirt my friend Kayla got me for xmas last year. It has Fluttershy on it—my favorite pony—and says in sparkly letters, 'Friendship is magic.' “What are you? Eight?”

  I probably should have worn the floral top from Macy's. Most 25-year-olds do not go around wearing My Little Pony shirts. Even the kinds who lurk on Tumblr all day.

  “You know you're jealous.”

  Tristan slings an arm over the back of his chair, pulling the white shirt taut against his chest. I scan the contours of his pecs, and where the fabric puckers over his navel.

  God, why are you so cruel?

  “Oh, yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “I would just die without my Moonshine Sparkle shirt.”

  “Twilight Sparkle,” I say, forcing myself to tear my eyes away from his broad, sexy chest. “God, you can't even get the name right. You're hopeless.”

  “Lost cause,” he agrees.

  “What can I say?” I shrug modestly, straightening out the shirt. “I guess I'm a total pony girl.”

  Tristan snorts loudly enough that several of the Tapioca Barn patrons look over. He hides his grin behind his fist. “Don't say that.”

  “What, pony girl?”

  He shakes his head slowly. “It doesn't mean what you think it means.”

  “And what does it mean, Inigo Montoya?” I nudge him in the shoulder, an excuse to touch him, to feel the firm muscles in his shoulders, when what I really want to do is kiss him and run my hands down his chest. His bare chest.

  Why do I do this to myself? Why?

  Tristan doesn't answer me. There's a flush in his cheeks, though, so I realize that it must mean something sexual—and it's kinky enough that he doesn't want to say what it means aloud where anyone around us could hear. I resolve to Google it as soon as I get home.

  He changes the subject, rapping his knuckles on the table. “What do you want? I dragged you out here, I'm buying.”

  “Let's see…” I stare at the board of flavors. “I'll have a taro milk tea with large tapioca balls and coffee jelly.”

  If he's buying, I can let myself pretend this is a date.

  I watch him stand in line, and chat with the Asian barista. She's cute. I wonder if that's his type? Small, cute, petite girls? Not large, curvy girls like me. Hmm. Ashlee isn't tiny, but she's a lot skinnier than I am.

  God, his ass looks good in those jeans.

  He's coming over, and I busy myself with my phone. He sets down my taro milk tea, which is a bright lavender. I see that he's gotten himself a plain latte. No jelly, no bubbles, no stars. “That's no fun.”

  “You're such a kid,” he says, almost affectionately.

  “No. I'm just confident in my adulthood.” I take a long sip of my boba tea, making sure I get jelly and tapioca alike in one mouthful. “You're not very adventurous, are you?”

  He stirs his latte, making ribbons of milk swirl through the coffee. “That depends.”

  On what? I suck a clod of jelly through the straw and chew it contentedly. Since he isn't going to elaborate, I ask him, “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  Tristan sighs. “I broke things off with Ashlee.”

  He did? “But you two had a date.”

  “It didn't go well,” he admits. “Things went sour at the end. At first, I was going to let her go, but now I'm having second thoughts.”

  Second thoughts? Second thoughts? “Why do you say that?” I ask, keeping my voice level. You fool. If this were a movie, I'd kiss him now and make him see reason.

  He runs his hands over his face. I want to do that.

  So.

  So.

  Badly.

  “She understood me.” So the sex was good. “But she didn't want the same things I did.” Clingy? Wouldn't let him do her in the butt? I don't think I would let a guy do me in the butt, either. Butt holes are like a one-way street; they were made that way for a reason.

  It's not like he's constantly asking me to coach him through breakups, though. In spite of the emotional turmoil he puts me through, and that one time he molested me at a party, he's not a douchebag. At least, I don't think he is.

  Tristan dates a lot of women, but only one at a time, and I've never seen him treat them badly. They always seem happy when they're with him (not that I've been stalking him on Facebook or anything). He asks my opinion only when he wants an impartial woman's perspective—only, the joke's on him because I am pretty much the antithesis of impartial in these situations.

  Break up with the skank! The devil on my shoulder shouts, waving pompoms that have definitely been dredged up from my blurry recollections of my high school's cheerleading uniforms. Make the right choice!

  Slut-shaming is wrong, says the angel. You and I both know that Ashlee's not a skank. You had dinner that one time and you liked her.

  Well, I liked her until I found out that she was dating Tristan. Then I stopped liking her so much, and felt like a
bad person because I knew I only hated her because she was so much prettier than me.

  I set down my bubble tea. I've been drinking it too fast and now I have a bit of a headache. “Why did you break up with her in the first place if everything was going well?”

  Tristan pinches the bridge of his nose. “I guess it was an ultimatum. I wanted to see if she'd change her mind if I forced the decision.” He laughs miserably. “That makes me sound like a total dick, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah, it kind of does.” There's no sugar-coating that. And speaking of sugar-coating, he's got a glaze of latte on his full, sinful mouth. “So she didn't change her mind.”

  “If anything, I think I proved her point.” He licks his lips unselfconsciously and my stomach flicks that switch that makes my vagina go all melty. Fuck.

  “Well…” I think hard. I really want him to be single again, but I also don't want to be selfish here. That has a tendency to backfire and he does have a pretty big problem on his hands. “You should probably apologize.”

  “That was the first thing I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Nothing. She may have blocked me.”

  Good Lord, what did they fight about? There's no way I can ask without sounding nosy.

  There's a bead of condensation on the table from my drink. I run my finger through it and draw a frowny face on the table. “It kind of seems like it's over then.”

  “That was pretty much my impression, too.” He finally takes another sip from his latte and makes a face. “It's all watery.”

  “That's what you get for letting it melt.”

  “Now's the time to switch it up for the hard stuff.” He softens his words with a smile. “Thanks for listening. I always feel better when I talk to you about these things.”

  “I'm glad.” The words are automatic, because I do want to please him…but not this way. Not any longer. Before I realize it, I'm shaking my head. “Actually, I'm not.”

  He was starting to drink from his coffee again but freezes, lips wrapped around the straw. It looks vaguely erotic, which makes what I'm about to say more difficult.