Oh well.

Now, I get to go home and do something I’ve been trying to convince myself I didn’t want to do.

Tonight, I’m going to tell Leila that I want to be with her.

I get to tell Leila that I’m single again—though, I’ll probably leave off the “again”—and that I want to see if there’s anything between her and I other than this growing hot pull in my chest.

The funny thing is that I still don’t really know her all that well, but what I do know is enough for the certainty that I want to know more.

I can’t wait.

First thing’s first, though: I’ve got to drop off the car.

That process takes over an hour as the moron at the front desk can’t find the paperwork. Finally, he checks the open file that’s been right in front of him at least as long as I’ve been standing here, and we get it all taken care of.

The guy lets me call a cab, and I’m on my way home now, nervous, but feeling for the first time in a long time that I might just be onto something amazing.

I climb the stairs and imagine the worst possible scenarios.

Most people would tell me to be optimistic right now, but every time I’ve gone into something with high hopes, those hopes are dashed in the most horrendous way possible, so right now, I’m imagining her screaming at me, calling me an asshole and a womanizer, telling me that I’m never going to be anything more to her than a rent check.

I can’t help the fact that I’m still smiling.

When I get to the door, I take a breath and take one final moment to imagine her hitting me over the head with a frying pan and kicking me in the ribs while I’m lying on the floor.

If my inverse-square law of hope has any validity, that thought should seal the deal.

I unlock the door and open it to find Leila and some guy sitting on the couch, making out.

I should probably clear my throat or say something, as neither one seems to have noticed my arrival, but I can’t do anything.

It’s been about an hour and a half since I decided I want to throw caution into the death machine and make the move to be with Leila, and this is the first time I’ve ever seen her with someone.

Inverse-square law my ass.

I try to slowly back out of the door and leave the two in peace so, hopefully, they never know I was even here, but of course, that’s when my phone rings.

Leila and the guy who was trying to swallow her face jerk and look over at me while I fumble for my phone.

“Dane!” Leila spits. “When did you get in?”

“Just a second ago,” I tell her, still trying to pull the stupid fucking phone from my pocket. “I’m just going to take this outside,” I tell them both, finally, and walk back out the door, closing it behind me.

Once outside, I finally get the phone wrested from my pocket and look at the number.

It’s Wrigley.

This should be interesting.

“Yeah?”

“Dane,” she says, “I need to fuck someone and it needs to be now. You’re not mad at—”

“I’m on my way,” I tell her.

I was off to such a fresh start.

Chapter Eleven

The Favor

Leila

“Mike,” I tell him, “we can’t do this. You’re my best friend in the world, and I don’t want things to get weird.”

“Who says they have to get weird?” he asks. “I’m not talking about changing anything about our relationship. I just want to know if I’m really that bad of a kisser.”

“It’s weird just talking about it,” I tell him. “I’m sure you’re a fine kisser. Can we leave it at that?”

“I guess,” he says and turns back toward the television.

I know what he’s asking, and I know he’s really not trying to pull one over on me, but still: Mike is way too good a friend to even take a false step down that road. If things went pear-shaped between us, I don’t know what I’d do.

For a very long time, Mike is all that I’ve had.

Then Dane came along, but I can’t even think about that right now.

He’s off somewhere with that skank with the ridiculous name.

That’s all right. He doesn’t owe me anything; we’re roommates. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

“You know I’d do it for you,” he says.

“That’s because you’re a freak, Mike,” I laugh and jab him with my elbow. “Just watch the movie and keep it in your pants, will you?”

“I never said I was going to take anything out of my pants, although I see where your mind is.”

He can be such a child sometimes.

“All right,” I tell him. “If I kiss you once and give you notes, will you drop it and never ask me to do anything like that again? I mean it. This is awkward enough as it is. We’re not going to start some weird sex clinic—”

“Easy there, girl,” he says, somehow thinking that talking to me like I’m a horse is going to help his cause. “I’m just talking about a kiss—one kiss. Give me some notes on how I can do better and we won’t even talk about it again.”

“No tongue,” I tell him.

“Oh bull,” he says. “How am I supposed to know if I’m doing it all right if you don’t let me slip you a little tongue?”

“Eww…” my body involuntarily shivers, and my eyes start to water like I’m stuck in a sewage pipe.

“Gee, thanks,” he says.

“You’re like my brother, Mike. This is too weird. No kiss, the whole thing’s off.”

“Aw, come on,” he whines.

He’s not only whining, but he’s actually pouting: the bottom lip is out and everything. It might be cute if it weren’t so stupid.

“No!” I tell him.

“But mom,” he whines again.

“Yeah, like that makes it better.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening up and speaking normally again. “How about one kiss, thirty seconds—”

“Thirty seconds? Are you insane?”

“What the hell am I going to learn from a peck?”

“I don’t see why it’s such a big deal anyway,” I tell him. “So you’re a bad kisser. It’s not the end of the world.”

“How do you know I’m a bad kisser?” he asks.

“Because of the way you’re acting,” I tell him. “No self-respecting anything would put on such a bitch fest.”

“I’m not bitching,” he says. “I’m just tired of kissing my date good night and getting that look that just says, ‘that’s it? Seriously, I sat through dinner for that?’ It’s humiliating, Leila. Just one kiss, thirty seconds or less and a little bit of tongue—before you throw something, I don’t mean puppy tongue or rim tongue—”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Whatever. I’m talking just a normal amount of tongue as if we were out on a date and I’m trying to convince you with my mouth that your every problem can be solved by my penis. Is that so much to ask?”

“Yes!” I squeal, half in laughter, half in horror. “You’re making this so much worse than I thought it was going to be. I am not kissing you. Next time you walk a date to the door, just put out your hand and give a good, solid handshake. I’ll tell you what: I’ll help you practice that. Everyone needs to know how to give a good handshake.”

“Leila…”

“Seriously, it’s not just good for dates, but it’s good for business.”

I hold out my hand and, when he doesn’t grab it, I place his hand into mine and give it one good shake.

“See?” I ask. “Good pressure, only one up and down motion and release. That’s a good handshake.”

“I shake hands with the best of them,” he says. “I think we both know that.”

“Watch the movie.”

“Leila!”

“Watch the movie!”

He crosses his arms and starts grumbling.

He’s actually sitting there grumbling.

“If I kiss you on your terms, will you shut up and drop the whole thing from here until the end of time?” I ask.

“Yes!”

I sigh and fold my arms.

“Does that mean you’re going to do it?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Can you keep your mouth shut before and after?”

“Of course,” he says. “This is great, Leila, you’re such a—”