The Cheat Sheet

Hannah turns to me after we make it to the bottom of the stairs. She opens her mouth, but no words come out. I do see tears clinging to her long lashes though. She slowly lets her breath out and then nods. “Thanks, Miss B. I’ll be here.”

And that’s all I want.

Well, that and more money to rain down like manna from heaven somehow. I’m not sure how I’ll make it work without Hannah’s tuition and an already tight budget, but I refuse to turn away a girl who needs help.

The memory of an Instagram post I saw earlier this week suddenly pops into my mind. It was from The Good Factory saying that one of their incredible spaces is going to become available next month, and they are currently taking applications. I’ve dreamed of securing a place in The Good Factory ever since I learned about it a few years ago. It’s a giant old renovated—you guessed it—factory that was endowed in some rich benefactor’s will with the specific purpose of offering free rental spaces for non-profit organizations. The only overhead costs organizations are required to cover are for any adjustments they need to make to the space (which for me would be adding mirrors and a ballet barre). There are only fifteen gigantic spaces available for use in the factory and they are ALWAYS occupied, because, duh, who wouldn’t want to be in there?

Each space is lined with gorgeous windows, hardwood floors, and expansive exposed brick walls. I bet there’s not a hint of a yeast scent anywhere in that building. I want to apply, because with the free rent, I would officially be able to convert my studio to a non-profit and lower tuition prices to nearly free. But even as I think of applying, I roll my eyes. There’s no way I’d get selected among the hundreds of other applicants. I’ve learned by now not to count too much on something in the future that’s completely out of my hands. Best to make do with the resources I have available to me now.

I watch Hannah walk to her car and wait until she’s safely inside to go to my own. I toss my bag on the opposite seat that’s already piled high with sweaters and water bottles then check my phone. I’m not surprised to see a new voicemail from Nathan because we have become very good at a voicemail-and-text friendship. We tend to call and leave meaningless voicemails for no reason. Like cell phone pen pals.

“Hey, is it true that some caterpillars are poisonous? Somehow one made its way into my truck and then disappeared when I looked away. Now I’m wondering if I should buy a new vehicle and just give him this one? What do you think?”

I immediately call him back and leave a message when he doesn’t answer. “I haven’t had time to Google it yet, but better safe than sorry. Can you get a flashy sports car this time? Also, I’m really craving a cherry slushie. Does that mean I have a vitamin deficiency? That’s all. K, bye.”

After I hang up, I peruse the internet, trying to find that photo the girls were staring at before class.

I hear a loud knock on my apartment door followed by Nathan’s voice. “Bree! You here?”

“Be out in a second!” I yell from my bathroom where I’ve just finished applying my face mask.

It’s only 5:30 PM. He’s a little early to pick me up for Jamal’s party, and I’m still in my strappy black leotard with my herringbone textured leggings overtop, but more importantly, bright green goo is currently hardening on my skin. I should probably worry about what Nathan will think of me in this thing, but honestly, he’s seen me in worse. And this is one of the perks of never anticipating a relationship with your best friend—you can look like dump and still hang out!

Welcome to the bright side, friends!

I leave the bathroom and head toward the kitchen where I see Nathan rummaging through my fridge. He’s bent over when I walk in, and my stomach does a flip at the sight.

“Apples are in the bottom drawer,” I say, forcing my gaze away from his derriere, because, umm hello, friends don’t ogle friends’ butts. Even when those butts look amazing in a pair of tight, grey chino pants.

“Ah—thank you.” He stands up and shuts the fridge with his spoils in hand. When he turns to face me, the apple is already between his teeth and he freezes mid-crispy-bite. His eyes widen and his smile grows on either side of the red forbidden fruit.

“What?” I ask, leaning back against the counter like everything is perfectly normal. “Do I have something on my face?”

He lets out a guttural laugh, and the sound is so him it stirs me in ways a woman with her face painted like a frog shouldn’t be feeling. In fact, I shouldn’t be thinking sexy thoughts toward Nathan ever, but it’s just…it’s DIFFICULT, okay? I’m a woman with very opinionated ovaries, and let me tell you, they’re real hussies. Currently, as Nathan rips the bite off that apple and tilts his head at me with a playful smile, they are down there waxing poetic about how his soft, white tee fits him so well it looks like a deity plucked him up by his feet and dipped him headfirst into a sensual cotton pond. In conclusion, I am deceased at the sight of him.

“Should I be worried about whatever is happening here?” He wiggles his big man fingers across the front of his face.

“Only because when I wash it off, I’ll be so devastatingly gorgeous you might die on the spot.”

It’s a joke, clearly a 100% facetious statement, but Nathan swallows his bite of apple, and then his eyes do a very odd thing: they tiptoe down my body.

It only happens that one time and his gaze doesn’t take the same path back up, but part of me wonders…no! No wondering! Shut up down there, you little instigators.

I register the wink of desire running through me and do the same thing I’ve always done over the last six years, what every good co-ed best friend dynamic has perfected. I dart around the kitchen like I have something very important to do, pretending like it never happened. At all costs, I NEVER acknowledge the feeling of desire.

I turn toward the counter at my back and find a cherry slushie in a Styrofoam cup. I gasp like it’s a goblet full of stolen jewels. “YOU BROUGHT ME A SLUSHIE!?” I have to say this in a way that projects my voice and conveys excitement without cracking the mask on my face. It’s an important skill to master in life.

I hear him chuckle and bite into the apple again. “You said you were craving one, right?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t mean for you to go get me one,” I say before putting the straw in my mouth and taking a long sip until my brain freezes deliciously.

Nathan is staring at me before looking grumpy and shooting his gaze down to his phone. “It’s really not a big deal.” He thumbs his screen then sets his phone down on the counter with a loud thud. “I’m so sick of this thing,” he says, dashing an anxious hand through his hair. “I feel like it goes off nonstop. I can never get a break.”

He leaves my little galley kitchen to move into the living room and plops down on my couch. I can’t help but chuckle at the sight of him, limbs completely sprawled out and hanging off every surface of my teeny-weeny furniture. He looks like he just climbed down the beanstalk and decided to nap on Baby Bear’s couch. His dark eyes close, and I sense how tired he is. Just looking at him and knowing the kind of schedule he has to keep makes me exhausted to my bones. I want to wrap him up in my bright yellow throw blanket, feed him soup, and make him watch cartoons all day.

“We could stay in and watch a movie, you know. I’m sure Jamal will understand if we miss his dinner.”

Nathan doesn’t open his eyes. “Nah, I want to go. It’s important to him that I be there.”