Page 12 of Win You Over

Holden

“ B ro, haven’t seen you in a while. Catch up soon, okay?

I gotta fly.” My housemate, Rory, claps me on the shoulder as he barges out the front door, right as I’m walking in from a night shift at the grocery store where I pack shelves and take inventory.

It’s Saturday, so Theo is at work, and I plan to catch a few hours of sleep before the fight tonight, once I’ve had something to eat.

Opening up my designated cupboard, I frown at the contents. Half a box of salted crackers, a shitload of ramen packets and peanut butter. Taking the crackers out, I place them on the counter and open the fridge where my eyes scan my shelf before coming to land on a box I know I didn’t place there.

Leftovers from the cafe. Enjoy. T

My heart warms with affection for my best friend, who’s made it his job to take care of me.

Opening the box, my mouth waters at the slice of cheese and bacon quiche inside.

Not even bothering to warm it, I tuck my box of crackers under my arm, and with a glass of water and my takeaway box in hand, I make my way down the corridor.

In my room, I take my phone out of my pocket, throw it on the bed and then sit down and tuck into my food. The quiche is soft and cheesy and utterly delicious. My stomach grumbles with gratitude as I inhale it in four bites. I could kiss Theo for this.

Next to me, my phone lights up. It’s another text from Remington. I ignore it, like I have all the others that he's sent today, choosing instead to eat a few crackers, taking my time. Then, dusting the crumbs from my top, I stand and stretch.

Giving my underarms a cursory sniff, I decide to shower before climbing into bed.

Gathering up my toiletries and towel, I hurry down the hallway and into the small bathroom, and make quick work of cleaning myself, keeping my gaze off my body as usual.

By the time I’m back in the room, my eyes are heavy and sleep is calling me.

A small, old radio sits on my bedside table, next to a photo of my mum and my twin sisters and a framed, tattered copy of a poem I wrote for Mum when I was sixteen.

Turning the radio on, I pick up my phone, then pull back the duvet and climb into bed, looking around the space that Theo and I call home.

It’s small, but comfortable and, most importantly, it’s ours.

There’s a poster we bought at a tribute concert last year hanging above our desk, two pot plants on our windowsill in pots we made at a pottery class Theo dragged me to, and an old record player on the floor in the corner of the room.

I found it in a thrift store a few months ago, a bit beat up and not working, but I have plans to repair it.

Theo has offered to help. Not that either of us know how, but there’s a video for everything online these days.

Unlocking up my phone, I bury myself deeper into my blanket. The sheets smell like the softener Theo picked – floral and fresh – my pillow, though thin, is comfortable and as I sink into the mattress and pull the blanket higher, I release a deep, contented breath.

On the screen, I see I have one message from my mum reminding me to send birthday wishes to my stepdad tomorrow.

I count seven messages from Remington. The first is asking if I’m coming over this afternoon to work on our assignment.

The second and third, variations of the same question.

I don’t reply because I honestly don’t know if I’m going to go.

Not only am I annoyed at his over inflated ego and buckets of self-assured smugness – one day I will knock him off his high horse – his persistence at building some form of relationship between us is chipping away at my resolve, just like the fucker hoped.

And God, that display I walked in on? That hasn’t stopped replaying in my mind, completely unbidden.

Remington’s head thrown back in ecstasy, his chest flushed with streaks of pearly cum settling on his defined abs as he says my name.

….. At the time I had no idea how to feel.

Embarrassed perhaps, for walking in on him and not being able to look away.

Now I circle from confused, to aroused, to adamant the arousal means nothing, and then back to confused.

I’ve seen Theo naked. Granted, he wasn’t hard or touching his cock but still, his naked body did nothing for me.

To add to my growing confusion about the guy, the other reason I’m putting off going back to his place is because I don’t hate being in his company.

I don’t hate sitting close to him, or the way his house always smells like warmth and comfort and home-cooked meals or the way I feel at ease in his presence.

I don’t dislike how he jabbers on about his car or his Agatha Christie collection or the way he never pushes me to answer him.

Truth is, I don’t dislike the person Remington is when it’s just the two of us.

It all makes me want to reinforce the walls I keep up with solid steel.

Remington and I cannot be friends, not really.

We’re too different. Our lives are polar opposites.

He’s popular, wealthy and fearless. I’m a struggling loner who fears that Remington’s persistence at driving this friendship thing forward could be a trap.

I fell for it once before, and I won’t do it again.

So for today at least, I’m going to keep my distance.

Maybe finish what needs to be done on our project alone, and email him a copy.

There’s barely anything left to do, anyway.

Ignoring his messages about working together, I read the next, which is him asking me if I want to hang out, followed by a photo of his pool table.

It’s the last few that have me biting my lip to hold back a smile.

Cat memes. In response to my silence, he’s sent me cat memes. All black cats. All grumpy looking and with one final message:

Remington : Even angry cats need a pet once in a while.

I have no fucking clue what he means and my fingers fly over my phone’s keyboard before I have a chance to talk myself out of it.

Me : That makes no sense.

The message shows as delivered almost instantly. Remington’s reply comes through seconds later.

Remington: Maybe not, but it got you to reply so my plan worked! I’m a genius, but you already knew that, didn’t you, leeutjie ?

Little lion. That’s what the internet tells me that word means. The idea of Remington Langford giving me a nickname does something to my stomach akin to butterflies flapping in the wind. It’s strange and unnerving and does nothing to help keep those walls up.

Remington: See you this afternoon? I have a beer with your name on it. It’s artisanal.

Me: No.

Remington: Whisky? Vodka? Nice glass of ice water?

Me: No. I’m not coming to drink with you in your man cave.

Remington: The den is most certainly not a man cave. Just ask my mom. It’s far classier. You would know if you took me up on my many invitations.

Me: Go away. I need to sleep.

Remington: Why are you sleeping in the middle of the day?

Remington: Wait, are you a vampire?

I roll my eyes and ignore the ache in my cheeks from smiling through our entire exchange. I’m meant to hate this guy, but fuck, this version of Remington Langford is…..nice. Way too fucking nice.

Me: Not a vampire. I work night shifts a few days a week.

Remington : Pity. I was hoping you’d bite me and we could live for eternity. How cool would that be?

Me: Goodbye, Remington.

Remington: See you at 5.

It’s not a question and I don’t reply, but my resolve has slipped and Remington Langford has won, yet again.

I lock my phone and chuck it on the floor, then pull my blanket higher and close my eyes, letting my body and mind relax into the nothingness of sleep.

Remington opens the door to me shortly after five.

“Hi,” he greets me, his voice a whisper. His usual warm smile has been replaced by a sheepish biting of his bottom lip. He turns his head to look over his shoulder before taking my arm and dragging me towards the bottom of the stairs.

“Rem? Who was at the door?” His mother’s voice carries from the other room, followed by the sound of her feet on the tiled floor. Remington groans, running a hand over his face.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath before he adds, “play along, please?” His eyes plead with me, but for what, I have no idea.

“Holden, how nice to see you again, sweetie.” Charlene greets me while wrapping her arm around Remington’s waist. “Are you staying for dinner? You must! Remington’s never had a boyfriend over for dinner before.”

Boyfriend?

“Jesus Christ, Mom!” Remington yelps, his cheeks blooming a shade of red I’ve never seen on him before.

“What?” Charlene asks, looking between the two of us.

“We have plans tonight, so no dinner, okay?” He shakes his mom off before she can say anything else, grabs my hand and pulls me up the stairs.

In the privacy of his room, I discard my bag on his desk and pull out a block of pink notebook paper.

Why does your mom think I’m your boyfriend? I scribble on the pad and hold it up for Remington to read.

His cheeks are still fiery red and he’s chewed his bottom lip to a shade that matches.

“Because I told her you are. I…um…I told my whole family we’re dating.”

Excuse me? I wouldn’t even call us friends! Why would he say otherwise?

With the way my eyebrows reach my hairline, I don’t even need to write WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK for him to know what’s on my mind.

“In my defence,” he starts, flopping down on his unmade bed, one hand grasping the sheets while he runs the other through his hair. “They cornered me and I panicked.”

I’m shaking my head as I write out another note. My hair keeps falling into my eyes, so I pause, take the hairband off my arm and tie the front ends back into a half-up, half-down knot before finishing my note.

I don’t even like you. And I’m not gay.

“Ha! Jokes. Everyone likes me. And you not being gay doesn’t matter because you’re not actually my boyfriend.

” Remington opens both his hands wide, placing them on top of his knees.

“All I need you to do is come to Italy with me, pretend to be my boyfriend for two weeks and then when we get back, we’ll tell everyone we decided to be friends. Simple.”

Pulling out the chair I usually sit on, I perch on the edge of it and scribble out a note. A longer one this time.

I’m not doing any of that. We’re not friends, or boyfriends, or anything beyond study partners. I’m not flying across the world with you to spend two weeks lying to your family. I’m not doing anything with you once this project is done.

Remington growls in annoyance, and I get this strange yet enjoyable sense of satisfaction at saying no to him. He throws me a look – lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, teeth grinding – and I wonder for a second if he’s about to throw a tantrum.

He stands, pacing around his bed and then back towards the desk, where he leans against the edge of it, muscular arms folded over his broad chest.

“What if we make a bet?”

I pick up my pen, but before I get any words on the paper, he lays his hand over the pad.

“Hear me out. Tonight, if I win, you come with me to Italy, pretend to be my boyfriend and be my date for my sister's wedding. And if you win, I’ll give you all the winnings I made from fights this year.”

He lifts his hand and nods towards the notepad. “What do you say?”

My hand gripping the pen stills, the tip a fraction above the pink paper. I’ve never beaten him, so there is a chance I will lose tonight again. A big chance. But , the money I could win if I can get one up on him would change my fucking life.

I war over my decision. If I lose, I’d be resigning myself to my fate of spending two weeks away from home, in a foreign country, with a guy I’m trying really hard to dislike. I would need to take time off work, and would be leaving Theo behind when we always spend our summers together.

It’s a nerve-wracking thought, but it’s not like I haven’t done things that make me anxious before.

I’ve moved countries, started new schools, moved away to university.

If I lose, I’ll deal with it like I always do because when I do a quick sum in my head, my heart beating wildly at the thought of walking away with that much money, I know the choice I have to make.

And when I win, fuck, we won’t have to eat ramen for a year!

“You in?” he asks, holding out his hand for me to shake. His cheeks have returned to their natural colour, and he’s wearing a smug grin. I’d hazard a guess that in his mind, he’s already won.

I take his hand in mine, not missing how soft and warm and kind of nice it feels, especially when he tightens his grip. As we shake on the bet, I’m secretly hoping I’ll be wiping that look off his face with a wad of cash by the end of the night.