Why can’t Wes be more like Ella when it comes to life and dating and, well, sex? Ella’s ridiculously confident about that topic. She’s all, “No biggie. Sex is just sex. It’s not a defining moment in your life.”
It’s not that Wes is ashamed of his inexperience. He’s always had this idea in his head: Wes wants his first time to be with someone he can imagine being with for more than a month or a week or that moment. He wants his first to be someone he can share his comics with, someone who’s cool with his geekiness, someone who won’t pressure him because, honestly, Wes isn’t sure he’s ready for sex. But when he is, he wants that person to be cool if he’s nervous or if he can’t figure all of it out.
High school was this epic buildup to a deadline. By the time he turned eighteen, Wes was supposed to know what college he was going to, see what his future would look like, and no longer be a virgin. And here he is, unable to figure out any of those things or even what to do on a Sunday night in the heart of summer, which, of course, is why someone knocks at the door.
Wes groans, rolling off his bed. Ella’s undoubtedly forgot her keys or wallet or phone charger.
The knocking grows louder.
“Seriously, I’m not in the mood if you’re about to tell me this Long Beach dude is bringing friends and you need a wingman,” he shouts as he pads over the hardwood floor toward the door. “Ella, I’m not that guy. I have zero game.”
When he pulls open the door, it’s not Ella awaiting him.
It’s Nico.
Chapter Three
“Did you say you have zero game?”
Nico leans in the loft’s doorway. His dark hair is a swoopy, tall mess. It always draws attention from the way his ears stick out. His crooked smile is magnified by the laugh lines around his mouth. It’s impossible for Wes to look anywhere else.
“You’re wearing your glasses.”
Okay, Wes is aware his comeback is weak, but it’s just that…
Thirty days and an entire Atlantic Ocean separating them has made Wes’s cottonmouth, racing-heart issues more pronounced. All the Instagram posts with the worst filters, and TikTok videos of Nico doing the most random things because he’s that person, and poorly coordinated FaceTime calls can’t compare to seeing him in person, in his doorway, standing two feet from Wes and wearing black-rimmed glasses.
Wes wishes he could come up with a better way than dark brown to describe Nico’s eyes. His mom’s a bestselling author, for fuck’s sake. His grasp on adjectives shouldn’t be this tragically limited.
“Yeah,” Nico says, adjusting his glasses. A faint red hue blossoms on his cheeks. “Didn’t feel like being bothered with my contacts.”
Nico’s passionately against wearing his contacts if he doesn’t have to. “You shouldn’t just go poking your eyes for the hell of it,” he grumbled the day before their freshman year of high school started.
“Plus, I needed them to read the takeout menu.” Nico holds up a big brown paper bag that Wes hadn’t noticed before. A quick inhale coaxes a lazy smile across Wes’s lips.
Chef Zhang’s Kitchen, Wes’s favorite Chinese cuisine restaurant on Wilshire.
“Unless,” says Nico teasingly, shaking the bag in front of his face, “you’re not hungry, Wesley.”
Wes’s stomach grouses like a cranky bear. Nico knows Wes loves that place, the asshole. As if he’d ever turn down beef and broccoli and quality time with his best friend. Wes wonders how anyone in this galaxy could survive without Chinese takeout and Nico Alvarez.
“Get in here,” he finally says, almost reaching for Nico’s shirt to drag him inside.
Nico strides in, automatically stepping out of his Adidas. He walks to the sofa as if he owns the place. He spent most of middle and high school occupying the same corner of the sofa or Wes’s bed. They fought alien invasions on Wes’s game system and did homework while sharing chicken tacos. They were two inseparable friends arguing over what movie to watch on Friday nights, which makes the fact that Wes is currently admiring Nico’s ass as he unpacks the food inescapably awkward.
The first time Wes noticed Nico in a non-platonic way was a complete accident. Algebra worksheets were destroying Wes’s life, the PSATs were looming, and his parents were hovering a lot, providing him with inadequate “private hand therapy” time. And there Nico was, in mid-November, playing a pickup game of beach volleyball with some rando teens they’d met an hour before on the pier. Nico, fresh out of the awkwardness of puberty and shirtless, was like zero hour of the apocalypse for Wes. His mind kept saying, He’s not hot, he’s not hot, but the rest of his body didn’t comprehend.
It was a day of epiphanies—Wes was really into guys—and utter catastrophe—Wes was really into his best friend.
Nico props his feet on the coffee table, right next to Savannah’s stack of research books on cryptids and mythological creatures. “Drinks?”
Wes chokes out, “Sure.”
But he lingers. His eyes scan Nico: He’s wearing a worn-soft, faded, reddish-maroon T-shirt and skinny jeans frayed at the knees. Nothing special. Nico’s nothing special, Wes tells himself. Just a friend. What’s there to crush on?
“Wesley?”
“Drinks!” Wes shouts, startling himself. Nico raises an eyebrow and, yep, that’s Wes’s cue to exit.
In the kitchen, Wes pulls out his phone. He considers texting Ella. Maybe she’d have some sage advice on how to reclaim his chill. Or she’d scream at him in all caps to GET IT TOGETHER WES, IT’S JUST NICO. Instead, he clicks on his notes app. He reviews his list. Most of the Top Five are interchangeable, depending on his mood—sorry, Ella—but one spot will never shift.
Number One—Nico
Nicolás Andrés Sebastián Alvarez. As in NASA. As in, Nico’s out of this world.
The problem with Best Friend Crushes—besides the fact that one shouldn’t pine after friends, period—is that I’m too chickenshit to even mention the topic of dating with Nico. Us dating, to be clear. My biggest fear is it might jeopardize the gold-standard friendship we established way back in our juice-box-drinking days. Hell no. I can’t ruin that.
I don’t even know what it is about Nico. I mean, I do. It’s the way he’s geeky but in that too-cool-to-be-a-nerd way. It’s the glasses. The laugh. The ass. Did I just type that? But he’s also a genuine friend. He looks out for me. He doesn’t care if I’m extremely into comics or get super nauseated at the scent of seafood. That I’m gay. We haven’t had The Talk about Nico’s own sexuality, but I’m fifty-fifty he’s this wicked-adorkable bi legend.