We're meandering our way through the racks of clothes, trying to find the perfect shirt for his upcoming date. He's had this girl on his radar for some time; thank god she finally agreed to go out with him. Maybe he'll stop talking about her 24/7. He has a bit of an obsessive personality.
"C'mon, Chris, just pick something already," I groan; I've been following him around for twenty minutes and I'm bored, hungry, and my feet are starting to hurt.
"You're supposed to be helping me," he snaps back.
"Alright, it's a first date so I wouldn't go with anything too crazy. Maybe black. That's always a classic and goes great with jeans."
"She's really into fashion," he says taking a paisley-print button-down off the rack.
"No," I immediately say. "Too busy. And you need something a little more form fitting. What's the point of all those hours at the gym if you don't show off at least a little of your bod."
"Fine," he sighs, "You pick something then."
I scan the men's department and spot the Armani display. "C'mon," I say grabbing his arm. He obediently follows like a dog on a leash.
I know he trusts me. We've been best friends for over ten years, ever since I met him in study hall freshman year. I know it's my mom's dream that someday we end up together, but neither one of us has ever brought up the possibility of taking our relationship to another level. What we have is comfortable. We confide in each other about everything. Maybe him a little more. I know all about his sexcapades; he's a bit of a player. I call him a man whore and he doesn't mind. If the shoe fits, I guess. There must be something really special about this new girl if he's going to all this trouble just to bang her.
"Here," I say, shoving an armful of shirts at him. "Go try these on."
"Well, come with me so you can tell me how they look."
I follow him to the dressing room and stop at the entrance. "What are you doing?" he asks. "Come in with me so I don't have to keep walking back out here."
I roll my eyes and follow him into the wheelchair accessible stall. There's a bench along the wall to the left, opposite the full length mirror, so I sit while he hangs the bundle of shirts on a hook.
He peels his t-shirt off and as he does I study his body. It's nothing I haven't seen before. We're on a beach volleyball team together. I've never been sexually attracted to him, but damn is his body fine. From his broad, muscular shoulders to his round biceps and rock hard pecs all the way down his chiseled abs to the v that leads down to his nether region. Yes, he's a grade A piece of meat.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing," I say as my eyes dart to his face; I can feel my cheeks flush.
His brow furrows, "Whatever," he says as he takes a shirt off a hanger.
He slides his arms into the sleeves. "Feels a little tight around my shoulders," he says. I stand and walk toward him to get a better look. I tug on the fabric and it is in fact a little tight. "Here, button up," I say, and without even thinking about it my hands take control, starting with the second button from the top and then slowly working their way down till I reach the last button, which is barely higher than his crotch. What the fuck, Jenna?! My head screams. He's a grown man; he can button his own shirt.
"Sorry," I say, my voice cracking. "I don't know why I did that." I'm three inches from him and staring at his chest, unable to look him in the eye. Something about this moment feels too intimate. Like nothing we've ever experienced together. I can feel the heat radiating from his body and my sweat glands open up. Suddenly the air in this dressing room is stifling. He presses his thumb to my chin and pushes my head back so that I have no choice but to look at him.
"What do you want, Jenna?" he whispers.
"Wh-what do you mean?" I mumble softly.
"Do you have feelings for me?" he asks.
