Bananapants: A Bonkers Romantic Comedy
Bananapants: Chapter 6

“Why are you crying? Why do you always cry when you see me?”

— Lovely Runner (2024 K-drama)

Once Grace left, I sat up, muted the TV, and squinted at Des. “What’d she say to you?” I sounded suspicious because I felt suspicion. I’d been pretending to watch the show. In actuality, I’d been gathering the courage necessary to look at him and ignoring the disconcerting nervous fluttering in my heart.

I loved my sister, a lot, but I couldn’t have her saying anything to Des about my extremely embarrassing statements on the phone with her Thursday night. Also, she and my dad had been acting weird since I told them he’d be coming to the barbecue. They’d been giving each other lewks.

Des’s eyes cut to mine and he stared, no expression on his handsome face. And make no mistake, Desmond Sullivan was now off-the-charts, woo-woo handsome. Offensively handsome. It wouldn’t be a stretch to call him insanely hot or even irrationally attractive. When I’d first spotted him on Thursday, I’d wanted to pinch his cheeks so badly, a test to ensure his face was real and not a mask of the perfect man face.

“Why aren’t you responding?” Ignoring the napkin Grace had tossed to me earlier along with the peculiar awareness making my neck hot, I wiped my fingers on my T-shirt. It was already dirty, but the napkin was clean. One less dirty cloth napkin meant one less piece of laundry for my dad to do after the party. “What? You’re not going to talk?” I wished I didn’t feel so . . . so . . . so . . . weird and nervous and hot and sweaty under his irritatingly steady gaze. At the very least, I hoped I was doing a good job of hiding this odd riot of emotions. I didn’t understand myself. Who even was I right now? Get it together, Archer! He’s pretty. So what? He’s just Des. Just. Des.

His mouth hooked to the side, a wee little curve cracking his beautiful, impassive features. “The deal only included me showing up.”

Some of the tension in my muscles eased. I shook my head. At him. He must’ve forgotten who he was dealing with. Who had two thumbs and loved tricking him into talking? This girl.

Smirking, feeling steadier now that we were falling into old habits relating to his stoic disposition rather than any new habits relating to his discombobulating physical prettiness, I stood from the couch and stretched my arms over my head. “Okay, okay. Fine. Makes sense.”

Des, still staring at me with his freaky blue eyes, crossed his arms, saying nothing. So typical. His electric blue irises didn’t bother me. They were the same as always and felt a lot more familiar than the rest of him.

“You’re right. The deal was for you to show up, not for you to talk.” I nodded thoughtfully, like his perspective was entirely reasonable. “That’s fine with me, honestly. My therapist canceled our last appointment and I have a lot of work drama to unpack.”

One of his eyebrows lifted by a few scant millimeters and his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

Heh heh heh.

Similar to last Thursday, I fully committed to this role. If he wasn’t going to talk, I’d have to force him. “So, here’s what happened,” I started conversationally. “I’m on the committee that organizes the monthly birthday parties for the staff on my floor, right?” Busying myself, I picked up my trash and cleaned up my mess while I spoke. “So Randall—he’s one of the pool secretaries—insists that all the cards be handmade, and he makes them, so it’s usually fine. And this way, if someone is a Jehovah’s Witness, he can ensure they get a blank card with signatures wishing the person a happy day. Very tightly regulated. Personally, I don’t think we should give them a card, I don’t think they want a card, but I’ve been vetoed. What do I know?”

Folding the clean napkin, I glanced at Des. Eyes still on me, his lips were compressed, just a little. A stiff mouth like this meant he was trying not to smile. I recognized this expression even though the shape of his adult face was mesmerizing and distracting. Stop thinking about his face! My stomach gave a flutter. I rapidly killed some butterflies. You’re being weird.

Outwardly relaxed, I continued. “But this last month, Randall must’ve switched to a new brand of double-sided tape or glue dots. The bows got lost when Kenneth took the cards out of the envelopes because Randall forgot to write peoples’ names on the cards—he always forgets, no one was surprised. But! The meticulously painted, die-cut happy birthday kittens? They fell off the cardstock.” I let my hand smack my thigh, infusing my expression and tone with as much exasperation as possible. “Janice and Kenneth did their best fixing them, but they didn’t check the cards carefully and willy-nilly glued kittens and bows back in place. And what do you think happened? Timothy—lovely man, makes great banana bread, and happens to be a Jehovah’s Witness—ended up with a birthday kitten on his card. This incited panic. I mean, people were near hysterical, demanding to know who was responsible. ‘OH MY GOD, RANDALL! THE KITTEN! IT’S ON TIMOTHY’S CARD!’” I liked doing impressions, so I made my coworkers sound like the character Helen Lovejoy from The Simpsons when she says, “Won’t somebody please think of the children!”

Desmond, eyes now narrowed into severe slits, was losing his battle against his smile. His chin was now rigid.

This was too much fun. I hoped he laughed. Old Des’s laugh was incredibly contagious. Not because it sounded weird. It didn’t. It sounded wonderful and he simply had one of those laughs that pulled smiles out of people, me included. It was like he laughed with every cell in his body, you couldn’t help but feel infected by it.

Or at least that’s what his laugh used to be like. Perhaps this new Des’s laughs were different. Similarly, I found myself wondering if his big smiles would turn his adult features silly like his kid and teenage big smiles did. The smiles he’d flashed at the secret society marriage night on Thursday had seemed forced and foreign to me, and not at all like old Des’s bright, goofy ones.

Notwithstanding my anticipation of his laughter, I took advantage of his momentary struggle to maintain composure, using those seconds to remind myself that a pretty face didn’t mean a pretty soul. Usually, I had absolutely no problem separating a person from their exterior. But this adult version of Des confused me. His prettiness was messing with my head. I think it was understandable, part of me assumed my fifteen-year-old best friend forever and this gorgeous guy were the same person, but how could they be?

The truth was simple, I didn’t know any version of Des anymore. Maybe this good-looking guy standing in my basement was a depraved hag on the inside and bore no resemblance to my favorite person.

With this reminder, those butterflies went back in their cage passively and happily. His exterior attractiveness didn’t feel so much like an assault anymore. It felt more like an irrelevant fact, one that had no power to fluster me.

Redoubling my mission, I made my eyes really big and nodded exaggeratedly. “I know! Someone quoted the Constitution, right there, in the conference room. And Janice brought up Lovell v. City of Griffin, which wasn’t applicable to the situation. But what can you do? We’re all lawyers.” Carrying my empty cans of flavored sparkling water to the efficiency kitchen, I pressed the foot pedal on the plastic recycling container to lift the lid. “So, I mean, you can imagine what happened next. And I haven’t even mentioned that it was Blaire’s birthday. You don’t know Blaire, but she’s never liked the idea of handmade cards. She thinks they look cheap. She used this as her opportunity to call an emergency meeting of the birthday committee and forced a vote. And—well—let me tell you, Randall took the rest of the day off.”

Wiping my hands on my T-shirt again, I inspected the TV room. All the foodstuffs were taken care of, but I should probably fix the couch cushions, which I did as I went on. “The motion passed without him, and now we’re doing store-bought cards, and I thought the matter was settled. But then! Randall’s wife, who works in accounting—so not a lawyer and that was her mistake—came down to our floor the next day, and after a loud discussion in the break room with Kenneth, filed an HR complaint against Blaire. So then—and this is where things get really bad⁠—”

“You talk about this kind of stuff with your therapist?” Cutting me off, Des walked over to where I was fixing the cushions and began helping.

No butterflies at his nearness. Problem solved.

I glanced at him like he’d said something silly. “What? Oh. No. I wouldn’t waste her time with this kind of thing.”

My therapist and I usually met monthly and we discussed so many things. I loved her in a very appropriate therapist-patient kind of way. My mom, worried about my mental health because I couldn’t stop crying, had sent me to therapy at fifteen when Des left. I’d been going on and off ever since.

But these kinds of stories? The mind-numbing, mundane gossip of day-to-day human-manufactured dramas? I’d only ever wasted Des’s time with these. First of all, he didn’t know this, but they were mostly fictional. Secondly, when we were growing up, I’d tell him all about recess and the four-square skirmishes until he agreed to talk to me. He couldn’t stand petty dramas and politics. They must’ve offended his sensibilities on some level.

“But you’d waste my time,” he guessed correctly. Kneeing a loose seat cushion into place, Des reached for the back cushion to reposition it correctly.

Ensuring I wore an expression of pure innocence and keeping my voice modulated to entirely reasonable, I said, “Well, I would ask you what you want to talk about. But you’re not talking, so . . .”

I shrugged and gave him an aw-shucks look. He still stared at me, but he must’ve forgotten to hide his smile because he wore a little one without compressing his lips, grinding his teeth, or firming his chin.

Almost there. “As such, since I will be choosing all the topics for the next two hours, this is what we’ll be discussing the whole time, and in detail. I haven’t told anyone else these stories yet. I’ve been saving them up for the right occasion. You should feel honored. And wait until I tell you about the happy birthday banner debacle from last year. It is thrilling. Oh! And one time, the March birthdays were split on the flavor of the sheet cake and the baker accidentally made the top layer vanilla and the bottom layer chocolate instead of making the cake half chocolate and half vanilla. Kenneth isn’t allergic to chocolate, but he does have a minor intolerance. Janice was in charge of ordering the cake, so when he took a bite and realized, you better believe Janice⁠—”

“Please. For the love of God. Stop.” Des buried his face in the throw pillow he held and his words were muffled. His shoulders were shaking with laughter. Sadly, it was silent, and any goofy smile he might’ve worn was hidden.

But still, now I had to fight hard against my grin.

After a sleepless night on Thursday, I’d spent the last two days preparing for this afternoon, reminding myself to have no expectations. I’d already worked through my anger, guilt, and sadness relating to fifteen-year-old Des’s silence and seemingly easy abandonment of me and our friendship. I’d made as much peace as possible given his lack of a goodbye or an explanation. I honestly, honestly had.

However, despite me not knowing him anymore and having no expectations, and knowing there was no way to turn back time or pick things back up, this interaction between us was like old times. My heart twisted. I didn’t ignore it. Instead, I regarded it as a reminder to tread cautiously.

“What was that?” I stepped closer. “Did you say something?” I wouldn’t get carried away. I had no expectations, truly. But maybe today could be closure for me. Maybe we could say goodbye this time.

My therapist had hypothesized more than once that I’d both loved Des deeply as a friend and had been romantically in love with Des at fifteen without realizing it, which was why I’d experienced so much difficulty dating as an adult. I wasn’t convinced.

Regardless of her theory, closure now could only be a good thing. Then I’d stop reminiscing about our past and wishing for someone similar to my former best friend to appear in my life.

Des lifted his head from the pillow, his smile small again but his eyes still bright as they focused on mine. “Fine. I will talk. But you have to promise, no more birthday committee stories.”

I nodded once, making no attempt to hide the smugness of my grin, and plucked the throw pillow from his arms. “Deal.”

“I do have one question though.” His attention stayed on me as I picked up a fuzzy blanket and folded it.

“What’s that?” I placed the blanket, now a neat rectangle, on the back of the couch. The room was almost back to rights, but I’d probably have to vacuum.

“Was Timothy okay?”

His question made my gaze cut to his. “Timothy?”

“The guy who bakes good banana bread and is a Jehovah’s Witness.” Des’s forehead wrinkled with obvious concern for my fictional coworker’s feelings. “Was he okay?” Des dipped his chin, his eyes growing wide. “I mean, with all the attention and after receiving the wrong card. Did someone check on him?”

I stared at my old friend, unable to do much of anything else because those butterflies I’d successfully suppressed so easily by reminding myself that a pretty face doesn’t equal a pretty soul burst out of the cage. They flew around my stomach and chest, a frenzy caused by his sincerely and tenderly asked questions.

I—

I couldn’t⁠—

It’s just so Des.

DAMMIT! Ugh. Right in the feels.

The whole stupid narrative about birthday committee drama and he focuses on the only person who might’ve been a victim. He’d always been this way, concentrating on whose feelings might be hurt or neglected.

I felt the color drain from my face and a rush of tears sting behind my eyes. I thought I’d prepared for this, I thought my lack of expectations would keep me safe. I’d been so wrong.

Des’s wide, open gaze moved over my features. New concern—possibly for me, and maybe still for the fictional Timothy—made his voice drop low and soft. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Something was in my throat, cinching it. I couldn’t look away. In that moment, he looked exactly like old Des. My Des. And he sounded like him. And maybe he was still him. My heart twisted again, fiercer this time.

God, I missed him so much.

Frowning, he stepped closer and placed gentle fingers on my arm above my elbow. “Ava?”

The contact brought me back to my senses and I shook him off, having the presence of mind to turn away before I made an idiot of myself. I couldn’t deal with this. I couldn’t deal with old Des. All those memories and feelings I’d worked through years ago came rushing back and choked me. Like ten years ago, I couldn’t deal with him being out in the world and wanting nothing to do with me.

I forced a laugh and looked frantically for something to do, replaceing my sister’s abandoned tray on the floor. “Timothy is fine,” I said, using a big voice that sounded a little shrill. Maybe he won’t notice. Picking up the tray, I turned and walked around the ottoman, taking the long way so I wouldn’t have to venture close to him. “I should take this upstairs. It doesn’t belong here.”

“Anything I can bring up?” he asked my departing back.

“Nah. Come up whenever.” Not pausing, I took two steps at a time, grateful for my long legs.

Asking him to come today had been a mistake.

He’d left. He’d cut off all communication. He’d ignored all my attempts to make contact. He didn’t want me in his life and—really—I only had myself to blame.

But that was a decade ago. Obviously, Des didn’t long for me like I did—or rather, used to—for him. He didn’t miss me. If he had, he would’ve reached out. He would’ve explained. The simple truth was, he didn’t want to know me. Nothing had changed.

It was time to adult like an adult and get over it.