I march out to meet Nolan by the Wizard of Oz slot machine and issue my declaration: “It’s official. I will sleep in the ladies’ room here if I have to.”
“Cool. The men’s room is pretty sweet too. We can be Cosmopolitan stowaways.”
Next up, we climb back into the little red rented Hyundai and head to the nearest 7-Eleven for a review of gourmet pretzels and Slurpees. When we’re done, Nolan drives to the other food spots to grab the dishes for our trio of samplers.
Meanwhile, I edit on the go then hit post on our quickie episode. Next, I tackle a hotel search, but I have no luck finding an available room that won’t require a new bank loan. “We might be better off just driving back to San Francisco tonight,” I suggest after coming up empty.
“Brains and beauty. Let’s do a midnight road trip.”
“We’ll take all the photos.”
“For your road trip collection,” he says.
In vivid flashes I imagine snapping shots of this trip with Nolan—goofy smiles, cheeky looks, silly poses. I’d put them on the mantel, let him share space with my other collection.
“You know it. And we can review all the convenience stores on the way home,” I add.
“You are hardcore, Emerson.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I mean that in all the good ways.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I’m not sure hardcore is the compliment you think it is.”
As we slow at a light, he shrugs. “Maybe it is.”
And maybe it could be.
Like in another world where we weren’t besties, where we weren’t business partners hanging on by a thread. Maybe then, he’d say we could be together in some way.
Like in the bedroom for one night.
Maybe he’d say he’d help me let loose all my deep, dark fantasies. That he knows them already.
And perhaps I wouldn’t mind sharing them with him.
But those what-ifs aren’t my reality, so I’m left with this—he’s possibly the world’s biggest flirt.
Yeah, that’s the guy I know so well.
The flirt monster.
A little later, the back seat is brimming with our offerings. We putter through a cute neighborhood a couple miles away from the hubbub of the Strip, following the robotic GPS voice until we’re pulling into the driveway of a stucco house graced by oversized cowboy boot statues on the lawn.
Texas meets Vegas.
Dot and Bette wait for us on the front porch, lounging in rocking chairs, glasses of lemonade in their hands, smiles on their warm faces. Dot wears a red gingham dress. Bette has donned teal gingham.
It is love at first sight.
They are the antidote to Super Saver Squish Me to Pieces Airline. The opposite of The Teddy Bear Smell Chamber of Horror.
My soul feels calm.
It could also be that I’ve had a long, stressful day. Being back in this city kicks up memories.
Still, as I step out of the car and shut the door, my heart skitters with a crazy sense of hope. A hope I haven’t felt this strongly since Nolan said yes to the show more than a year ago.
Maybe I can finally turn this into a bona fide online hit. That’s what Callie wanted for us back when she asked me to launch How to Eat a Banana with her a few years ago. We created the show together for fun, as a little side thing. Slowly, we found an audience. Then, she died, and the show went on hiatus as I went to pieces.
But, thanks to friends and family, I pulled myself together and devised a new plan.
Nolan was back in the States and looking for a gig.
Maybe I could convince him to be my new partner. To start it over.
One chilly fall afternoon, I took him to his favorite mac-and-cheese shop—since the guy just loves that dish—plied him with the Gouda specialty and asked him if he wanted to be my new co-host.
“Want to get the band back together? Only the band would now be you and me?” I asked.
Fork midair, he paused. “You want me to be your second banana?”
I laughed. “No, we’ll both be first bananas. Like Callie and I were. Or not. I mean, we didn’t even call ourselves bananas. It was just a funny name because there’s no way to eat a banana innocently.”
He nodded a few times as if deeply considering the offer. “Bananas are ripe for innuendo.” Another pause, then he sighed contently. “All right. I’m in. When do we start?”
I squealed. “Are you sure? It’s that simple?”
“It’s that simple.”
The next week, we relaunched the show, finding our own sexy shtick, amping up the flirt and the banter since, well, we could.
The show evolved, reflecting our tastes and style. Still, the Web series keeps me close to Callie. Makes her feel alive in a way, since it was her idea in the first place.
I loved working on it with her, and I want her to know I’m taking care of her baby. Even though I’ve made it my own. I cast my gaze to the blue sky, sending her a wish. I’m doing this, like you said I would.