“So, Em. What’s the verdict?” Nolan asks, setting me up with my catchphrase. “Would you do it again?”
His question pounds through my head. Would I do it again?
Kiss him again in Vegas? Sleep with him that night? Do it again in New York, then wander through the city with him, sharing my hopes and dreams?
Earlier memories fight their way to the front of my mind too. The night in college when we rearranged our friends’ dorm. The day he agreed to be my new banana. The night at Jason’s place before we left San Francisco.
Would I do it again?
Take the parrot flight? Race around Vegas grabbing grub to bring to the gingham-clad friends who embraced us with open arms? Slug him when he dodged the Just Juice and the turmeric? Protect him when Evelyn asked him about Inés Delacroix? Let him see my sloppy, naked, anxious heart?
Maybe I would. Because every time my anxiety about the show spun higher, Nolan settled me.
I don’t know.
But at least I could fake certainty for the cameras. “Yes, I totally would,” I answer, in a smoky tone.
I fake it for the crowd too, as we stay after the recording, pose for pictures, and act like everything is what it’s always been. But it’s not.
We feel irretrievably broken, and I hate that.
When the last woman in a line of fans glances from Nolan to me and back, then starts to speak, asking, “Are you guys—”
I cut her off at the knees. “Nope. We’re not.”
“Cool,” she says, then wheels around and leaves.
She doesn’t even ask him out. I turn to him, shrug. “Sorry. I thought she was going to ask you on a date. You probably wanted her to.”
Nolan stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “No, I didn’t.”
He leaves the joint first, waiting for me on the street as I zip up my backpack. Maybe he needs space from me. When I reach the sidewalk, he gestures to it but says nothing as we walk to the hotel together.
We rarely walk in silence. But tonight, neither of us seems to have a word to say. And I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
When we reach the hotel, we find Max lounging in the lobby, flipping through a dog-eared copy of Jonathan Franzen’s The Corrections. Because of course he reads Franzen. Rolling my eyes, I huff, ready to mutter to Nolan, Franzen. Fucking Franzen.
But I suck back the words. Can I still joke with him? Should I?
Nolan tips his head toward the sleek hotel bar where Marcos lifts a glass of red wine in an invitation. “I’m going to . . .”
“Go for it,” I say, then I give a big yawn, selling my tiredness.
Nolan heads to the lobby bar, fist-bumping Marcos, and I start toward the elevator banks.
I steal a final glance at Max as I go by and see him smirking above his book. I don’t know when or how he’ll use his ammo about us. I’m not sure it matters—he kind of already pulled the trigger since the damage has been done.
As I reach my room, an email from Hayes flashes on my phone. With dread coiling in my gut, I click it open.
Hey, hey! Ilene emailed to say we should expect a decision in two more days. Chin up!
Weariness cloaks me as I wash off my makeup and get in bed. I text Katie to say hello, and we chat for a bit, catching up on everything, including my heartbreak. I spill the details, then ask—
* * *
Emerson: What do I do now?
* * *
Katie: You keep going.
* * *
Emerson: Like you did when it happened to you.
* * *
Katie: Yep. I’ll always be here for you. I love you, friend. Know that.
* * *
Emerson: Love you too.
* * *
I run a finger over the screen. It’s not nothing, having friends like this.
Hell, it’s . . . everything.
Katie will still be around on the other side of two more days. So will Jo. So will my parents.
I hope Nolan will too.
The next morning, Nolan and I hit up a trendy vegan café for breakfast, then edit the hell out of the footage quickly for our YouTube channel.
I show him the final, and he says, “Looks good,” then checks the time on his phone. “I’m going to meet the guys to work out.”
“Cool. Hope you . . . lift lots of weights,” I say, slapping on a stupid grin.
He laughs for a fraction of a second, but he doesn’t get up, just drums his fingers on the table. “Have you thought about what you want to do when we’ve finished shooting?”
He says it so easily, like there’s nothing we’re waiting for—no verdict, no judgment.
I wish I had some of his calm. “Nope.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” he says. He stands to go but stops, curls a hand around my shoulder, then squeezes it hard.