It’s kind of last-minute, but hey, sometimes the best things in life are spontaneous. Like my grilled zucchini nachos! I’ll be serving them tomorrow night!
All my best,
Dot, Bette’s best friend
Emerson thrusts the phone back at me, and I drop it into my pocket, rocking on my toes and asking, “So, what do you think?”
“What do I think?” She’d be rubbish at poker; she can’t bluff for beans.
“Yes, what did you think?” I repeat. She looks as if she’s about to take off for Jupiter, but I want to hear it from the woman herself. This chance means as much to her as it does to me. And if I can make success happen for both of us, well, that would go a long way toward making up for dumb decisions in my past.
Her brown hair blows in the breeze, and she flicks it back and advances slowly toward me, a sly grin playing on her lips. Her eyes are sparklers, twin fireworks on the Fourth of July. My best friend looks happier than she did when I made her that sandwich, so it might be time for me to revise my list of Top Excited Emerson Face Moments.
“I think . . . Vegas, baby, Vegas. I think . . . let’s make a deal with these two ladies. They’re huge, and their show is all that. I think this is one of the best things ever and you”—she pokes my chest—“are officially amazing.”
I feel fucking amazing too, like we’re closing in on our dreams coming true.
She lifts her hands for a double high-five. We smack palms, and . . . wait.
I didn’t expect her to do that.
She’s not letting go. My gaze sails down to our joined hands, her fingers curled through mine, clasping tight to me outside the TV studio building. “Holy shit, Nolan,” she whispers, as if to voice it at full volume would be too risky. As if we need to guard our hopes in secret a little longer or life might vanquish them again.
“Holy shit, indeed,” I whisper back, excitement thrumming through me.
If we pull this off. If it lands us on the home page.
If, if, if.
This could be our next step. The thing that gets us out of debt. The thing that makes this a full-time gig for us.
I squeeze her fingers too, and like this, with our faces inches apart, I’m thinking we’re going to kiss again.
My pulse surges, and for a couple of dangerous seconds, I imagine us kissing again here on a street corner in the city, on a chilly morning, in this bubble of possibility.
A we-might-just-pull-this-off kiss.
But a few seconds after that risqué thought stirs things up south of the border, she lets go. “I need to make a to-do list.”
Saved by her idiosyncrasies. “Yes, yes you do,” I say.
My voice is a little rough from that momentary meander. I shake it off and adjust my glasses, even though they don’t need adjusting.
Emerson, though, is all business. Guess I’m the only one who tripped back in time to that past kiss.
“We need to be in Vegas tomorrow night.” She points to the street, shorthand for “time to walk and talk.” We get moving as she lays out our plan of attack. “Here’s what we need to do. Book our travel, pack an overnight bag, get a hotel.”
“A cheap one,” I add.
“Obviously.”
“We’ll grab our gear and plan a fantastic concept for a quickie episode to run on our channels. Wait, wait! I already have one.” She spins to walk backward, that gigantic makeup bag swinging like a blunt weapon by her side. “We need something super Vegas-y. Ooh, how about we swing by Tacos El Gordo? The double corn tortillas there are supposed to be a religious experience.”
“I do believe,” I say like I’ve gone Pentecostal.
A victorious yes comes from her lips as she wheels around again. “Heavenly tacos will pave the way to their hearts.”
This episode idea is good, but it can be better. After all, can man and woman live on tacos alone? “Better yet. How about we bring Dot and Bette a sampler of our Vegas faves? To taste test on camera with them if they’re game. We can get Brussels sprouts from Momofuku, tacos from Tacos El Gordo, and egg sandwiches from—”
We shout in unison, “The Egg Slut.”
Emerson stops at the curb. “Shut up, just shut up,” she says, practically vibrating with excitement.
I arch a brow. “You really want me to shut up?”
“Shut up and let me praise you, Mister Hustle. That’s what I’m going to call you. And you pulled this off while I was sleeping.”
With a cocky grin, I rub my fingernails against my shirt. “Brains and beauty, baby. This guy has it all.”
With a bump of her shoulder to mine, she says, “I know, trust me. I know you’ve got it all.”