Then, she closes the laptop. “You know, you can see someone if you want,” she says tightly, like the words don’t quite fit on her tongue.

  I take off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Emerson. I’m not going to see anybody now. I haven’t seen anybody in a while. All I give a shit about is the show and getting rid of this stupid fucking awkwardness between us, okay?”

  Her lips are a ruler. “Me too.”

  I’ve said the wrong thing yet again. I think I know the right thing—it’s been working through my brain for a few minutes now—but I have to say it. Since Emerson does have a big mouth, and she used it to make a point—one I ignored.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t have said anything to that . . . guy.” I grumble the last word. “It wasn’t my place, and you’re right. You have a huge mouth, and you’re perfectly capable of turning a dickhead down.”

  Her expression softens, and her lips part. “Why do you assume he’s a dickhead?”

  “Because you have terrible taste in men,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  I want to tell her, You can’t be with another guy who doesn’t get you. Or respect you. Or treat you well. Instead, I say, “So, I’ll let you break their hearts next time.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  My gaze stays locked on hers. “Let’s just . . . get back to how we were, okay?”

  She gives a faint smile, maybe one of relief. “I’m sorry too. Sorry that things have been weird.” She swipes a hand across her cheek, then lets out a long breath. “It’s just . . . I don’t do casual sex, Nolan. I don’t know how to act afterward.”

  It’s a confession, and I’m damn grateful. Finally—fucking finally—we’re talking about the elephant in the room.

  “I get it,” I say softly, reaching for her hand, squeezing it. In a friendly way. “Let’s just be ourselves? We’ve done it for years. We can do it again.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry; this was stupid. I’m not interested in seeing anyone either.” Then she laughs. It’s a wonderful sound, a relieved sound, and her shoulders relax. “I think we needed to be really awkward and weird.”

  “Maybe we did,” I say with a smile.

  She grins too, her eyes lively. “I mean . . . the sex was great. But this friendship is better. Irreplaceable.” She gestures from her to me. “Just being able to talk to you freely. Right? I don’t want to lose it. That’s what matters.”

  I park my hands behind my head, lasering in on one thing. “So, you thought the sex was great?”

  She rolls her eyes and throws a napkin at me. “You’re such a guy.”

  “I am.”

  Just like that, all the awkwardness leaves the premises.

  Too bad I still want her. But you don’t always get what you want.

  That night, I grab a bus and head to the ballpark, clicking on my news app along the way to catch up on what I like to call Stories That Don’t Want to Make Me Stab My Eyes Out.

  I’ve carefully culled the articles served up to me to include developments in food science, the weirdest new eateries, uplifting animal stories, updates in green energy, and listicles I can’t resist, like Seven Breakfast Cereals You Have to Eat Before You Die and Twenty Best Autocorrects Ever.

  Hmm. Do I want to read about The Green Ant, a new pop-up restaurant in New York that serves organic insects, or an ode to why Cinnamon Toast Crunch is life-changing? As my thumb hovers over the BuzzFeed list, a text pops up from TJ.

  I pick door number three: a text from a friend.

  * * *

  TJ: True fact—you were wondering if Emerson was thinking of your dick on your show today when she said only certain kinds.

  * * *

  Nolan: True fact—you are a warlock.

  * * *

  TJ: Yes! My mind-reading superpower is top-notch.

  * * *

  Nolan: Is that really what you want for a superpower? Mind-reading? A mind is usually a filthy place.

  * * *

  TJ: I’m all for mining filth. Makes my job easier. Inspiration, baby! Also, it kills you that I can tell what’s going on in your pretty little head. So, the amusement factor works for me too.

  * * *

  Nolan: Awesome. I’m just a circus monkey to you.

  * * *

  TJ: Accurate. Also, I have this extra box of Count Chocula in my cupboard from the last time you were here. Want me to save it for you?

  * * *

  Nolan: Guess who can read minds now? That question means . . . wait for it . . . you miss me!

  * * *

  TJ: Not. At. All.

  * * *

  Nolan: Cool. I don’t miss any of you assholes in New York either.

  * * *

  That is a huge lie. I do miss my buds in New York, and I had a blast when I was there solo a few months ago.

  Wouldn’t mind being back there now.

  Sometimes New York feels like it’s mine, a place where I could do what the song says—make it there.

  Tonight, I just need to make it to the ballpark, so I shoot the breeze with TJ for a few more stops then bound off the bus when the stadium comes into view.

  My dad’s waiting outside the gates—he’s taking Jason and me to a Cougars baseball game tonight. He grabs beers for us, then guides us to the seats he snagged at the first-base line.

  Dad only sits in the best seats.

  Drinks the best beer.

  Has the best kids.

  Jason points to the field. “I’ll be with you guys in a minute. I need to say hi to Grant.”

  “Show-off,” I tease.

  My brother just shrugs and smiles as he makes his way to the edge of the stands to chat with the team’s starting catcher, one pro-baller to another.

  Once I sit, my dad parks a hand on my shoulder. “Shall I call you King of the Home Page, son?”

  It’s a compliment of sorts, but I don’t like talking work with him. “Sure, Dad. That won’t be weird at all,” I say drily.

  “You’re getting there. But you know my offer stands,” he says, lifting his beer and taking a long pull.

  This is why I don’t like talking work—because he’ll make me an offer once again.

  “I know, and I appreciate it. But hey, do you think the Cougars will extend their winning streak tonight?” I ask.

  I know what’s next. The fatherly pat. The serious look. The worry in his eyes. I try to avoid it, but I can’t.

  “I mean it, son. Do you need any help? I’ve got franchises opening in Palo Alto, Menlo Park, Pier 39, Sausalito . . . You can take your pick of Mister Cookies.”

  My father built a cookie business from scratch years ago. The shop franchises put my brother and me through college. It funded our lives. He’s the classic self-made man, doing it all, taking care of his kids.

  “No, I’m fine. Things are taking off,” I say, knocking back some more beer as I check out the animated race cars on the jumbotron. Jason is still chatting with the catcher.

  “That’s fantastic,” my dad says. “It’s amazing how quickly you guys have risen to the top.” Unspoken, but there, is the implication that we could fall just as quickly, and that when we do, he’ll be waiting.

  A weight sinks in my gut. Cookies are awesome, but I don’t want to run a cookie franchise. I don’t want shit handed to me.

  My brother didn’t have anything handed to him.

  My dad didn’t either.

  “Or you could just crash on Jason’s couch forever,” Dad says with a wink.

  I tense as my little brother bounds up the aisle, taking the steps in twos.

  “Did Jason say something to you? Like he doesn’t want me there?” I ask Dad quietly.

  But my brother has eagle eyes and ears. “Yeah, I said, ‘Please get rid of my personal chef. It’s so hard when he’s there.’” Jason drops in the seat next to me and gives me a noogie. “Dude, you are welcome, like, forever.”

  Ah, fuck. I love this guy so damn much. Emerson is right. Jason has never once given me a hard time about his paying for cooking school and then my not being a chef.

  And yet, I don’t want to be his personal chef any more than I want to be a cookie man. I need to get my own place again. Something that’s just mine. I need my own career—one I launched with hard work and no handouts.

  I picture the latest letters from the bank for that dumbass IOU, the due soon notice stamped on the statements. Jason would pay it in a heartbeat, but I won’t ask him.

  Nope. No fucking way.

  It’s up to me. I have to pay off this last debt on my own, and I have to make this show with Emerson a success. There are no other options.

  If I sleep with her again, I’ll fuck up this chance.

  11

  Don’t You Dare Cry

  Emerson

  * * *

  When my father crosses the finish line on his bike on Saturday morning, my mom cheers, her arms high in the air. “Woohoo, William!”

  “Such a fangirl,” I tease.

  “Of course I am,” she says.

  Dad blows her a kiss, then stops, unclips his shoes, and gets off his road bike. Wheeling it beside him, he closes the distance and hugs her. He’s sweaty and clearly tired from the race through Marin County to Sausalito, but still pumped.

  “Raised five thousand dollars,” he says, emotion in his voice.

  “I’m proud of you, Dad,” I say, smiling from deep within my soul.

  He tugs at his shirt, emblazoned with the primary charity behind the bike race—a hospital where Callie was treated for her heart condition. They took good care of her, especially at the end. They took care of me too, when they tested me for it. But Callie was the unlucky twin—the one with a congenital heart defect that ended her life at twenty-eight years. I was fit as a fiddle, able to ride roller coasters, run, swim, hike, and play.

  Live.

  “Be right back, sweetheart,” he says to my mom, then heads to the race organizer’s table to finish up paperwork.

  We stand by Richardson Bay, the wind cutting across the dark blue water. “I talked to her the other night,” my mom says offhand as she swipes some breeze-blown strands off her cheek.

  My mom believes in angels, believes Callie is one. It’s a nice idea, that someone is always around. Though I don’t buy it, I don’t dispel it either. “What did she say?”

  “She had that twinkle in her eyes. A devilish grin. And she said, ‘Are you impressed with what Emerson pulled off? Because I sure am.’”

  My whole heart climbs up my throat. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper around the noose of emotions.

  “Good job, honey. Your show is so cute. We’re proud of you.”

  But would they be proud of me if they knew what I did before Callie died? How I spent the money?

  Sometimes I think I make good decisions. And sometimes I make really dumb ones. Look at my track record with men. I’ve picked some serious duds.

  Good thing I haven’t quit my day job.

  That afternoon, it’s off to work I go. I add a few extra eyeshadow shades to my makeup bag and sling it on my shoulder. As I head for the door, my gaze drifts to my road trip photos. There’s a shot of Callie and me in front of Rod’s Steak house in Arizona, then a silly selfie of us leaving ten minutes later, laughing.

  “Why did we come here? It’s all meat,” she’d said.

  “I told you. I googled the menu,” I said to her.

  “It seems like there should be a veggie option.”

  “Yeah, this classic roadside diner screams black bean burger,” I’d teased.

  A faint smile tugs at my lips as memories of that trip flicker past me. “I’m glad you talk to Mom,” I say to my empty apartment, then I leave for a wedding that should help me pay down the loan a little bit more.

  An hour later, at a luxury hotel overlooking the ocean, I swipe the last slick of mascara on the bride, step back, and then spin her around to regard her face in the scalloped mirror. “Gorgeous, don’t you agree?”

  The pretty redhead nibbles on the corner of her lip and tries to suck in a tear.

  Her maid of honor thrusts a tissue at her face. “Don’t you dare cry, Angela,” she says.

  I smile at the two of them. “You don’t want to ruin your wedding makeup,” I say to Angela. “But don’t worry. I’ll stick around and touch you up for the photos after.”

  “Thanks. You did an amazing job,” the bride says.

  I’m grateful for that. Just in case the good run How to Eat a Banana is having turns out to be a sprint.

  I wait in the hotel hallway during the ceremony, listening to a podcast, then a text pops up from my friend Jo in New York.

  * * *

  Jo: Stop me. I don’t know if I can resist half-price tickets to the Tommy revival in three weeks.

  * * *

  Emerson: Don’t resist. Get them. Get them now.

  * * *

  Jo: Enabler. Can you come? Please?

  * * *

  Emerson: I wish, but I don’t know that I can get away.

  * * *

  Jo: Makeup gigs keeping you busy? Or food gigs?

  * * *

  Emerson: All of the above. I want to do New York again soon. And to see you. It’s been too long.

  * * *

  Jo: I demand you come here sooner rather than later. But I get that you’re busy. How is work, though? Things with Nolan seemed . . . less festive in that Wine Country diner episode. Not that I’m studying every single detail, but you two have just seemed . . . not quite as close lately? A bit tense.

  * * *

  Oh. Shit.

  * * *

  Emerson: Really?

  * * *

  Jo: Yeah. The last one was better with the salad, but still, I wanted to ask if you’re doing okay?

  * * *

  That’s a damn good question, but I flash back to yesterday at the coffee shop and the way we worked through the tension and finally talked it over. Yet if the friction was obvious on camera, that’s confirmation that we can never get naked together again. I can’t let the show be affected at all.

  Emerson: We’re all good. Just busy.

  * * *

  I close the text thread and turn off my phone. It’s photo time for the newlyweds, and I need to focus on the job, not on the fact that I’m terrible at hiding my emotions. Stupid fucking emotions.

  When the gig ends, I leave the hotel and turn my phone back on. A text blinks up at me.

  Nolan: Where the hell are you? Our agent is calling in thirty minutes. Says it’s big news. I’m at Jason’s.

  * * *

  I race over like the wind.

  12

  I Don’t Even Really Like Bananas

  Emerson

  * * *

  At Jason’s house, it’s a Frisbee and barbecue evening for the host, so the backyard is brimming with pro-footballers and their significant others, if they have them. There are guys from Jason’s team, the Hawks, and guys from the city’s other team too, the Renegades.

  Like Harlan, the just-retired star receiver who’s married to my friend, Katie. His rookie replacement, Carter, is here with his girlfriend, Sydney.

  Everyone’s in the yard, goofing off as the sun dips lower in the sky, except for Nolan and me. We’re inside, on pins and needles.

  From my spot in the kitchen, I stare out the window, zooming in on Harlan as he easily slings a Frisbee to Jason, then on Katie, who works the grill like a pro, flipping burgers and chicken. She does everything well, so no surprise there.

  I watch them and wait for our agent to pick up the phone.

  I have to focus on something other than the Extremely High Levels of Impatience flooding my veins as we dial Hayes again.

  The connection went dead a minute ago in the middle of our call, right as he was laying out, oh, you know, life-changing details. As it rings and rings, I jerk my gaze away from the glass and meet Nolan’s eyes. Bright, wide, hopeful.

  Like a mirror.

  “This can’t really be happening,” I say, and I’m not sure I’m even in my body. It’s like I’m floating above us in a fevered, crazy dream. One I don’t want to wake from because it’s just so damn good here in this altered state.

  I hope it lasts.

  I really do.

  “I think it’s finally happening, Em,” he says, kind of hushed and wonderstruck.

  Another ring.

  Then, Hayes’s voice crackles over the speakerphone. “Hey, hey! I hit a dead spot in my building,” our agent says, tinny at first, then he smooths out. “So, what do you think? The terms are good. The opportunity is huge. And they want you to start right away.”

  Nolan’s grin is electric. “It’s sort of a no-brainer, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say a zombie could do this deal, but . . .” Hayes chuckles.

  “I don’t think he meant it like that,” I chime in, laughing too, maybe even slap-happy.

  Is this real?

  Is our agent talking terms of a streaming deal with us?