I pinch my arm to make sure I’m alive. That this call is occurring on Planet Earth and not in Emerson’s Fantasy Parallel Universe.

  “Yeah, we definitely need your non-zombie brain, Hayes,” Nolan says.

  “Good. I advise you to say yes. This is everything we’ve been wanting for you two,” he says.

  It is everything.

  That’s what scares me. If something is too good to be true, maybe it is. But I set aside philosophical musings as Hayes reviews more details.

  He gives us the details for our shoot and the meeting in New York with the Webflix producer, then he ends the call. As we hang up the phone, the sounds from the yard drift in. Jason’s voice, Harlan’s voice, Katie’s, Carter’s, Sydney’s.

  But the one voice I key in on belongs to the person in front of me.

  My best friend.

  “Emerson,” Nolan rasps, and my name has never sounded so charged, so full of atoms and ions.

  Full of hopes and dreams.

  He advances toward me. Clasps my shoulders. “Did we just get an offer from Webflix to do our very own streaming show in New York City?” he asks in disbelief.

  He sounds so fucking giddy.

  He sounds how I feel.

  “I think we did,” I whisper, like saying it too loud will tank the deal. Like it’s a precious thing we have to whisper about to protect.

  “This must be what it feels like to be my brother and play in the NFL. To be my dad and close killer deals,” he says.

  I grab his face, hold him tight. “Shut up. Don’t compare yourself. This is what it feels like to be us.”

  “I like us.”

  I do too. I like the feel of his face in my cupped palms. I like his hazel eyes, glittering. I like sharing this passion project with him.

  I’m so glad I’m not doing this solo. I was never wired to be alone. I traveled into this world as part of a team. I’m built to be part of a duo.

  And we did this together.

  “So do I,” I say, as a marching parade takes over my heart. Drums beat, trumpets flare, and I am exuberant. “I feel like I did that night after you took me on the roller coaster.”

  Is that too risky to say? Maybe it is. But I feel a little high right now. A little daring, like I can have it all.

  “Me too.” He steps closer. It’s a declaration as he invades my space, inches away. Kisses are written all over his eyes, as if this is how we need to seal the deal. Like we did after the roller coaster. Hell, we survived our first kiss; we survived sex. We could surely handle a celebratory kiss.

  I’m ready to throw caution to the wind, right here in his brother’s kitchen. My stomach flips, and my chest flops, and both Nancy and I are in agreement.

  With his face still in my hands, I lean into him, a gust of breath coasting over my lips. It sounds like an admission. Like my sigh says kiss me.

  Lord knows, my body says it as I tilt my face and wait.

  Wait. Wait.

  It’s that heady moment when two people edge together. When you watch a movie or a show, and the inevitable, slow, intoxicating slide into a kiss begins.

  He’s so close I can smell his aftershave. My mouth aches for him.

  And I want to get lost in a kiss.

  “Who needs some more of the world’s finest potato salad?” Harlan’s voice slices through the air as the back door swings open.

  We wrench apart.

  “Hey, now. I’ve been eyeing that cherry pie you brought. You better not hold out on me,” Jason chimes in.

  That’s all it takes.

  We move away from each other like we’ve been scalded. Frustration takes over for a beat, but then that excited energy returns because holy shit. We just got ourselves a deal.

  The guys stroll into the house, shoes slapping as they near the kitchen, followed by Katie and Sydney.

  “Oh, you’re finally going to let yourself put cherries in that temple of a body,” Harlan teases Jason.

  Jason gestures to his big frame. “I’ve been known to corrupt this temple from time to time,” he says.

  Harlan hoots then points dramatically to the counter. “Let the corruption begin. Get this man a slice of the best cherry pie ever,” he says, grabbing the pink box with one of his famous homemade pies inside.

  The former star player bakes with his young daughter in his spare time, and from what Katie tells me, that’s an ovary-melting sight. No wonder Katie’s preggers.

  “Oh, hey there,” Harlan says on the path to the pie, maybe noticing us for the first time. He stops in his tracks, shooting me a what’s up? look. “Did we interrupt something devilishly important? From the looks of it, you two were making predictions for the next football season or debating whether dark chocolate is better than milk.”

  “Dark chocolate,” Nolan says quickly.

  Jason looks from Nolan to me, his eyes a clock pendulum as he assesses us shrewdly, like he assesses plays on the field. “Wrong answer. Milk chocolate,” he teases, then the guys beeline for the pie, bypassing the potato salad.

  Katie’s the only one who seems to understand the intensity of this moment. “What’s going on? You look like you’ve just won an Oscar,” she says, tilting her head.

  “I feel that way,” I blurt out. Then I let the good news—great news—rush through my body one more time, and I stand a little taller. “You’re looking at the stars of the next new restaurant show on the world’s biggest streaming service. Webflix just picked up our show for a season, and they want us to film it in New York for a month.”

  Katie screams in excitement. “Yes! I knew it, friend! I knew it!”

  Harlan high-fives me. “Congratulations, you badass people.”

  Jason strides across the kitchen to wrap his big brother in a hug. “Dude! So proud of you.”

  My heart climbs up my throat as I watch the two of them share the joy.

  Just look at this. Look at what we have. And I nearly threw it all away for a kiss.

  We crack open beers and wine, and Katie grabs a soda, then we move to the living room, where there is pie and laughter and excitement.

  Jason lifts his beer, toasts to us, then to Nolan. “To the guy who’s always had my back since I was fourteen. You know what I’m talking about. You know it. And I fucking love you, and I fucking knew you’d get here,” he says, voice thick with emotion as he clinks glasses with Nolan. “That’s why I bet on you.”

  “You did, man. And of course I had your back,” Nolan says quietly. He dips his head, a little embarrassed, but there’s such sweetness, such brotherly love between them. I’m pretty sure I know what Jason must be talking about at age fourteen, but now’s not the time to ask Nolan or Jason for details, so I file those comments away.

  Jason clears his throat, then rubs his palms together. “Who wants more pie and a viewing sesh of the best of How to Eat a Banana?”

  Katie waves a hand high. “I do! I do! Can we play along and guess what the hosts will rate the food?”

  “Hell, yes,” Carter says.

  “I’m in,” Sydney adds.

  Jason grabs the remote, flicks on the big screen, and toggles over to YouTube.

  “Home page champions . . . of the world,” he sings, channeling Queen for a moment.

  Jason plays some of our funniest episodes, and our friends make a drinking game of guessing our ratings. Then YouTube auto-plays into an older episode, before Nolan’s time.

  One of Callie and me demonstrating the fine art of eating a banana.

  For a second, I freeze, expecting it to hurt to watch my sister and me as we peel back the skins on our respective fruit.

  “There is no way to be classy as you eat this,” Callie says.

  On the screen, I laugh. “Babes, no one ever said eating a dick-shaped fruit was classy.”

  And in Jason’s living room, I breathe out.

  It doesn’t hurt.

  I don’t ache at seeing us.

  I feel just fine.

  Hell, I feel good.

  No one goes quiet. No one says rest in peace. Instead, Harlan points at the screen, laughs, then nudges his wife. “Darling, I’d like to watch you eat a banana,” he stage-whispers.

  “You’re so romantic,” she tosses back.

  Jason stretches an arm across the back of the couch. “I like bananas,” he says with a cheeky grin.

  Nolan smacks his shoulder. “Dude, I’ve known that since you were fourteen.”

  That earns Nolan a noogie, as it should.

  I smile, letting some of the anxiety I’ve felt lately fade and the worry and the what-ifs tiptoe away.

  Later, when it’s just Nolan and me in the kitchen cleaning up, he says, “Thanks for letting me do the show with you.”

  I roll my eyes because sometimes it’s easier than being serious. “Please. Thank you for being my banana,” I tease. “You’re my main banana.” I pause as I wipe down the counter. “Deep thoughts. Is it weird that I don’t even really like bananas?”

  His expression goes intensely serious. “More proof we were meant to do this show together. I, too, believe bananas are overrated as fruit.”

  “How did I not know you felt this way?”

  His eyes twinkle. “Apparently, there are things you still have to discover about me. But allow me to help. The top of the fruit scale starts at peaches, cherries, and strawberries.”

  “And blueberries and blackberries are right there too.”

  “Exactly. And bananas are down low,” he says, pushing his hand toward the floor to demonstrate.

  “Don’t be knocking bananas,” Jason calls out from the living room.

  “We know, we know,” Nolan shouts back.

  That.

  That makes me happy in a warm, fuzzy way. I’m not jealous he has this closeness with his brother when my sister’s gone. I’m glad. So damn glad.

  I love, too, that we have this chance. It’s what Nolan needs to feel worthy.

  I know he is. I just want him to know it for himself.

  When I leave at the end of the night, Katie catches up to me on Jackson Street and pulls me aside under a streetlamp.

  “So, I got the feeling we interrupted something when we came in from the yard,” she says, her eyes wide and inquisitive.

  I gulp in a breath of night air. “Yeah, here’s the thing . . .”

  She arches a brow. “Oh. There’s a thing?”

  No point lying. I don’t want to hide the truth from my friend. “We slept together in Vegas.”

  Her big eyes go bigger. “And how would you rate the sex on your food scale?”

  A wonderful, warm sensation zips through me. The memory of Nolan climbing on top of me, going deep in me, fucking me, taking me. “Seismic. It was seismic.”

  She shimmies her hips. “Well, that complicates things,” she deadpans.

  “It did, but we’re fine now. We agreed it won’t happen again. So, I’m trying to put the genie back in the bottle,” I say.

  She takes a beat to study my face, looking for whether I believe what I just said, perhaps. “And does the genie fit?”

  “Sometimes. Other times, the genie is sticking its legs out and its hands, and it’s kind of flailing around,” I say, a little helpless, a lot honest.

  “It’s hard stuffing genies back in bottles,” she says, speaking the truth.

  It’s hell. But it has to be done. “But necessary.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know.” She pulls me in for a hug. “Good luck.”

  She gives no great parting words of wisdom because some things in life are just hard. Like pretending you don’t have massive feelings for someone.

  I go home that night and pay some bills. This is what I’m supposed to be doing—carving out a life, a job, a career.

  A future.

  A week later, my bags are packed, and I say goodbye temporarily to this place I used to share with my sister.

  There’s a small photo book from our Route 66 road trip in my backpack and a ladybug charm hanging on my neck for luck.

  Finally, I’ve got some luck, so I make a promise not to squander it.

  I make that promise to myself.

  When we land in New York, a handler named James meets us at the airport, escorts us into Manhattan, and helps us check into the hotel Webflix arranged for us.

  We’re staying on the twelfth floor, a couple of doors away from each other. Nolan and I step off the elevator, and I gesture to the right. “Confession: I did wonder if the network was going to put us in the same room. And how we would handle it. But hey, we have separate rooms after all,” I say, giving him my best cheery grin when I turn to 1208, and he moves toward 1205.

  No chance of an adjoining door. Damn shame.

  I mean, damn good thing.

  “Too bad. I was hoping we could face mask together,” Nolan says, snapping his fingers, aw-shucks style.

  It’s a joke, but when he rearranges his expression a second later, he must realize, like I do, that face masks turned out to be foreplay.

  His smile disappears.

  Mine does too as a fresh burst of want blooms low in my belly.

  Yes, good thing we have separate rooms. I steer the conversation to safer shores. “Meet you in the lobby in an hour? So we can head over to Gin Joint?”

  “Yes,” he says, and I shut my door.

  My room smells fresh and clean, like jasmine and lemongrass.

  No embalming clinics here.

  Just a big king-size bed all to myself. It’s quiet and mine, all mine.

  A little later, I make my way to the lobby to meet Nolan. When I get off the elevator, I do a double take.

  Dot and Bette are here too.

  In the same hotel, with the same network handler who escorted us over earlier today.

  13

  There is No Just

  Nolan

  * * *

  “Get your butt over here right now, Nolan McKay!”

  Not that I planned on ignoring Bette, but there’s no one on earth who could deny her a hug right now.

  Her arms stretch out wide; her smile wraps around the city. She’s decked out in jeans and a San Francisco Hawks jersey with a pink gingham bandana pinning back her dark hair.

  I cross the distance in the lobby, and she sweeps me up in a hug. “What the heck are you doing here, you cuties?”

  Funny, I could ask the same of her and Dot.

  And I’m dying to know.

  The platinum blonde turns to me, parks her hands on her hips. “Exactly! To what do we owe the pleasure of seeing you sweeties again?” Her blue eyes swing around the lobby, landing on Emerson, right beside me.

  There are more hugs, then James darts aside with a quick excuse me as he whips his phone from his pocket. Guess he won’t be giving any answers.

  “Webflix picked up our show,” Emerson says brightly.

  Dot’s jaw drops.

  Bette claps. “That is so fantastic. I’m so stinking happy for you. We got a show too. Can you believe it? Maybe we’ll all be TV stars,” Bette says, adding jazz hands.

  A throat clears. “Dot. It’s getting late. You need to get to sleep soon.” It’s the boss. Evelyn’s telling it like it is, ordering her grandma and her grandma’s friend around. The girl in fishnets and motorcycle boots seemed to just appear out of thin air. Maybe she’s magic. I wouldn’t be surprised.

  “Sleep, yes, but what I also need is a nightcap. On the rocks. And a cup of cocoa for you, Ev,” Dot says.

  The teen rolls her eyes. Because of course she rolls her eyes.

  “And the first photoshoot is at ten in the morning,” Evelyn continues, then nods at me, then Emerson. “Good to see you two again.”

  “And you. But . . .” My brow narrows, and I try to figure out how Evelyn’s pulling this off. “Don’t you have school?”

  She stares at me, her eyes saying duh. “Zoom. Obvs.”

  “Right. Obvs,” I echo.

  Evelyn ushers Dot and Bette away, and Emerson and I leave the midtown hotel in a flurry, furtively glancing behind us as we push through the revolving doors.

  Once we’re out on the street, Emerson tugs my elbow, yanks me farther away, her finger on her lips.

  “I don’t think they can hear us now,” I say out of the side of my mouth.

  “You never know,” she says, then when we’re around the corner, she stops, flaps an arm in the direction of the skyscraper hotel. “What’s going on? Something is up.”

  She sounds wildly suspicious, and maybe I should be too, but I want us to focus on our show, not on nefarious subplots we’ll never untangle. “Looks like they got picked up too. I’m guessing Webflix is on a buying binge for food shows?” I suggest. That makes as much sense as anything. “We just have to do what we came here to do.”

  With her jaw set hard, Emerson seems determined to get to the bottom of it. “But both of us? At the same time? And we were together with them on YouTube.” She lifts a skeptical brow. “It feels like something is going on.”

  I wouldn’t bet against her, but I don’t know who’s bluffing and who’s not. “Look, we don’t know. But we’re in New York again, and we have a meeting with the executive tomorrow. For tonight, let’s see the crew.”

  That was my idea. Did I also arrange to get together with friends on our first night here for a particular reason?

  Yes. Yes, I did.

  The way I see it is the more time I spend with Emerson in a group, with cameras, with everyone around us, the less tempted I’ll be to get her alone, back her against the door of 1208, dip my face to the soft skin of her neck, and tease her with my tongue and mouth.

  Like I wanted to do in my brother’s house a week ago.

  Like I want to do now as we walk across Twenty-Third Street. Good thing walking and kissing is, well, not a thing.

  Maybe I can just spend the next month walking, and I’ll be able to resist kissing the breath out of her.

  It’s like a reunion at Gin Joint when TJ joins us along with Jo, Emerson’s good friend. Easton and Bellamy are on their way, Jo notes as we grab a velvet couch and a man with golden pipes croons old standards on a piano.