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.

  Once he’s gone, I let out a breath of relief.

  Being with him hurts. Friendship-land doesn’t feel so friendly at all. It’s strained and awkward—a genie trying to stuff herself back into the damned lamp.

  I exit the café too, drop my backpack at the hotel, then head to Central Park. Wandering over Gapstow Bridge, I stop to stare at the pond below, then I walk along the mall, drinking in the sights, the trees, the dogs, the kids, the people.

  Briefly, I slip back in time to my road trip with Callie, our Route 66 tour that took us through Texas, around the Grand Canyon, into Nevada. We crossed the expansive United States, stopped at roadside diners and Cadillacs parked like popsicles on the side of the road. I flick through those pictures in my mind like a photo album, reliving the times we had.

  I remember, too, the way she said, thanks, babes, when we cruised back into San Francisco, spent, exhausted, butts sore, but hearts full.

  “You’re welcome, babes,” I said back.

  Callie was never a New York fan. Part of me wishes she could see it through my eyes—the colors, the people, the bikers, the trails.

  All the New Yorkness of it.

  But that’s okay. We wanted different things.

  Like . . .

  “Cutie pie!”

  My gaze jerks to the warm, grandmotherly voice of Dot.

  She wheels over to me on hot pink rollerblades, decked out in pink shorts, a gray sweatshirt, knee and elbow pads, and a matching helmet. Bette is by her side, dressed in red.

  I glance around, then cup my mouth. “Where’s your pit bull?”

  Dot laughs and shushes me, holding a finger to her lips. “We escaped. Don’t tell her.”

  “Evelyn doesn’t want you to rollerblade?” I ask.

  “She just wants us to be safe,” Bette says.

  “But sometimes we like to play.” Dot shrugs. “We’ve always wanted to rollerblade. So, we’re doing it.”

  “Just for fun,” Bette adds.

  That’s the best reason ever. “Good for you.”

  Bette looks me up and down. “Why doesn’t your smile reach your eyes, sweetie?”

  I sigh. “Is it that obvious?”

  Dot chimes in, “You look a little bit broken.”

  Called it. “Maybe I am.”

  “You ought to fix that, then. Maybe try rollerblading with us,” Dot suggests.

  That sounds like a brilliant idea, so I find the rental kiosk, change out of my shoes and into blades, then spend the afternoon chasing Dot and Bette around the park.

  Afterward, they invite me to dinner, and over our meal of penne pasta at an Italian restaurant on Seventy-Second and Amsterdam, we don’t talk about men, or work, or jobs.

  In fact, I don’t talk much at all.

  Instead, I ask questions, listening to stories of their friendship, how they’ve known each other since kindergarten, how they depend on each other. How lucky they are to have this life.

  I run my thumb over my ladybug charm.

  I want that.

  Not their life. But certainty in how to live my life.

  I might not have the best friend I imagined I’d have for all my days, but I do know where I want to be. I do know what I want to do. Seeing these two women living their best life confirms what I’ve suspected for a while.

  After I say goodnight to Dot and Bette, I call Jo and make plans to meet before she leaves tomorrow.

  Then I make a harder call, this time to my mother. I have a question for her, and though I think I know the answer, I need hers.

  So, I ask, and then I listen.

  “Yes,” she says after a thoughtful pause. “I do think that’s what you’ve done.” Her voice is a warm blanket wrapping around me as she speaks. “But maybe it’s time to let that go?”

  The thought panics me slightly. But yet, letting go is exactly what I need to do. What I started to realize that day in the park when Nolan and I talked about my terrible taste in men.

  I may not have picked the best guys, but that isn’t what’s held me back. Something else has, and it’s finally time to say goodbye to the one last reason I haven’t let myself love.

  24

  Rent and Other Trifling Things

  Nolan

  * * *

  In the morning, my phone flashes with a text from Emerson.

  Can you grab a cup of coffee with me before we say goodbye to Jo? There’s something I want to talk to you about. Yes, I know that sounds ominous, but I promise it’s not bad news.

  No, what’s bad news is she’s inviting me for coffee and not to her room.

  But that’s on me. I’m the one who shut the door on us.

  Thirty minutes later, I push open the door to Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium, finding her waiting at a table with two cups of espresso. She looks radiant, and I want to kiss her eyelids, her cheek, her lips.

  Instead, I sit across from her.

  She slides a cup to me.

  She’s smiling. I half expect her to say peace offering.

  I don’t at all expect her to say what comes out of her mouth. “I want to stay in New York. No matter what happens with Webflix. I want to live here. So, I asked Jo to sublease her place to me,” she says, takes a shuddery breath, then adds, “And she said yes.”

  “Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Is that okay?” she asks nervously. “For the show. How to Eat a Banana. I won’t do it if you think you can’t make it work. But I want to try living here, and if you have to go back to San Francisco, we can do episodes remotely. We can do the kind where I try a restaurant in one city, and you do something similar in another, and we can still put out fun videos. We did that when you were in New York earlier this year,” she says, her words spilling out.

  “Right, our Zoom approach.” I sound robotic. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to feel except a little shitty.

  Or shittier.

  “Is that okay?” Emerson presses. “I just love it here. And I can’t entirely afford Jo’s rent, but she cut me a deal since her company in London is paying her housing for three months. So, she said she didn’t need the full rate. And we’ve made some money with Webflix, of course, so I figure maybe in three months, I’ll have paid off the loan, and I can snag some makeup jobs to help supplement the rent. I’m sure there are some good ones in New York.”

  That stings, and I know why. “You don’t think our show will make it?”

  “On Webflix?”

  “Yes, Emerson. That one.”

  “Nolan,” she says as if holding her ground. “You know I want it to, but I also want to start living my life.”

  “You don’t think you were before?”

  Her gaze is steady. She doesn’t waver as she answers. “I think I was a little stuck in San Francisco. I was living in the apartment where I lived with my sister, driving her car, looking at photos of our last trip all the time. Now I’m here, and I feel like . . . like I can breathe.”

  This is the first time she’s talked about her sister without sounding like she’s gritting her teeth or teetering on the edge of anxiety. “I think it’s awesome, then,” I say, meaning it.

  It’s fantastic for her, and if I feel a little left behind, that isn’t important. I’ve got to get over myself.

  Emerson’s my friend. She’s always been my friend, and I need to win her back as a friend. “I think this is great.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.” I down the espresso then roll up my sleeves. “Let’s make a New York plan. And maybe even a to-do list.”

  “I love planning,” she says with a sheepish grin.

  “I know you do,” I say.

  “And I love to-do lists.”

  “I know that too.” And even though we’re close, so close I think I could map her mind and her heart, there’s still so much more I want to know about her.

  Goodbyes aren’t new for me, so they should be easy. Since, well, it’s what I do. I flit across the country, crashing here in New York, then there in San Francisco.

  But saying goodbye to Jo thirty minutes later is neither hard nor easy. It’s just weird. Since once we put her in the sleek town car that’ll whisk her to the airport, I wish I could just walk away with Emerson, drape an arm around her shoulder, and kiss her cheek.

  Talk about her plans.

  Make more plans.

  Instead, Emerson tosses Jo’s keys in her palm, then tips her forehead to the cute building on West Seventy-Third Street. “I guess I’ll check out my new pad.”

  TJ arches a brow, and Emerson quickly explains she’ll be sticking around. He high-fives her. “Excellent. Let’s get drinks next weekend then. But no musicals. I am not going to be your new musical buddy.”

  “Your deep disdain for musicals is well noted,” she says.

  When Easton takes off too, it’s just TJ and me on an Upper West Side block, and my friend stares at me pointedly. “Soooo.”

  “So what?”

  He rolls his dark eyes. “Dude.”

  The word contains multitudes.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” I ask, unsure what he’s getting at.

  He scoffs. “I think the question is, what’s going on with you?”

  Ah, well. There’s no point pretending. TJ’s astute, and I’m . . . well, I’m in need of some help. “Where do I even start?” I ask, a little lost. I wish I knew what to do with my desire to make plans with Emerson.

  He claps my shoulder. “How about at the beginning?”

  And so, as we walk away from Emerson, heading south along Central Park, I tell him. “I’m in love with Emerson, but I don’t know how to make it work because of the show and Max, and Webflix, and her sister, and all those things.”

  “Those aren’t little things, my friend.”

  “Yeah. They’re big things, right?” I sigh heavily. So many damn obstacles.

  He laughs. “They aren’t big things either, buddy.”

  I whip my gaze to him. “They’re only our career, my livelihood, some dickhead competitor, Emerson’s issues with grief, and, ya know, all my shit too.”

  “But those aren’t impediments.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re in love with her. None of that matters,” he says matter-of-factly.

  I arch a skeptical brow. “None of them?”

  TJ laughs. “Is that a question or a statement?”

  That’s all it takes, and his certainty becomes my own. The clarity of his understanding belongs to me now too. Those details don’t matter. They are roadblocks, and I’ll find a way around them because I want what’s on the other side.

  So, fuck everything else.

  “It was a question. But it’s a statement now,” I say emphatically.

  TJ blows out a breath like a proud teacher. “It’s a good day when a man realizes what he wants.”

  We walk past a bank, where a screen flickers in the corner of the ATM lobby, streaming a news channel. The ticker tape below the anchor reads: Jude Fox earns his first nomination.

  The picture switches to a good-looking blond dude flashing a winning grin as a reporter interviews him. I can’t tell what he says, but he looks pleased.

  TJ looks . . . stunned. And, also, he looks like he cares.

  A lot.

  “You know Jude Fox?”

  He nods. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Jude Fox, as in the star of If Found, Please Return?”

  “Yup.”

  I lift a brow, then realization dawns. “Ohhh. Is he why you went to Los Angeles that time you were all secretive about why you were going?”

  With a heavy sigh, he nods. “Bingo. But that’s a story for another time.” He taps his watch. TJ doesn’t need to tell me twice.

  I know what I need to do.

  Make big plans.

  “The last time we went for a run. You said something about a friend,” I say, prompting TJ.

  “Yes. Yes, I did. The guy in Queens.”

  “Can I have his number?”

  “I’ll text it to you.”

  I take off, picking up the pace. Along the way, I call my brother and make plans that scare the hell out of me. Then I call Hayes, since my agent also happens to be my buddy, and I tell him about my big gamble. I’d tell him in person, but he’s across the country at a movie premiere.

  “Go for it. I’m behind you,” Hayes says, and his support helps me keep moving forward with my decision, since TJ was right—all those things aren’t hurdles.

  Then, I text the guy in Queens. And when it’s nearly time for Emerson and me to meet at the hotel with the network, I call her.

  25

  Other Plans

  Emerson

  * * *

  Jo’s one-bedroom apartment—now mine for a spell—smells like lilacs. As I leave for the meeting at the hotel, locking the door behind me, I text Jo to tell her as much. She’s taxiing on the JFK tarmac, ready to fly away on her new adventure.

  Good luck on the other side of the ocean, I tell her.

  Her reply is swift. I hope you have your own fabulous adventure in New York.

  I hope so too.

  I’ve needed a place that’s all mine. That doesn’t belong to my sister or my past. Something I can make my own.

  There’s only one thing I want all for myself. And thanks to the call with my mom and my decision to stay, I’m ready for it.

  As I make my way back to the hotel, I start to dial Nolan to ask if he can meet before we see Ilene, but before I can tap in his name, it’s flashing on the screen as the phone buzzes.

  He hardly ever calls me. He usually texts. My heart scampers in my chest, maybe even cartwheels.

  Luck. This feels like my ladybug luck.

  I hope so deeply he wants the same thing I do, so fervently, that when I answer on half a ring, I know my voice is full of all my wishes.

  “Hi,” I say, a little breathless.

  “Would you want to go on a date with me tonight? There’s this great new restaurant I heard about, and I thought . . . No cameras. Just you and me. A date. In case that wasn’t clear. A date.”

  I stop on the sidewalk. A block ahead of me, I spot the broad shoulders, the sly grin, the adorable glasses of my best guy friend. He’s headed my way, cradling his phone to his face, and his smile is just for me.

  For phone me, because he hasn’t seen me yet.

  “I’ll tell you in person in about a block,” I say, then I watch him scan the street until he finds me. With a grin, he ends the call and quickens his stride until he’s standing in front of me.

  He grabs my shoulders. “I don’t care if we get the show. I don’t care what happens with Webflix. I don’t care if I have to crash with a friend or ask my brother for help with the loan. I don’t care. I’m staying in New York because you’re here and I want to be with you. And that’s what I care about most. I’m in love with you, and I want to kiss you, again and again, every single day.”

  My heart sails away into the sky.

  There are so many things to say to him. But sometimes you have to start a meal with dessert. So, I grab his face and kiss him.

  It’s better than the last time.

  Better than the first time.

  I seal my lips to his, my hand wrapping around his head, my fingers teasing into his hair, and laughter and joy bubbling on my tongue.

  This kiss tastes like everything I was working for all along.

  It’s my hopes and dreams come true.

  It’s my big break.

  I want this kiss more than I want anything else in the world. His lips are sweet, and he feels like part of my new life in New York.

  One of the best parts.

  When I break the kiss, I’m dizzy. “I love you,” I say.

  Nolan smiles, and I want to remember that smile forever. “I love you, honey,” he says.

  Tingles shoot down my spine. “I love it when you call me that.”

  “I know you do,” he says, then presses his forehead to mine. “I’m sorry I ended things the other day. I’ve done some foolish things, but that takes the cake. I couldn’t stop thinking how silly it was.”

  I shake my head. “You were trying to protect us. I get it.”

  “I was, but I don’t want to lose you, no matter what Max says or doesn’t say, and no matter what. Just no matter what.”

  I inch away, still riding this adrenaline high. “What changed your mind?”

  “You,” he says.

  My brow creases. “What do you mean?”

  “The way you decided you were staying. You’re so fearless. So bold. And I knew I was going about everything the wrong way. I needed to say fuck it to all my fears too and grab hold of the thing—the person—I want most. You.”

  I want to pinch myself to make sure this moment is real. “I want you, and I love you, and I want to do How to Eat a Banana with you in whatever form, but mostly, I want you to know this,” I say, pursing my lips, trying to fight against the knot that’s formed in my throat.

  “What is it?” he asks as he strokes my hair.

  I lift my chin, resolute. “I thought I had terrible taste in men because I was waiting for you, but that’s not it,” I say softly—but strong too.

  He nods knowingly. “It’s something else, isn’t it?”

  “You know why?”

  “I think I do. But I want to hear it from you.”

  “I was afraid to fall in love because Callie wasn’t going to,” I say, and it’s like slicing my skin open, revealing this hurt, exposing my guilt.

  But it also feels like a new start.

  Like fresh air on my skin. “I was afraid to have love because she wasn’t going to,” I say, my voice trembling.