A pang lashes my heart at the last word. “That must be so fun,” I say, a little wistful.

  “It is. We try all the local places you go to. And when you offer suggestions for an at-home equivalent, we rush out to the grocery store and grab those items to try too.”

  “Rock on, Marie.” Nolan gives her that stomach-flipping smile. “And do you and your sister rate the food, as well?”

  The woman beams. “Yes! We play along with what you guys do. We judge when you judge.”

  “So, are you the good cop or the bad cop?” I ask.

  With a hint of a smile, her eyes drift to Nolan. “Bad cop. Like Nolan. And when I watch alone, I play along too,” she says, directing those comments to my co-host as she bats her lashes at him, in all his bespectacled hotness.

  I bet that’s not all she’s playing with when she watches him.

  “You’re my favorite YouTube star, Nolan,” she gushes, clutching her chest, then she turns to me. “You’re so lucky to be with him.”

  And here we go again.

  With a kind laugh, Nolan shakes his head, pointing a thumb my way. “We’re just friends.”

  It’s the truth.

  Except for that one night. But that was a few years ago, so who cares?

  Not me.

  And not Nancy.

  The blonde seems delighted with this intel. “Oh, you’re not?”

  Nolan hauls me closer, hooking his arm around my shoulders. “Emerson is my BFF. She knows all my secrets,” he whispers.

  “Every last one,” I say. That’s how it goes with friends.

  “That’s very good to know,” the cheery blonde says, and I bet in three, two, one, she’ll ask him out.

  I’ve seen this happen a thousand times before. I’m chill with it. So’s Nancy.

  Marie steps in front of me, her body language cutting me out of the scene. Okay, Marie. Message received.

  “So, Nolan. Do you want to grab a coffee later?” she asks him with a twirl of her hair.

  I inch away and out from under his arm, since, whatever. He’s cute; ladies like him. I’m not territorial.

  But even though I’m giving him space, I know his jam, and I mouth along as he answers her with a gee-whiz smile. “Wow, I appreciate the offer, Marie, but we’ve got to edit this episode. You wouldn’t want me to miss posting it, would you, now?”

  The man is good. He turns women down with so much honey in his voice it feels like a sugary compliment.

  Some men are just talented like that.

  “Of course I don’t want you to miss posting,” Marie says.

  Ironic, since he’s not the one who posts the videos. I am.

  “Be sure to watch, though. We always try to include the audience shots. We love our viewers.”

  She giggles. “I love you, Nolan.” Then, she peels away, beelining for the door.

  “Love you too, Marie,” I call out nicely since, sometimes, I’m secretly a dick.

  “I’m sure she thinks you’re great too,” Nolan whispers near my ear.

  “Oh yes, I’m so sure it was me she was loving on when she watched alone.”

  After we gather our bags and gear, we thank Harriet for letting us shoot in her fabulously divey joint.

  The sturdy woman in the “Don’t you dare kiss the chef” apron tuts. “I have you to thank. Business will be through the roof tomorrow. I already got triple the takeout orders in the last hour just from you posting you were shooting here.” Then, she lowers her voice. “And that was some slick handling of those are-you-together questions. I love how you two pretend you’re not a thing.”

  I scoff. “We’re not. We’re definitely not.”

  Nolan chuckles. “We’re just friends, like we said.”

  Harriet winks. Twice. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  I don’t deny it again. People believe what they want to believe.

  We head out onto the San Francisco street. “If only we could bottle their interest in us being together, we’d be rich,” I joke.

  “Bottle it and sell that shit. We’d definitely hit the next level,” Nolan agrees, a note of longing in his voice.

  I feel that longing deep in my chest. “We’ll get there,” I say, chin up.

  The next level is a tough climb, though. Very few YouTubers make a decent living from web TV alone. But that’s our goal—for the show to support us. To pay off our loans. Even with a million viewers, we aren’t quite there yet.

  We duck into a coffee shop a few blocks away, order some fuel, then set up a makeshift edit bay at a table. Once I have one macchiato in me and another close at hand, I edit with the kind of focus that would make a Nikon jealous. Meanwhile, Nolan is busy interacting with fans on social media.

  An hour later, I spin my laptop around and show him the edit of today’s episode, complete with the audience shots he promised Marie.

  Nolan blows on his fingernails. “Damn, Em. Why are you so good at literally everything?”

  “That’s easy—YouTube,” I answer.

  “Is there anything you haven’t taught yourself online?”

  “Let’s see.” I count off on my fingers. “Learned how to edit videos, change a flat, juggle, and do a smoky eye. So, the answer is . . . no.”

  Peering intensely through those Clark Kent glasses, he checks out my eyes. Flames lick my cheeks from his hot stare. “You mean that kind of sexy, smudged eyeliner look?”

  I catch my breath. “Yes. But I didn’t do that today,” I mumble.

  “I think you look good with smoky eyelids and without,” he says, his smile at full wattage.

  I raise my deflector shield. I can’t let Nolan’s champion flirting get to me—or Nancy, for that matter. I’m all business as I say, “So, you’re good with the episode? Can we post it?”

  “Fire it up, baby,” he says.

  After I hit upload, I find him pointing at his computer screen like an animated character. “Whoa. Big news here. Like, super-big news.”

  “YouTube loves us and sent us an offer to be on the home page for a week?” I guess. “Oh, wait, I know! An organic food-maker signed on for a sah-weet sponsorship deal that’ll change our lives?”

  “Close. Very close. Try to control your excitement, but we did sell ten more Foodgasm T-shirts from our merch shop today,” he says.

  “Don’t knock it. That helps. Every little bit does.”

  “Too true. By my calculations, if we sell seven thousand five hundred T-shirts, I might be able to pay off my student loans,” he quips. But like most jokes, it contains a big kernel of truth.

  “Stahp, stahp, that’s crazy talk. No one has ever been able to do that in the history of ever,” I say. I sure as shit haven’t paid off mine.

  Reflexively, I check our views. More than one thousand in the first minute. It’ll tick higher—exponentially higher. Trouble is that the ad revenue on the views doesn’t go that far.

  Unless you break out big time.

  And the chances of that are slim, so it’s lucky I learned how to juggle because it’s likely I’ll be doing that with two jobs for a long time.

  That evening, I walk into the pipsqueak apartment I used to share with my sister, my eyes drifting briefly to a five-by-seven picture on the coffee table in the living room—a framed photograph of Cadillac Ranch on Route 66. My chest tightens as I remember taking that picture two years ago, and I look away, focusing on clicking the door closed behind me.

  My couch pillows call out to me, but I resist their siren song. Instead, I drop my messenger bag onto a metal chair at my kitchen table and perform my presto-chango routine.

  Voila.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m freshened up and decked out all in black—the makeup artist’s unofficial dress code. After a quick jaunt across the city to a luxury hotel in Union Square, I spend the next hour in the penthouse suite painting the faces of a quartet of eighteen-year-old girls from the city’s fanciest private school.

  “Oh my God, we look so good for prom. You’re straight fire with a makeup brush,” a gal named Bexley coos at me.

  “It’s easy when I have such a good canvas,” I say. I mean, hello, perfect dewy teenage skin.

  Makeup is fun, but I figured I’d be done with these freelance gigs by age thirty. That by now, the show would cover all my bills and then some. Dreams are hard to catch, though, no matter how tenaciously you chase them.

  I swipe some glittery blush on Tilly, and she declares I “slayed it.” I know what she means, though I don’t try to adopt their lingo, since . . . not cool.

  Once I’m done, I thank the girls then pack up, checking the time as the elevator sweeps me to the lobby.

  If I scurry two blocks over to California Street, I can catch the bus back to my place before the new murder mystery premiers on Hulu at nine. I’ll text Katie and Jo. See if they want to do a watch party. We can place bets on twists. Yup, some friends, a glass of wine, a pair of soft PJ pants, and a chance to escape with my girls into a twisty, zany story are just what the doctor ordered.

  But as I turn the corner, the blue bus trundles away.

  Ugh.

  My shoulders sag, and I trudge all the way to the covered stop, the makeup bag digging into my hip. As I wait for the next bus, I idle away the minutes on my phone, rewatching today’s episode—particularly the moments after I bit into the veggie burger.

  I did not imagine it—when Nolan watched me lick my lips, his dreamy eyes did darken.

  A tingle swoops down my chest, but I squash it down.

  Cool it, Nancy. You’re not in charge.

  2

  Make Yourself Decent, Jaybird

  Nolan

  * * *

  It’s weird sometimes, the pervasive idea that you can do anything. Be anything.

  Can you, though? Most careers require a little thing called talent to get started.

  Check. We’ve got that.

  Then, there’s potential. Sure, we’re swimming in it, the way our viewer and subscriber numbers keep beautifully rising.

  But leaving aside skill and opportunity, the hard reality is that you can do anything, but you can’t keep doing it if your “anything” isn’t making enough money.

  Emerson and I are horseshoe close. The dice roll we made on a fun, flirty food-judging show where we also offer food-shopping tips is nipping at the heels of success.

  But the show needs to take off really fucking soon because I’m running out of time to pay the piper.

  I walk home from the coffee shop that evening, my legs eat up the sidewalk, and my mind flashes frenetically forward three months to that date—the looming day when an unexpected debt comes due.

  Surprise! The joke was on me, and now the thought of my dirty little secret IOU is making me walk faster and driving me to work harder on the show all the time.

  If I don’t, I’ll have to fight the millions of foodie wannabes for a job as a line cook. Maybe a sous chef if I’m lucky.

  I shudder. Restaurant life is not for me. Been there, done that, have the scars from it. Not to mention it’s fuck-all hard to afford your own place on the pay—last time I worked that gig, I had three roommates in an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment with bad plumbing.

  As the chichi Pacific Heights neighborhood comes into view, I cycle through possible next steps to skyrocket How to Eat a Banana into the stratosphere.

  Enter a killer contest?

  Nab a new sponsorship?

  Pair up with an influencer?

  I plan to spend the rest of the evening brainstorming the above like I do most nights. That’s what I’m thinking about as I bound up the steps to a sleek, modern townhome on Jackson Street.

  Swinging open the door to my brother’s swank pad, I call out, “Better make yourself decent, Jaybird. Don’t want to have to buy any bleach to wash out my eyes.”

  No answer—the house is still. Jason’s probably out for a run, so I toss the keys on the foyer table a decorator picked out for him along with the big-screen TV, the U-shaped couch, and the wet dream of a kitchen. The appliances in this place get me going.

  “This is your last warning. You are not alone. You are now in the presence of your older, hotter, smarter brother.”

  More silence, so I’ve got the place to myself. But warnings are good, if not essential. The other week, I walked in right as a hookup of his was walking out.

  In the kitchen, I settle in with my tablet at the counter, ignoring the temptation of the stove as I check out some other online channels for ad ideas. When I have a list of potential sponsorships, I fire it off to my friend and agent.

  Hayes is on it; the dude replies right away with, Speak of the devil. I had some good calls today about your show.

  Were you going to keep that intel to yourself? He wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t give him a hard time.

  Another quick reply: No, smartass. I didn’t tell you because I’ve been racing to catch my flight to LA to meet peeps on your behalf. I just boarded and this is the first chance I’ve had. But thanks for the vote of confidence. And just so you know, I met with a cattle farmer today, and he wants to peddle manure on your show. I said yes for ya. Cool?

  I crack my knuckles and type, That’s why you get the . . . little bucks.

  I get a middle-finger emoji, but that’s what I deserve for hiring my buddy as an agent for Em and me, even if the guy is a wunderkind.

  Hayes sends one more note: Anyway, I had some good calls. Just talking you up with streaming services and producers. Irons, baby. I’ve got ’em in the fire.

  I pump a fist then write back: Very well. I’ll keep you for now.

  Next, I toggle over to YouTube and log into our dashboard. And whoa.

  Check this out.

  There’s a message to all top creators titled Everything’s Better in Pairs! Collab Up! I scan the message to get the gist. The goal is to link similar shows that garner lots of views. You choose a partner, and it’s easy as pie—you recommend each other’s work for a week or so. If YouTube likes what you do, it goes on the home page.

  Cha-ching.

  This smells like a jackpot, the type of opportunity that could push us over the cusp where we’ve sat for so long. I’ve been living on the motherfucking cusp for so long I’ve got squatter’s rights.

  The brink of success is sharp and uncomfortable, but it keeps me hungry. Then again, so does my belly. It’s been eight hours since burger time, so I set down the tablet and amble over to my brother’s fancy-ass Sub-Zero fridge.

  I stroke the door and sigh because the brushed steel feels so good. “You’re a babe,” I tell the sexy silver beast before yanking open the door.

  I peruse the offerings laid out neatly and orderly. Chicken breast. Tofu. Kale. Quinoa. Broccoli.

  Can someone say my brother’s a health nut?

  But then again, so am I.

  Oh. Look at that. “Shishito peppers. My little bro loves me,” I say, and right as I grab the bowl of fresh green goodies, the front door whooshes open.

  “That’s debatable,” a voice calls out.

  As Jason saunters in, I shake my head. “There is no debate. These peppers are proof.” I point at the shelf. “You love me more than any other brother.”

  “Not much competition when you’re the only person entered. You basically walk away with first place.”

  I brandish the veggie as evidence. “You got my fave snack ever. I call that brotherly love. Obviously, you want to keep me around.” I set the bowl on the sleek, black counter as if daring him to argue, but mostly I want to hear him say he enjoys me hanging around at his place.

  I feel like a freeloader because I am. Before I returned to San Francisco a couple of months ago, I spent some time in New York, crashing at my friend TJ’s place. Couch surfing is a special skill, but not one I’ve honed by choice.

  With a dismissive wave, Jason doesn’t even nibble on the bait. “Nah, those peppers are accidental. The food delivery company must have sent them over by mistake.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I wag a finger at my taller, broader, younger bro. “You worship the ground I walk on, and this is your offering,” I counter.

  In a blur worthy of a cheetah going for a Serengeti kill, Jason steps forward, whips off my glasses, then wraps his hands around my head. Fucker cages me into an MMA move in less than three seconds. “Say it. I know the peppers were just coincidental, Jaybird,” he says, and holy fuck. He’s stronger than I thought. I seem to have forgotten my five years on him mean jack shit to his gridiron-hardened muscles.

  But I am stubborn-er.

  “They were on purpose. A gift to me,” I mutter.

  He breaks out the big guns, rubbing his knuckles against my skull, and that’s not fair. “No noogies,” I protest.

  “Noogies till you admit the truth.”

  I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I try to wriggle out of his chokehold, but hey, I guess the San Francisco Hawks knew what they were doing when they locked him up. His hands are vises.

  No choice but to throw in the towel. “The peppers were accidental. You didn’t get them for me,” I grumble.

  Jason relents, letting go, then patting my shoulders and smoothing my vintage Roxy Music shirt. “I see we agree at last,” he says, then grabs my glasses and hands them to me.

  I slide them back on with a huff. “Then we can agree that I’ll cook up these accidental peppers all by my lonesome then.”

  He growls for a good long while. “Fine, I got you those peppers since you love them. Also, you’re really fucking good at making them. So, can you, you know, get cooking?” He eyes the skillet on the stove, pasting on a please cook for me grin, and I don’t feel like a schlub anymore.

  “Course I will,” I say, then clap his back. “Want some chicken too? I found a new kale and chicken recipe that will make you salivate.”

  He nods. “Pretty please.”

  Personal chef I am and happy to do it. He’s let me crash here for almost a month, no questions asked. Though, the brother code dictates I can’t let on that I like being his cook. Must give him shit. “Knew you loved me bunches,” I say, then while he takes off to shower, I whip up dinner, sautéing the chicken and the kale.