“Home page. Home page, home page, home page, home page, home page,” I sing.

  Nolan’s realization happens in slow motion, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness. His eyes sparkling, his lips curving, a shocked puff of breath falling from his mouth.

  Then a whispered wow.

  He closes the distance between us, padding across the sapphire rug. His arms circle my waist. He lifts me up in a huge hug and spins me around once. When he stops, we still embrace, holding on so damn tight.

  “I think we’re almost there,” he says, and there’s such relief and desperation in his tone.

  “I think so too,” I say, my voice nearly breaking.

  He squeezes harder, sighing happily against my neck, a fluttery breath ghosting over my skin. “I need this so much. I really need to get my shit together.” It’s like a confession, the kind of thing you’d only share with your closest friend. Something that shows your soft underbelly, all the things you want to change when you look in the mirror.

  “You do have your act together,” I reassure him.

  “Barely.” He’s so hard on himself. He has been for some time. In a family of overachievers, Nolan sees himself as the odd man out. His brother’s an NFL quarterback. His father started his own business, which paid for part of their college tuition. “I’m the guy scraping by as I couch surf. Last time I had my own place, I shared it with three roomies, and it sucked.”

  “But maybe not much longer,” I say, choking up too.

  “I want to get my own place. I want to pay off this . . .” He can hardly bring himself to say it.

  I swallow around the knot in my own throat. “I know. Trust me, I know. Same, same.”

  The student loan.

  At least, that’s what I call it.

  “Me too,” I echo, my chest tight, tears pricking the back of my eyes. “But it’s happening. You figured this out. You found Dot and Bette, and you made this happen. You do have your act together.”

  Nolan tugs me closer, his arms tighter still.

  I dip my face against his neck. He smells like sleepy mornings, and like our sex hours ago, and a little like me and him. My head is spinning, and my heart is cracking open.

  I need to let go. All these emotions are churning like a gathering storm of wishes and wants, smashing into things I can’t have.

  Dalliances in duos don’t work. Sex can ruin a friendship, and it can sure tank a partnership. Especially if one person—raises hand—suffers from out-of-control feelings.

  Last night was surely just sex to him. But I know myself—it could be more to me, and that’s why we need to leave it at one and done. We’ll stay the course and make sure this career high goes even higher.

  I untangle my octopus arms from his neck, slide them off him, step back.

  Smoothing my hands over my shirt, I try to blink away the emotional moment and focus on the rest of this day, then the next, then the one after that.

  “We need to get on the plane and get home to plan more episodes. Maybe we can hit it hard around Wine Country to mix it up? Do some fresh reviews, have lots of fresh content for our new viewers?”

  “Love it.” He scratches his head, then holds up a wait-a-minute finger, those flecks in his hazel eyes saying he has a plan. But first he walks around the bed to grab his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on. “I wish our flight didn’t leave so soon. What if we had time to visit a bunch of places in Vegas and get content from a new city?”

  “Maybe we can change to a later flight,” I suggest. “Do four or five reviews. Stock up.”

  A city-wide smile lights his face. “Brilliance and beauty,” he says.

  “Hustle and charm,” I say, then point to the bathroom. “Get ready.”

  Ten minutes later, he’s out of the shower, wearing peacock boxers that make me smile and ache at the same time.

  I can’t enjoy his animal-print boxers. I look away, pack up, and check the room for anything left behind.

  Then we go, finding our rental car in the parking lot and tossing our bags into the trunk. Neither of us has said a word about the sex we had last night.

  I know we can’t happen again. But his silence seems to say he doesn’t consider that on the table. I know that last night can’t happen again, but my heart is a little hurt that he doesn’t say he would . . . if we could.

  Instead, we’re moving on with barely a word. Isn’t that kind of what he’s done since Inés broke his heart? Since she deceived him, he’s protected that organ in his chest with flirt, with swagger, with playboy ways.

  I won’t judge him, though. It takes two to tango, and I definitely danced with him last night. We did the fucktrot all night long.

  What I can do is this—get us back to where we were. Where we need to be.

  We crossed a line but that doesn’t mean we can do it again. Sex leads to feelings and feelings lead to problems and problems lead to shows falling apart right as they’re finding their audience.

  There will be no more rocking the boat by rocking the bed.

  Someone needs to say it. Before he turns the key in the ignition, I clear my throat. “About last night . . .”

  His hazel eyes flash with vulnerability and a bit of longing. “Yeah?”

  I swallow past a dry patch in my throat. “Well . . . you know.” I wince. I can’t bring myself to say That was a mistake, or We can’t do it again, even if maybe he feels that way.

  Perhaps he senses how hard this is for me. He jumps in, his tone a little heavy. “You were going to say it can’t happen again?”

  I sigh, both grateful and sad. “Way to read my mind.”

  “I didn’t have to read your mind. I could read your face. It’s all over your expression and in your eyes.”

  Even if he’s not saying I want you again but have to resist you, I think it’s in his eyes too. I can’t be the only one who wants what I shouldn’t—can’t—have. “You’re thinking it, too, aren’t you? I mean, there’s just so much—”

  “—at stake,” he supplies.

  I nod, my throat tight again, my chest jittery. “Exactly.” I gesture to the dashboard as if to indicate the world beyond our sex-capade. “Everything is happening for us at last.”

  “And we need to focus on that,” he adds, more certain now.

  I inhale sharply. “So that’s what we’ll do. The work.”

  “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “The show means the world to both of us. Right?”

  It sounds like he’s begging me to agree, and I do. I want this show to take off for so many reasons. For my sister, for Nolan, for me.

  “The show means the world,” I echo. I can’t let this chance slip away just because I’m into him.

  I only wish I felt a little less achy as we change our flight, tackle the city, and check out as many cool, divey eateries as we can with the extra time.

  Later that night, exhausted and energized, we board our Super Saver flight back to San Francisco. I buckle in. Nolan does the same. A peacock sits two rows behind us. I try not to laugh, but I crack up anyway.

  Nolan nudges me, whispering, “Admit it. You’re thinking of my boxers.”

  “Obviously.”

  “I guess you know my secret now,” he says, his gaze drifting to his crotch as if his only secret is the style of briefs he wears.

  He closes his eyes, and he feels miles away behind those glasses.

  I want to know his other secrets too. Every now and then, I want to tell him the truth about my student loan, but I don’t know if I could get the words out without sounding foolish.

  Would he tell me his secrets if I told him mine?

  Last night, I showed him some of mine. The things I want in bed. That I want to be hurt a little bit, to feel a little pain.

  More than that, I showed him how much I want him.

  But, as the plane soars into the inky night sky, I box up those wants and set them on a shelf.

  10

  Well, That Got Awkward Fast

  Nolan

  * * *

  Emerson and I have been a lot of things to each other. When we met, she was the funny, bold, freckled brunette who lived in the freshman dorm next to mine. She knew all the lyrics to Les Mis and liked to eat Cinnamon Life Cereal for a late-night snack, but not the Lucky Charms I loved because the marshmallows in it are made with meat. Which was a gross thing to learn, but it didn’t stop me from scarfing down the cereal.

  Over the years, we’ve been pranksters, rearranging the furniture in Lauren and Dina’s suite one night into the basement of the dorm.

  We’ve been stress-meisters, freaking out over exams.

  Since college, we’ve been wingmen and women, scoping out targets for each other in bars all over the city.

  As life has ebbed and flowed, things with us have been fun, easy, happy and sad. Things have been quiet too, like when I was in France with Inés. Things have been just plain shitty, like when Emerson’s twin sister died and my friend cried in my arms for weeks that spilled into months.

  We’ve come in and out of each other’s lives, but mostly in, and nearly always understanding each other.

  Now, three days after Vegas, things are like this—Really Fucking Awkward.

  As in, all caps. Six-story-billboard style.

  Uncomfortable is the name of the game when she picks me up in Wanda outside Jason’s house. The plan is to drive to Wine Country and visit a new diner.

  “Hey,” she says, a little distant.

  “Hi,” I say, a little laidback, hoping that’ll help.

  She pulls away from the curb in her tiny car, and the GPS chirps the directions.

  “So, how’s everything?” I ask, even though that sounds lame as fuck.

  She arches a brow. “I saw you yesterday. The ice cream shop in Hayes Valley. Remember? Everything’s still good.”

  “I know. I was just asking.” Wow, that came out sounding defensive. “Can’t I ask how you’re doing?”

  “Of course.” She frowns as she heads toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Sorry. I’m good. Great even. The views are insane. You?”

  And we’re all business.

  Okayyy.

  “Never better,” I say, even though now it’s the three of us in the car—Emerson, me, and the strange tension between us.

  So, this is how we do post-sex—awkwardly. Uncomfortably.

  At the diner, we shoot our episode, testing a few dishes. She declares the quinoa bowl a taste fiesta in her mouth, and I have no immediate flirty retort for that.

  What’s wrong with me?

  But the rest of the episode is solid, so hopefully no one will notice I am off my game.

  I hit cut and end the recording, and Emerson and I turn our attention to the folks there to see us.

  A line snakes out the door—plenty of guys and gals our age, lots of women in their early twenties. Some older fans too, more Dot and Bette’s age, which is awesome. We’ve never really drawn that demographic before. I’d also say we have double the fans we drew before the promotion, maybe triple.

  We take pics, chat, and sign shirts, and I say fuck you to the awkward because this life is better. I am starting to say goodbye to the cusp, and it feels good.

  Until a cute blonde straggler at the end of the line reaches us. Her eyes drift from Emerson to me. “Are you free after this, Nolan? Or are you guys dating?”

  Damn. Talk about direct.

  Emerson gives a closed-mouth sliver of a smile. “He’s just a friend,” she says, patting my shoulder. Then she turns away and packs her bag.

  “So, would you like to get a drink?” the woman asks, and I do admire her chutzpah. It’s not easy to ask out a stranger, even if you think you know them from their online presence.

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty busy with the show,” I say.

  The diner owner gives us some takeout as we leave, and we thank her. Emerson and I load our gear into the back seat of her tiny contraption of a car, tucking the food at my feet as I sit in the passenger seat, my legs folded up uncomfortably.

  “Sorry for the . . . size of Wanda,” she murmurs, something she usually says. Her car can feel like a thimble to me, but it does the job.

  “You don’t have to apologize for that,” I say. “Just be glad we have wheels to get to Wine Country.”

  She doesn’t answer while she busies herself weaving through afternoon traffic in the town square. “You know, if you ever want to say yes to someone, you can,” she offers, a little strained.

  I scoff. “What?”

  She flaps her hand toward the diner. “Back there. I’m just saying.”

  “Yeah, I get it. And, um, same to you, I guess.”

  “Thanks?” she says, but it’s a question.

  “You’re welcome?” I ask, and why the hell am I making that a question too.

  Emerson turns onto a winding road that curves past vineyards. “I mean, that’s what we decided, right?”

  My chest tightens, irritation threading through me. “That’s what we decided,” I agree crisply.

  “It’s for the best,” she says as if I need reminding.

  “I know. Trust me, I know.”

  We’re silent for one mile, then another, then several more. That’s awkward too. We aren’t silent people, but now there’s this heavy quiet hanging like a thick blanket between us. It’s suffocating, and I reach to my collar like I can loosen a tie I’m not wearing.

  There are a thousand things to talk about—the show, the traction it’s getting, the thank-you pies Dot and Bette sent us, the emails from Hayes saying he’s in various talks . . . There’s our own wish to shoot again in New York someday. A year ago, we did a week of episodes there. Maybe we can find a sponsor for a few more Big Apple videos.

  But I don’t broach any of those topics. Instead, I stretch a hand to the Bluetooth speaker. “Want to listen to music?”

  “Yes.” The answer is immediate, like she’s underscoring a potent wish to fill the silence with anything but our voices.

  The car fills with the sound of The Wallflowers. Maybe that’s an olive branch, that she picked a favorite band of mine rather than Rent or Wicked.

  Maybe it’s a sign that this awkwardness will pass. Please, let it pass soon.

  A couple days later, we’re at a new salad bar in Oakland, and as we shoot, I wax on about the chicken meat in the salad.

  “You love your meat,” she says, all sass and vitriol.

  My eyes widen. That’s gotta be good. A sign we’re getting back on track.

  I arch a brow and counter, “So do you.”

  I lay on the flirt before I consider the extra innuendo. For a second, Emerson’s face goes pink, her expression morphing into something serious.

  Shit. Is on-camera awkward going to be a regular thing now?

  She’s silent for a beat longer than I’d expect, then she squares her shoulders. “You think so?”

  And she came to play ball. Batter up. “I sure do,” I say.

  “I suppose, but only certain kinds,” she says in her trademark purr.

  Wait. Is she talking about my dick? Well, the fucker seems to think so because he’s sitting up in my jeans. Thank God for tables.

  The fans shout their approval of our banter.

  “Is Nolan giving you a foodgasm?” someone asks.

  The pink in Emerson’s cheeks races up the color palette to cherry.

  But she rolls with it, giving a saucy flick of her hair. “Nolan always gives me foodgasms,” she says, all slow and drawn out, and not helping along any deflation.

  When we’re done shooting, I take a minute to let the effect of her wear off, then we pose for photos as usual. At the end of the line is a bearded dude in cuffed-up jeans who saunters over to Emerson then points to me. “Hey, are you two a thing?”

  I clench my fists. Why the hell is he asking?

  “We’re just friends,” Emerson says with a cool grin.

  Smirking, he lasers his focus solely on her. “Ah, so that means—”

  “No. It means no,” I cut in.

  The guy holds up his hands and backs away. “Sorry, dude.”

  When he’s gone, she gives me a what gives look. “Really, Nolan?”

  “Oh, were you into him?”

  She narrows her eyes. “That’s not the point.”

  “What’s the point then?”

  “Don’t talk that way to a fan,” she whispers as she drops the tripod into her backpack.

  “You say it to women all the time.” That feels a little I know you are but what am I and I hate it.

  “No, I say we’re just friends, and I say it nicely.”

  But men should not be coming on to her. “Em, that dude was hitting on you, so I made it clear you’re not available.”

  Backpack on, she crosses her arms. “Is that for you to decide?”

  “So that’s it? That’s the issue?” I bite out, thoroughly frustrated with this conversation and my own role in it. “Did you want to go out with him?”

  “No. But that’s not the point.”

  “It kind of seems like it is,” I say.

  “The point is I’m a grown woman with a mouth of my own. A big mouth, thank you very much. I can answer for myself. I can turn him down myself. As you know, I can be a dick if I need to. But that wasn’t a situation that called for one.” With a huff, she points down the block. “I’m going to the coffee shop next door to edit.”

  “I’ll do the socials,” I mutter.

  We settle at the same table in the café, where Emerson drains her espresso in two sips then sets it down with a loud thunk. Silence wraps around her as she taps away on the screen. Tap, tap, tap.

  She hammers the keys, punctuating the quiet.

  But I have nothing to say because I’m picturing her dating that bearded guy with the rolled-up pants. Or some other dude. Some boring toad like her ex, John, or that dick she dated a year ago who fell for someone else while he was with her. Hayden, or Butthead, or Shit for Brains. I don’t even want to remember his name.

  I grind my teeth as I answer fan messages.

  She huffs as she edits.