Shut Up and Kiss Me (Happy Endings 2)

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.