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.