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.
Then, she closes the laptop. “You know, you can see someone if you want,” she says tightly, like the words don’t quite fit on her tongue.