I’ve kissed this girl. Made out with this girl. Still remember her breathless, “Yes,” from that afternoon when I told her I wanted her in my bed, before everything fell apart. Somehow, though, none of those memories feel connected to her—this girl standing in front of me, extending a hand for me to shake like we’re respectable business colleagues and I’ve never had my tongue in her mouth or my hands up her shirt.
I’ve gotten way too good at my own ability to disengage.
I take her hand, but instead of merely shaking it, I lean forward and pull it up to my lips, kissing her just behind the middle knuckle. “I guess you’ll be meeting me in San Fran after all, huh?”
She inclines her head and smirks, pulling her hand from mine and readjusting the laptop strap. “I guess. But I get the feeling that meeting Monday and Tuesday mornings at 5:00 a.m. for more morning show interviews isn’t what you had in mind.”
Correct. “Come on, Emma. We have to go somewhere cool Monday night.” I turn to walk back around to the driver’s side, because we’re getting some attention from other departing passengers who’ve begun to figure out who we are. She’s flying home to Sacramento while I’m driving back to LA alone. “San Francisco is a culinary heaven. And I’ll have you back to your room in time for your Skype appointment.” I wink at her and she rolls her eyes.
“Oh-kay,” she says, as though she’s exasperated and I’ve worn her down.
I feel as though she just moved a game piece that puts her that much closer to check mate, and I can’t help thinking what a bastard I’ve turned into.
All’s fair in love and war. A fine sentiment—if this was either.
***
“John. Please tell me you have something stimulating on tap for tonight.”
I-5 is two hours of spotty cell service with occasional ocean views, until it veers away from the Pacific and loses all aesthetic appeal, becoming frequently punctuated with snarls of traffic in heavily populated areas. I’m already bored out of my mind and I still have at least another hour to go, probably two, because of traffic anywhere near LA this time of day.
“That depends what you mean by stimulating, man. On a scale of one to p**n , where do you wanna be?”
There’s a car full of girls next to me, all of them trying to see through the nearly opaque window tint. Right before the light turns, I roll the windows down and glance over, watch their mouths all turn into “O” as the signal switches to green and I’m gone. “One to p**n . Hmm. I’d say a solid eight or nine would do.”
John yawns into my ear. “Eight isn’t out of the question. This girl who was on my econ project team is having a dinner party tonight—”
“Dinner party? What the hell man—we’re not thirty-five.”
“Yeah that’s what I thought, until she dragged me to one last week that her sorority sister was hosting. Basically everyone sits around being all pseudo-intellectual and getting stoned. All I had to do to seem like the smartest guy there was shut the f**k up.”
“So pretty much your natural state when stoned.”
“Yeah.”
Less than two weeks until the premiere—at which point one of two things will happen. Most likely: Brooke will succeed with Operation Graham, and Emma, in her emotionally defenseless state, will fall into my arms with one good pull. Less likely: Brooke will fail, Graham and Emma will run off into the sunset holding hands and making everyone within a ten-mile radius vomit, and I’ll be free to go back to the openly hedonistic life that other nineteen-year-old guys would kill to have. It’s win-win, if I can just get to it.
***
When we arrive, John’s girl answers the door, pressing herself into him. “You’re late. I thought you weren’t coming,” she chides. She’s one of those squeaky-voiced girls, which fits her tiny size. Standing behind him, I can’t actually see her. I only know she’s on the other side of him because I can hear her.
He hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “I had to pick Reid up. You said you needed another guy for the boy-girl balance, so I delivered.”
Her eyes peek over his shoulder then, and immediately widen. “You brought—Reid Alexander?” she squeaks. “That’s who you meant when you said you were bringing Reid?”
John isn’t usually one to keep our friendship secret, our relationship being a major part of his social resume. Then again, he sometimes savors other people’s shock when he introduces me as a friend in person. I don’t mind. I actually sorta like it.
“Didn’t I tell you that already?” His voice is all blasé and it’s an effort for me not to laugh. He glances back at me with the same laugh-evading expression I’m wearing. “I’m almost sure I did.”
“Uh, no. I’d have remembered that. Ohmigod.”
I step up to stand next to John, handing over a bottle of wine I took from Dad’s collection right before we left. Hopefully it’s something old and expensive, but not old enough to taste like shit.
John makes the introductions, epitomizing the perception of no big deal. “Reid, Bianca. Bianca, Reid.”
She takes the bottle with a strangled, “Nice to meet you.” John chuckles when she tosses a small glare at him, mixed with newfound appreciation, before turning and walking into the open room and announcing, “Hey guys, this is John, and, uh, Reid…”
Five people—three girls and two guys—sit mashed around a table that looks thrift-store shabby but upon closer inspection was just made to look that way. The chairs and dishes are mismatched, too, as though this in itself coordinates with the cinderblock walls and exposed pipes. Pretend grunge annoys the shit out of me for some reason, but I’m not here to pass judgment on the décor.