Page 19 of What's in a Kiss?

Chapter Six

“This is me,” I tell Glasswell, pulling up to my favorite Japanese teahouse. I’m dizzy with exhaustion. Fifty minutes in traffic with Glasswell has frayed my nerves beyond repair.

He takes in the Santa Monica strip mall, with its upscale pot dispensary, robotics school, and cryogenic therapy center. I sense his question before he asks: “Where’s the recording studio?”

I don’t tell him it’s in the residential neighborhood two blocks south of where we stand. More precisely, that it’s in the garage of my childhood duplex, where my mom still lives. And since I’m also not saying that my boss is my mother, this is where our two roads must diverge.

I nod at the teahouse. “First, I drink a gallon of gyokuro. Then I go and dominate the faders.” Clearly, I’ve crossed over into delirium. I tap the Lyft app to end our ride, then I scoop up Gram Parsons, and climb from the LEAF with a stretch.

Glasswell’s out of the car, too. He looks at the teahouse. “They have matcha lattes in there?”

My heart sinks. They have miraculous matcha lattes in there. Lazarus would rise from the grave to get one. But Glasswell is not invited to my favorite teahouse.

“The matcha’s better across the street,” I say, pointing.

Glasswell squints into the sun, shading his eyes with a hand.

“Starbucks?” he says like the word is made of broken glass. “Morally unacceptable.”

“You have morals now!”

“Are you this way with all your riders?” Glasswell asks. “Is this what you consider... five-star service?” He holds up his phone to display the screen that rates his ride, his finger lingering above the lowly single star.

“Don’t you dare,” I say, my voice rising. I may not be the world’s most graceful driver, but I am friendly and accommodating. I do my best to offer the right ride for every passenger I pick up—Glasswell excepted. My five-star rating is a rare point of light in the dark night of my penury.

“Don’t worry,” he says, and taps the five stars. “I can tell this matters to you.”

We stand there, facing each other. I’m steaming inside, and he won’t even meet my eyes. It’s like he can’t see down this far.

“I’mgoingto have a matcha latte,” he says, then makes anafter yougesture toward the teahouse door.

When I don’t budge, when it feels as if my jaw has welded together, Glasswell adds: “Let me buy you a drink, Olivia.”

“Why? Because I’m a broke Lyft driver?” I shout-whisper in the parking lot.

“Because you gave me a ride from the airport.”

“Purely transactional.”

His eyes flick over mine for the briefest instant. I await his next insult, but instead Glasswell reaches out and scratches under Gram Parsons’s chin. Gram Parsons is about to go into hispleasure pose—the chin-clamp, designed to lock the chin-scratcher’s hand in place. And when the clamp happens Glasswell’s hand will be locked against my left breast. Sans brassiere. The unexpected touch will cause my nipple to pop up like it’s trying to tear a hole in the ozone layer. Which will broadcast absolutely the wrong message.

I lurch away hard, spinning a full 360. Gram Parsons whines dizzily. “Enjoy your matcha, Glasswell.”

He catches up to me, circling to block my path on the sidewalk. “Olivia.”

“Why can’t you leave me alone?”

He sighs. “If it’s that big of a deal to you, I’ll go to Starbucks.”

“Don’t do that,” I say. “You won, okay? At lattes. At life. First prize goes to Glasswell.”

“You’re right.”

I scoff.

“I mean...” He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re right to point out it’s absurd to make this—or anything—a contest. It’s just, you’ve always... ever since high school... you bring out something in me. Something that wants to—”

“Be a dick?”