Page 57 of What's in a Kiss?

From behind us, more people emerge from their cars, passing us on foot. I can think of no good reason for this, save a zombie apocalypse, but it’s happening.

I roll down my window, stick my head out, and hear the new single from Wet Leg being cranked somewhere up ahead.

“That actually sounds kind of fun,” Fenny says, giving me a look, likeshould we?

The alternative seems to be sitting here until we’re ninety-five. I don’t have that much time to get back to my real life. We unclick our seat belts and exit Fenny’s car.

We’re a hundred feet and three dozen cars away from the busiest intersection in LA, and as we get closer, I see the problem. A food truck has flipped on its side in the middle of Hollywood and Highland. I rise on my toes to see what look like tacos... everywhere.

Fenny whistles under her breath. More people pass us onfoot. Everyone seems to be drawn to the scene, not by voyeurism, but by some force I can’t put my finger on. It’s a total clusterfuck, in a town famous for its road rage—and yet, somehow... the vibe isgood.

SUVs have their sunroofs open, with kids hanging out the tops and laughing. Two women wearing big straw hats dance past me like they’re in a Wet Leg video. A poodle with pink hair prances between cars, pausing for pets from the crowd.

“Olivia,” Fenny says, taking my arm. “Isn’t that your husband?”

I follow Fenny’s gazeup. To a palm tree on the corner where my fake husband is perched... twenty feet in the air. He’s not in a tux. He’s in jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie. He’s talking into a megaphone, though I can’t yet hear his words.

He’s not at a premiere. He’s—

Whatishe doing?

A stunt for his show?

But I don’t see a camera crew anywhere. Just a few people holding up their phones. I tap one of them on the shoulder—a teenaged girl filming the scene from the hood of a black Tesla.

“Excuse me?” I say.

She turns to me and blinks. “Oh my god,Zombie Hospitalchick—your character is sus.”

“Guilty,” I say. “What’s going on up there?”

“It’s bonkers,” she says. “So this taco truck got T-boned. The driver’s fine, but the truck’s on its side. My brother went up there to try to get it upright again. And my mom—” She waves at a woman weaving toward us, both hands full of foil-wrapped tacos. “Ew, Mom! You stole tacos off theroad?”

“That man in the palm tree issellingthem,” her mother says, defensively. “To help clear the street!”

That man in the palm tree?

“That’s Jake Glasswell,” I can’t help correcting her. “He’s not selling tacos, he’s—”

“He’s the father!” a man in a nearby minivan calls out his open window. He, too, is unwrapping a taco he must have just purchased off the intersection.

“Excuse me,” Fenny says, shooting me a quizzical look. “Did you say, ‘the father’?”

“Apparently,” a lady in a Porsche leans forward to chime in, “there’s a woman in labor up there.” She points. “Right at the light on Highland. She’s having twins! And she can’t get to the hospital until they clear the road. Sothatguy”—she points at Jake, still in the tree, still speaking into his megaphone—“he’s the babies’ father—”

“He’s not the babies’ father,” Fenny corrects the crowd of strangers. She points at me. “He’sherhusband.”

Now the crowd turns to look at me. Phone cameras swivel my way.

“It’s Dr. Munro,” people whisper. “Zombie Hospital.”

“Uh-oh,” the teenaged girl says to me. “Did you, like, know about his baby mama?”

“No!” I say. “I mean, he’s not even my... not really—” I break off, feeling my cheeks go pink. This is not the time or the place for truth. So I say the thing that’s most obvious, most relevant. “He’sJake Glasswell, okay? Look at him! This is just some stunt for his—”

“Who’s Jake Glasswell?” the girl asks her mom, who shrugs.

I’m about to sputter a laugh when I stop, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I push past these people and head straight for the man I swore this morning I would not return to tonight.