Page 37 of Fan Favorite

“Look, I’m sorry,” he said, finally landing on the only thing there really was to say.

He was surprised to find himself actually meaning it.

“I acted like a jerk. What I keep trying to say, and clearly keep saying all wrong, is that you’re someone I could know in real life or something.

You’re like, a real person, and while I like that a lot, in the context of this show, it’s changed things in a way that I find confusing, and sometimes, I’m a little slow to catch up.

All right?” He paused. He was crossing all sorts of lines he knew better than to cross.

Still, he kept going. “I’m sorry. I am. I should’ve checked on you after the volleyball game and before the makeover to make sure it was what you wanted.

It wasn’t my intention to make you feel stupid.

If anything, earlier, I just wanted you to know that you don’t need to change.

Like, at all. I wanted to make sure you were okay.

But I did it all wrong and it was shitty and I’m sorry. ”

She looked at him, her face inscrutable for the longest time, until he couldn’t stand it.

“Edie, seriously! What more do you want? I stole a limo for you! I apologized! I want to take you to Taco Bell, which I realize isn’t Nobu, but it’s almost two in the morning and we both have to work tomorrow—”

“I’m going to provisionally accept this apology with the understanding that one”—she counted on her fingers—“you’re not going to make me look or feel stupid again; two, you’re going to stop disappearing because it makes it impossible to trust you; and three, in addition to the Nachos Bell Grande, I’m also going to need at least two Doritos Locos tacos.

I’m not a ninety-pound vegan, and I don’t want you to treat me like one. ”

Peter smiled. “Deal.” He turned the key in the ignition, and it was only when he was steering the limousine thunk thunk scrape over a concrete parking divider that he remembered Carole Steele and the hospital strong-arming they’d just given Bennett, and for a split second while the limo descended, Peter wondered if he should mention the whole You’re going to propose to Edie or we’re going to ruin your life thing.

But that would be insane. She would flip out.

Never speak to him again. No, clearly the better plan was to continue manipulating everyone in the name of entertainment.

Fuck.

“One of everything!” Peter announced to the cashier, like he was Daddy Warbucks showing little orphan Annie the world.

The Taco Bell cashier stared at him, her sparkly purple eyelids stalled at a bored half-mast.

“God, Peter, don’t be so embarrassing.” Edie nudged him out of the way with her hip.

“Don’t mind him,” she said to the cashier.

“He’s the type of person who drinks coffee made out of mushrooms. Can you believe that?

Mushrooms! But you’re from LA, of course you’ve seen it all.

” Edie and the cashier exchanged a look before Edie turned back to him.

“You got guardrails, or should I really just order everything?”

Peter was about to explain that mushroom coffee was chock full of health benefits and also delicious , but then he realized he didn’t want to be the annoying partial vegan with acid reflux issues who special-ordered his mushroom brew from Finland right now.

“Nope,” he said. “Shoot your best shot, Pepper.”

“I like your attitude, Kennedy. Now give me your credit card.”

Peter dug out his wallet and handed over his AMEX.

“Don’t forget the margaritas,” he said, even though the thought of a margarita made his esophagus burn.

“You say you know me, but then think I could forget the margaritas.” Edie shook her head before turning back to the cashier.

Peter dug a handful of Tums out of his pocket and walked through the empty restaurant to a plastic booth in the corner.

He brushed the seats and table off with paper napkins, wondering how she knew about the mushroom coffee.

Jessa? So they’d been talking about him.

Great. Another fucking thing to be anxious about.

He sat down. He needed to relax. Ever since he’d steered the limo over that parking divider, he’d been grossly overcompensating for the tightrope of lies he found himself on.

But were they lies, exactly? Or completely normal, behind-the-scenes machinations The Key was built on?

Edie walked toward him in a playful Jessica Rabbit slink, pointing one leg and then the other in her sexy black gown.

She had a full tray, and his credit card was tucked into her cleavage.

“I got you margaritas and a Mountain Dew,” she said mischievously, setting the tray on the table. “Just to see if your brain would explode.”

“How thoughtful.”

“I said to Sandra, ‘Sandra, if it’s neon green and full of sugar, he wants it.’” She handed him a plastic cup and straw. “Do the Dew, Peter,” she laughed before sliding into the other side of the booth.

“I’m definitely going to regret this tomorrow, aren’t I?”

“Probably. But we’ll have fun tonight.”

So, she was having fun. Peter relaxed a bit.

“Okay, I got us a bunch of stuff to share,” Edie continued. “Doritos Locos, Nachos Bell Grande, Crunchwrap Supreme, extra margaritas because Sandra says liquor’s done at three—”

“What the hell is a Crunchwrap Supreme?”

“You’re thinking about it too hard, Peter. Trust me, as soon as all that trans fat hits your tongue, serotonin’s gonna flood your brain and you’re gonna be on your knees thanking me.”

Out of nowhere, an image of Peter on his knees with his head up her dress, thanking her, came to mind. He choked on his Mountain Dew.

“Are you okay?”

“Great,” he sputtered, trying to recover himself. “What flavor is this anyway? What do they call it?”

“I’m not sure. Original flavor? Mountain Dew flavor? Let me taste it.” Edie took the plastic cup, and he watched her wrap her lips around the straw. “Mmm… it tastes exactly like what sunshine would taste like if it were caffeinated and bubbled and poured into a glass. It’s perfection.”

“While I appreciate your thoughtfulness,” he said, unwrapping a taco, “I think I’ll stick to the margarita.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugged.

Peter took a sip of the margarita and held himself back from exhaling a stream of fire as the acid hit his throat.

Maybe Jessa was right—maybe it was time to see a doctor.

Most likely it was an ulcer that was going to explode one day and kill him.

Maybe tonight. Peter looked at Edie, happily munching on a taco, and had the strange thought that if he died eating junk food with her, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst way to go.

“So,” he said, throwing caution to the wind and squirting fire sauce on his dinner. “Tonight seemed to go well.”

“It was great,” she said, pulling a chip from their Nachos Bell Grande.

“It was great? That’s all you have to say? Do you know how long it took the set designers to hang those balloons?”

“I thought you wanted me to save all my reactions for the cameras?”

“I just wanted to know if you’re in looooooooove ,” he singsonged.

She paused, taco mid-mouth, and stared at him.

“What?” he asked.

She stared.

“What? Why are you giving me such a hard time?”

She put down her taco and fixed him with a steady gaze. “Because you deserve it.”

“I thought we made up.”

“You hate being wrong, don’t you?”

“In what way?”

“Well, you were pretty certain Bennett could never fall for a girl like me, and I think it’s pretty clear after tonight that he does like me and that you were wrong.” She took her straw out of her empty margarita and placed it triumphantly in a new one.

“Hmm…” Peter said, sucking down the rest of his drink. Even if his throat was on fire, he wanted to keep up with her. “Not exactly. Maybe I thought that at the beginning, but I changed my mind a while ago. It was you who wasn’t so sure.”

Edie harumphed. “Me? Please. I’ve always known what Charlie and I have.”

“You said Charlie.”

“So?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m just saying—Charlie isn’t Bennett.”

“Oh, whatever,” she said, tossing a crumpled wrapper at him. “You’re insufferable. Bennett, Charlie, they both like me now.”

Peter laughed. “That they do.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Edie looked at him seriously. “Tell me the truth. Did you just want me on the show so you could make me look like an idiot?”

Her gray eyes looked very pretty under the fluorescent lights. He could lie, of course. But what was the point? He already had too many secrets.

“Edie, I’m a reality TV producer. Of course I did.” He put down his margarita. “But it isn’t like that anymore. If anything, you make the show seem sort of idiotic, not you.”

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” she said laughing, swatting him on the wrist.

“I don’t, actually. Just you. You’re special.”

“Stop saying that!” she exclaimed. “When you say ‘special,’ you mean ‘weird’ or ‘quirky,’ and all I’ve ever wanted my entire life was just to be like everyone else.”

“Really?” he said, curious. “Why?”

She laughed. “I don’t even know anymore!

” She twisted her mass of hair up into a bun and secured it with the straight end of a plastic fork.

“I blame my parents. They were old when they had me and never paid much attention, and I just felt like if I could be a cheerleader or homecoming queen, it would make everything okay.” She covered her face with her hands.

“Which is, like, intensely embarrassing now, being here, after an extreme makeover. Like, I’m a full adult person, doing the same shit over and over again, expecting different results. ”

He thought about it for a moment. “I’ve only ever wanted to be exceptional.”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “Aren’t you?”

“Definitely not.”

“I’d hate to know what you think unexceptional is.” She pursed her lips, finishing her margarita. “You seem pretty exceptional to me.”

“I do?”

“Peter, you run marathons and helm one of the biggest shows on network television. What more do you want?”

Peter stared at her, dumbfounded. He’d never felt like a successful person.

He was divorced. He’d given up on his dream to be a writer.

He barely called his parents or made time for his friends.

When she started laughing, his own ridiculousness made him laugh, too.

He didn’t even care that they were being loud and obnoxious, and suddenly Peter had a strange feeling like he was seeing her for the first time.

Her sort-of-too-big smile radiated this unmitigated joy that was not only beautiful but looked like something Peter himself had never been unselfconscious enough to experience.

But he wanted to.

“This is nice,” she said, gesturing vaguely at the restaurant, their table, him. “It’s the first time I’ve felt like my actual self in a while.”

“It is nice,” he said, staring at her for long enough that he got uncomfortable and decided he needed to do something else. He started organizing the Taco Bell detritus back onto the tray.

“Oh my god, this song.” She pointed to the speaker attached to the ceiling. “I love this song.”

Peter stopped and listened. Phil Collins. “Sussudio.” “Phil and I are birthday buddies.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we share a birthday.”

“Stop it.”

“It’s true. January thirtieth. When I was in college, I used to throw him a birthday party every year.”

“You threw Phil Collins a birthday party? But not yourself? Do they even allow parties at Brown?”

He laughed. “Only if they’re for Phil Collins.”

“Did you get Phil a cake?”

“Of course. With ‘Happy Birthday, Phil!’ on it. And, you know, eighties costumes, Genesis blasting from the speakers, that sort of thing.”

“I’m confused,” she said, leaning over the table to peer at him. “’Cause that sounds awesome. Peter Kennedy, are you trying to tell me that at one point in time, you were…” She paused dramatically. “Fun?”

“Oh, I’m fucking fun,” he said. And then—perhaps because the margaritas had hit him just right—he wanted to prove to her just how fun he was.

He jumped up, caught the beat, and started dancing right next to their table, shaking his ass and lip synching all the big notes.

She watched bug-eyed until he dragged her up from the booth, and then they were both breaking it down, right in the middle of Taco Bell.

“What the hell is a Sussudio anyway?” she asked, mid-sprinkler.

“I think it’s the girl’s name?” he said, doing his best running man. “But I’ve never met a Sussudio so it’s hard to know.”

“Google it!”

He watched her do the robot. “How are you single? You’re a total catch.”

“Shut up!”

“Don’t you want to ask why I’m single?” he asked, adding imaginary apples to an imaginary shopping cart.

“Nope. Checks out.”

He laughed and took her hand and spun her around.

Her black gown was halfway unzipped, and the hem swirled in the air as she whirled.

He pulled her to him until they were most definitely dancing together, sometimes touching, sometimes pulling away just for the delight of coming back together again.

It felt like the most fun he’d had in years.

And when the song ended, and their bodies were pressed together, and she was looking up at him with her lips softly parted—for a moment he thought he might kiss her.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?” she asked finally. She took a step back.

He could feel his face morph from the exuberance he’d felt just a second ago to something softer, a little hurt. Yes. Friendship. Friendship was the only option. Or, well, not even an option—he shouldn’t be friends with her. He shouldn’t be anything with her. Fuck, was he drunk?

“Friends,” he said, putting a palm up for a high-five. “What else would we be?” He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I’ll call an Uber.”