Page 56 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

MIDNIGHT ROAD TRIP

Emerson

To say I want to die is an exaggeration, and I am not prone to exaggeration.

But it’s with zero hyperbole that, two minutes later, I mutter, “I’m going to die.”

With a scarf jammed against my mouth and my overnight bag in hand, I fling myself out of my room. I hold my breath as I pound on Nolan’s door.

He bursts out a second later, his carry-on slung on his shoulder, and without consultation, we bolt down the hall, running for our lives.

If we can just make it to the light.

It’s close, so close.

Almost there.

I slam a hand on the door, stumble out of the vomitorium motel, and into the afternoon sunlight of the parking lot, gasping.

Palms on knees, I gulp in the fresh air. I fan it into my mouth.

“I’m convinced the prior guest ran an embalming clinic in my room,” I tell him, heaving.

“Mine was a secret test lab for how long it takes for food to go bad. The last item they tested was Limburger cheese.”

Not to be outdone in the smell arena, I counter with, “Mine also had the distinct aroma of toe jam.”

“Mine smelled like belly button lint,” he says, determined fucker.

A retch hits the back of my throat and I gag, feeling it down to my toes. “You win. Woman down,” I say, waving the white flag since that’s a nasty scent.

“We can’t stay here tonight,” he says.

“Ya think?”

“Seriously. We need to find a room on the Strip, Emerson, even if we have to crack open a piggy bank.”

“Agreed, but the Phone Geek Show is in full swing. Maybe we can sleep in the car if we can’t find a room. It’s better than that,” I say, pointing at the putrid Teddy Bear Inn.

But time’s a-ticking; we’ll have to deal with the room situation later. The Impress Dot and Bette Project, featuring amazing Vegas food, begins now.

It starts at The Cosmopolitan, home to Momofuku and its divine Brussels sprouts. The first order of business is to stop there and snag some goodies to review with the two besties in their home.

Actually, the first order of business is to freshen up, and since I couldn’t do it in the Teddy Bear tar pits, I pop into a luxurious ladies’ room off the casino floor. A love seat graces a lounge area, and as I reapply lip liner in the mirror, I make an executive decision.

I march out to meet Nolan by the Wizard of Oz slot machine and issue my declaration: “It’s official. I will sleep in the ladies’ room here if I have to.”

“Cool. The men’s room is pretty sweet too. We can be Cosmopolitan stowaways.”

Next up, we climb back into the little red rented Hyundai and head to the nearest 7-Eleven for a review of gourmet pretzels and Slurpees. When we’re done, Nolan drives to the other food spots to grab the dishes for our trio of samplers.

Meanwhile, I edit on the go then hit post on our quickie episode. Next, I tackle a hotel search, but I have no luck finding an available room that won’t require a new bank loan. “We might be better off just driving back to San Francisco tonight,” I suggest after coming up empty.

“Brains and beauty. Let’s do a midnight road trip.”

“We’ll take all the photos.”

“For your road trip collection,” he says.

In vivid flashes I imagine snapping shots of this trip with Nolan—goofy smiles, cheeky looks, silly poses. I’d put them on the mantel, let him share space with my other collection.

“You know it. And we can review all the convenience stores on the way home,” I add.

“You are hardcore, Emerson.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I mean that in all the good ways.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, I’m not sure hardcore is the compliment you think it is.”

As we slow at a light, he shrugs. “Maybe it is.”

And maybe it could be.

Like in another world where we weren’t besties, where we weren’t business partners hanging on by a thread. Maybe then, he’d say we could be together in some way.

Like in the bedroom for one night.

Maybe he’d say he’d help me let loose all my deep, dark fantasies. That he knows them already.

And perhaps I wouldn’t mind sharing them with him.

But those what-ifs aren’t my reality, so I’m left with this—he’s possibly the world’s biggest flirt.

Yeah, that’s the guy I know so well.

The flirt monster.

A little later, the back seat is brimming with our offerings. We putter through a cute neighborhood a couple miles away from the hubbub of the Strip, following the robotic GPS voice until we’re pulling into the driveway of a stucco house graced by oversized cowboy boot statues on the lawn.

Texas meets Vegas.

Dot and Bette wait for us on the front porch, lounging in rocking chairs, glasses of lemonade in their hands, smiles on their warm faces. Dot wears a red gingham dress. Bette has donned teal gingham.

It is love at first sight.

They are the antidote to Super Saver Squish Me to Pieces Airline. The opposite of The Teddy Bear Smell Chamber of Horror.

My soul feels calm.

It could also be that I’ve had a long, stressful day. Being back in this city kicks up memories.

Still, as I step out of the car and shut the door, my heart skitters with a crazy sense of hope. A hope I haven’t felt this strongly since Nolan said yes to the show more than a year ago.

Maybe I can finally turn this into a bona fide online hit.

That’s what Callie wanted for us back when she asked me to launch How to Eat a Banana with her a few years ago.

We created the show together for fun, as a little side thing.

Slowly, we found an audience. Then, she died, and the show went on hiatus as I went to pieces.

But, thanks to friends and family, I pulled myself together and devised a new plan.

Nolan was back in the States and looking for a gig.

Maybe I could convince him to be my new partner. To start it over.

One chilly fall afternoon, I took him to his favorite mac-and-cheese shop—since the guy just loves that dish—plied him with the Gouda specialty and asked him if he wanted to be my new co-host.

“Want to get the band back together? Only the band would now be you and me?” I asked.

Fork midair, he paused. “You want me to be your second banana?”

I laughed. “No, we’ll both be first bananas. Like Callie and I were. Or not. I mean, we didn’t even call ourselves bananas. It was just a funny name because there’s no way to eat a banana innocently.”

He nodded a few times as if deeply considering the offer. “Bananas are ripe for innuendo.” Another pause, then he sighed contently. “All right. I’m in. When do we start?”

I squealed. “Are you sure? It’s that simple?”

“It’s that simple.”

The next week, we relaunched the show, finding our own sexy shtick, amping up the flirt and the banter since, well, we could.

The show evolved, reflecting our tastes and style. Still, the Web series keeps me close to Callie. Makes her feel alive in a way, since it was her idea in the first place.

I loved working on it with her, and I want her to know I’m taking care of her baby. Even though I’ve made it my own. I cast my gaze to the blue sky, sending her a wish. I’m doing this, like you said I would.

I walk to the porch even though I want to run.

“Hi, Dot. Hi, Bette,” I say. “Thank you so much for inviting us here. I’m Emerson.” I offer my hand.

“I’m Nolan,” my best friend says.

Dot stands first, waves off my palm, then opens her arms wide. “I’m a hugger, sweetie pie. I come from a long line of huggers, and it cannot be stopped. So, forgive me,” she says, wrapping strong arms around me.

Yup. Insta-love, I am in you . “Nothing to forgive,” I say, a little choked up. “I’m a hug monster too.”

She lets go. “Then we’ll get along fine.”

Bette snares me in a tight embrace next. “You look like Audrey Hepburn,” she declares when she lets go.

I take that compliment and tuck it in my pocket for when I feel blue. “Thank you.”

“And you? Well, hello there, Clark Kent,” Bette says to Nolan.

Ever the gentleman, he takes her hand and kisses the knuckles. “Pleased to meet you. If you need anyone to leap a tall building in a single bound, I’m your man.”

Bette chuckles, warm and exuberant. “And I do believe I’ve died and gone to I’ve-been-charmed heaven.”

I’m giddy and alive with possibilities. I run a hand over the ladybug charm. Maybe I do believe in luck. Maybe it’s coming our way tonight.

“Come on inside and you can meet Evelyn,” Dot says, then drops her voice to a whisper. “Warning though—she’s kind of a hard-ass.”

“That’s what a business manager should be,” I say, picturing a stern woman in a pantsuit, protecting her clients like a shark.

Good on Dot and Bette for having a tough-as-nails manager.

Dot swings open the door, then leads us into the living room of a sun-drenched home. The couch is strewn with pillows declaring Bless this mess or bring me wine to accept it , and the walls boast sassy inspirational sayings like Give me the strength to deal with people .

Yup, I have found my soul mates.

I realize there’s a teenager perched in a chair, aimlessly swinging one foot in a black high-top. She’s clutching a purple phone that matches the fishnet stockings visible under her ripped jeans. Standard high-schooler attire. “Hey, there,” she says, too cool for school.

“Hey. How’s it going?” Is she their makeup artist? Her smoky lids are banging. “Nice eyelashes.”

“Thanks. Same.”

I smile my thanks as the girl flicks her thumb over the screen, then silence hangs between us for a few seconds.

Is she Dot’s granddaughter? Her coloring is similar to the Texan’s.

“Well, nice to meet you,” I say politely, expecting to follow Dot into another room, but when I turn, I bump into her where she stands.

“Oh, sweetie pie,” she says, “you need to talk to Evelyn first.”

“Anytime,” Nolan says with his easy charm. “Let us know when she arrives.”

Dot laughs. “You’re too cute.” Then she points. “That’s Evelyn.”

Ohhhhh.

“My granddaughter,” Dot adds. “She handles the YouTube and all the Twitters.”

“Don’t forget the tic-tac-toe,” Bette chimes.

A groan rolls off the teen. “Bette, please,” Evelyn says, her dignity mortally wounded.