Page 61 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

MORNING PEACOCK RECKONING

Emerson

The thing about fantasies is they end when you’re done.

As in done with the deed.

While I’ve pictured sex with Nolan countless times, I’ve never thought about the morning after. There’s been no need to. The director of my late-night bedroom dreams was always focused on the between-the-sheets action sequence and didn’t bother to script out the following day.

The sunrise scene in my screenplay opens on a blank page. I’m trying to figure out my dialogue and my action.

What comes after the money shot?

Well, in porn they don’t show you, but you gotta clean up the mess. In real life, the same applies, and it’s called the reckoning.

As blinding sunlight blares through the window the next morning, I lie awake in the cushy hotel bed, eyes wide open, wondering what the hell to say when Nolan rouses.

I’ve been lying here for thirty-four minutes.

Thinking.

With a sigh, I stare into the doorway to the living room. I want to get out of bed, check my phone, do some work. But what if that wakes him? What would we say about last night?

Reckonings involve mouths and talking.

Also, weirdness.

The morning after you sleep with your best-friend-turned-business-partner can’t be anything but weird.

Maybe I don’t need a script to tell me there’ll be inevitable lines like: Thanks for the O. Want some pancakes? Or That was cool, but you don’t expect that to happen again, right? Since I have a date with a hot new Tinder hookup.

Or worse . . . nothing.

My stomach flip-flops. But what did I expect? We’re not going to become a thing. Time to put the genie back in the bottle so we can stay friends and move forward as business partners.

No matter how weird it’ll be. That’s the price to pay for last night’s fun.

And was it ever fun... and good...

really good... and kind of amazing. I shift around, unwilling to leave the warm bed quite yet.

Plus, the view. With my head propped on my elbow, I savor the scene a little longer.

The deepest sleeper in all the land, Nolan’s still conked out, face-planted on his pillow, dark hair sticking up in all directions.

My heart glows a little because he’s so damn cute.

And sexy.

I lift a hand reflexively, wanting to run it down his smooth back, to learn how his golden, sun-kissed skin feels in the morning light. To discover if that little scratch I left on the side of his neck smarts. If I can soothe it with a soft kiss.

To ask, too, if he’s bothered by all the biting, scratching, clawing.

Except I know the answer, how much he was into it. A spark wiggles down my belly, a treacherous and beautiful reminder of how good it felt to tangle our bodies together.

Feelings kick around in me, and I’m an electrified bundle of nerves again. I long to hear gravelly morning-after words like That was so good, You’re incredible, and Did it feel that good for you too?

Risky feelings.

I glance at the clock again. I’ve been here for forty-one minutes now, which means only three hours till our flight. Prepping to go will keep me busy and help us avoid a long, drawn-out reckoning.

Quietly, I pad to the bathroom, snick the door shut, and make quick work of getting ready. I brush my teeth, enjoy a quick shower, and get dressed while he’s still asleep.

I head to the living room, grab my phone from where I left it last night, and take it off do not disturb.

My home screen is littered with notifications.

An email from my parents; the preview says That’s our girl!

A text from Jo in New York, saying, Can I say I knew you when? So proud of you!

Is this happening? I click on the next icon. The pane reveals a note from Hayes, our talent agent. Thanks for making my life easier. All those meetings I had about you guys are going to get a lot more interesting!

My skin prickles.

I shudder with want.

There’s one more email to click open. A message from YouTube itself blinks in the corner of my screen. It’s like I’ve been summoned to the top of Mount Olympus, and I walk in, reverently, head bowed, dropping to one knee in supplication at Zeus’s feet. I am at your service.

I swipe it open, my heart in my throat as I read.

Dear Nolan and Emerson,

Congratulations! Your How to Eat a Banana collaboration with Dot and Bette is a shining example of creativity among two top partners.

We’re so pleased to feature you on the home page.

Please note, this is a rolling contest with new entries accepted from other creators throughout the dates of the competition.

You are ineligible to enter again, but we did want to congratulate you on being the first winners in the collaboration series.

YouTube

I inhale sharply. Hold the breath. Shake my head. Close my eyes. Open them.

I read the note one more time to make sure it’s not a joke and check the email address too. Yes, it truly is from the site.

Then I exhale.

My chest handsprings.

I click to the home page of the world’s biggest video site. A moment later, I slap my palm over my gaping mouth.

That’s me.

That’s us.

Those are our new friends.

I stay frozen for long seconds, gulping in air, trying to adjust to this new reality.

Then I let it hit me blissfully in the chest. I jump. I gasp. I scream. “NOLAN!”

There’s a rustle of covers and a quick wake-up yawn. “What? What’s going on?”

I rush into the bedroom as Nolan tumbles out of bed, morning wood tenting his flamingo boxers.

Big time.

Like, my eyes can’t stop eating up the view.

That good morning bulge—straight out and proud—is thoroughly distracting. Lick my lips as my lady parts purr distracting.

Must resist.

Must stay strong.

Why am I here? Right. The phone!

I waggle it at him, this proof that we accomplished a crazy, wild goal that seemed out of reach. We went for a Hail Mary pass and scored a touchdown to win the game.

“Home page. Home page, home page, home page, home page, home page,” I sing.

Nolan’s realization happens in slow motion, and it’s a beautiful thing to witness. His eyes sparkling, his lips curving, a shocked puff of breath falling from his mouth.

Then a whispered wow.

He closes the distance between us, padding across the sapphire rug. His arms circle my waist. He lifts me up in a huge hug and spins me around once. When he stops, we still embrace, holding on so damn tight.

“I think we’re almost there,” he says, and there’s such relief and desperation in his tone.

“I think so too,” I say, my voice nearly breaking.

He squeezes harder, sighing happily against my neck, a fluttery breath ghosting over my skin.

“I need this so much. I really need to get my shit together.” It’s like a confession, the kind of thing you’d only share with your closest friend.

Something that shows your soft underbelly, all the things you want to change when you look in the mirror.

“You do have your act together,” I reassure him.

“Barely.” He’s so hard on himself. He has been for some time.

In a family of overachievers, Nolan sees himself as the odd man out.

His brother’s an NFL quarterback. His father started his own business, which paid for part of their college tuition.

“I’m the guy scraping by as I couch surf.

Last time I had my own place, I shared it with three roomies, and it sucked. ”

“But maybe not much longer,” I say, choking up too.

“I want to get my own place. I want to pay off this...” He can hardly bring himself to say it.

I swallow around the knot in my own throat. “I know. Trust me, I know. Same, same.”

The student loan.

At least, that’s what I call it.

“Me too,” I echo, my chest tight, tears pricking the back of my eyes. “But it’s happening. You figured this out. You found Dot and Bette, and you made this happen. You do have your act together.”

Nolan tugs me closer, his arms tighter still.

I dip my face against his neck. He smells like sleepy mornings, and like our sex hours ago, and a little like me and him. My head is spinning, and my heart is cracking open.

I need to let go. All these emotions are churning like a gathering storm of wishes and wants, smashing into things I can’t have.

Dalliances in duos don’t work. Sex can ruin a friendship, and it can sure tank a partnership. Especially if one person— raises hand —suffers from out-of-control feelings.

Last night was surely just sex to him. But I know myself—it could be more to me, and that’s why we need to leave it at one and done. We’ll stay the course and make sure this career high goes even higher.

I untangle my octopus arms from his neck, slide them off him, step back.

Smoothing my hands over my shirt, I try to blink away the emotional moment and focus on the rest of this day, then the next, then the one after that.

“We need to get on the plane and get home to plan more episodes. Maybe we can hit it hard around Wine Country to mix it up? Do some fresh reviews, have lots of fresh content for our new viewers?”

“Love it.” He scratches his head, then holds up a wait-a-minute finger, those flecks in his hazel eyes saying he has a plan.

But first he walks around the bed to grab his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on.

“I wish our flight didn’t leave so soon.

What if we had time to visit a bunch of places in Vegas and get content from a new city? ”

“Maybe we can change to a later flight,” I suggest. “Do four or five reviews. Stock up.”

A city-wide smile lights his face. “Brilliance and beauty,” he says.

“Hustle and charm,” I say, then point to the bathroom. “Get ready.”

Ten minutes later, he’s out of the shower, wearing peacock boxers that make me smile and ache at the same time.

I can’t enjoy his animal-print boxers. I look away, pack up, and check the room for anything left behind.

Then we go, finding our rental car in the parking lot and tossing our bags into the trunk. Neither of us has said a word about the sex we had last night.

I know we can’t happen again. But his silence seems to say he doesn’t consider that on the table. I know that last night can’t happen again, but my heart is a little hurt that he doesn’t say he would... if we could.

Instead, we’re moving on with barely a word. Isn’t that kind of what he’s done since Inés broke his heart? Since she deceived him, he’s protected that organ in his chest with flirt, with swagger, with playboy ways.

I won’t judge him, though. It takes two to tango, and I definitely danced with him last night. We did the fucktrot all night long.

What I can do is this—get us back to where we were. Where we need to be.

We crossed a line but that doesn’t mean we can do it again. Sex leads to feelings and feelings lead to problems and problems lead to shows falling apart right as they’re finding their audience.

There will be no more rocking the boat by rocking the bed.

Someone needs to say it. Before he turns the key in the ignition, I clear my throat. “About last night...”

His hazel eyes flash with vulnerability and a bit of longing. “Yeah?”

I swallow past a dry patch in my throat. “Well... you know.” I wince. I can’t bring myself to say That was a mistake, or We can’t do it again , even if maybe he feels that way.

Perhaps he senses how hard this is for me. He jumps in, his tone a little heavy. “You were going to say it can’t happen again?”

I sigh, both grateful and sad. “Way to read my mind.”

“I didn’t have to read your mind. I could read your face. It’s all over your expression and in your eyes.”

Even if he’s not saying I want you again but have to resist you, I think it’s in his eyes too. I can’t be the only one who wants what I shouldn’t—can’t—have. “You’re thinking it, too, aren’t you? I mean, there’s just so much?—”

“—at stake,” he supplies.

I nod, my throat tight again, my chest jittery. “Exactly.” I gesture to the dashboard as if to indicate the world beyond our sex-capade. “Everything is happening for us at last.”

“And we need to focus on that,” he adds, more certain now.

I inhale sharply. “So that’s what we’ll do. The work.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “The show means the world to both of us. Right?”

It sounds like he’s begging me to agree, and I do. I want this show to take off for so many reasons. For my sister, for Nolan, for me.

“The show means the world,” I echo. I can’t let this chance slip away just because I’m into him.

I only wish I felt a little less achy as we change our flight, tackle the city, and check out as many cool, divey eateries as we can with the extra time.

Later that night, exhausted and energized, we board our Super Saver flight back to San Francisco. I buckle in. Nolan does the same. A peacock sits two rows behind us. I try not to laugh, but I crack up anyway.

Nolan nudges me, whispering, “Admit it. You’re thinking of my boxers.”

“Obviously.”

“I guess you know my secret now,” he says, his gaze drifting to his crotch as if his only secret is the style of briefs he wears.

He closes his eyes, and he feels miles away behind those glasses.

I want to know his other secrets too. Every now and then, I want to tell him the truth about my student loan, but I don’t know if I could get the words out without sounding foolish.

Would he tell me his secrets if I told him mine?

Last night, I showed him some of mine. The things I want in bed. That I want to be hurt a little bit, to feel a little pain.

More than that, I showed him how much I want him.

But, as the plane soars into the inky night sky, I box up those wants and set them on a shelf.