Page 62 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

WELL, THAT GOT AWKWARD FAST

Nolan

Emerson and I have been a lot of things to each other.

When we met, she was the funny, bold, freckled brunette who lived in the freshman dorm next to mine.

She knew all the lyrics to Les Mis and liked to eat Cinnamon Life Cereal for a late-night snack, but not the Lucky Charms I loved because the marshmallows in it are made with meat.

Which was a gross thing to learn, but it didn’t stop me from scarfing down the cereal.

Over the years, we’ve been pranksters, rearranging the furniture in Lauren and Dina’s suite one night into the basement of the dorm.

We’ve been stress-meisters, freaking out over exams.

Since college, we’ve been wingmen and women, scoping out targets for each other in bars all over the city.

As life has ebbed and flowed, things with us have been fun, easy, happy and sad. Things have been quiet too, like when I was in France with Inés. Things have been just plain shitty, like when Emerson’s twin sister died and my friend cried in my arms for weeks that spilled into months.

We’ve come in and out of each other’s lives, but mostly in, and nearly always understanding each other.

Now, three days after Vegas, things are like this— Really Fucking Awkward .

As in, all caps. Six-story-billboard style.

Uncomfortable is the name of the game when she picks me up in Wanda outside Jason’s house. The plan is to drive to Wine Country and visit a new diner.

“Hey,” she says, a little distant.

“Hi,” I say, a little laidback, hoping that’ll help.

She pulls away from the curb in her tiny car, and the GPS chirps the directions.

“So, how’s everything?” I ask, even though that sounds lame as fuck.

She arches a brow. “I saw you yesterday. The ice cream shop in Hayes Valley. Remember? Everything’s still good.”

“I know. I was just asking.” Wow, that came out sounding defensive. “Can’t I ask how you’re doing?”

“Of course.” She frowns as she heads toward the Golden Gate Bridge. “Sorry. I’m good. Great even. The views are insane. You?”

And we’re all business.

Okayyy.

“Never better,” I say, even though now it’s the three of us in the car—Emerson, me, and the strange tension between us.

So, this is how we do post-sex—awkwardly. Uncomfortably.

At the diner, we shoot our episode, testing a few dishes. She declares the quinoa bowl a taste fiesta in her mouth, and I have no immediate flirty retort for that.

What’s wrong with me?

But the rest of the episode is solid, so hopefully no one will notice I am off my game.

I hit cut and end the recording, and Emerson and I turn our attention to the folks there to see us.

A line snakes out the door—plenty of guys and gals our age, lots of women in their early twenties. Some older fans too, more Dot and Bette’s age, which is awesome. We’ve never really drawn that demographic before. I’d also say we have double the fans we drew before the promotion, maybe triple.

We take pics, chat, and sign shirts, and I say fuck you to the awkward because this life is better. I am starting to say goodbye to the cusp, and it feels good.

Until a cute blonde straggler at the end of the line reaches us. Her eyes drift from Emerson to me. “Are you free after this, Nolan? Or are you guys dating?”

Damn. Talk about direct.

Emerson gives a closed-mouth sliver of a smile. “He’s just a friend,” she says, patting my shoulder. Then she turns away and packs her bag.

“So, would you like to get a drink?” the woman asks, and I do admire her chutzpah. It’s not easy to ask out a stranger, even if you think you know them from their online presence.

“Thanks, but I’m pretty busy with the show,” I say.

The diner owner gives us some takeout as we leave, and we thank her. Emerson and I load our gear into the back seat of her tiny contraption of a car, tucking the food at my feet as I sit in the passenger seat, my legs folded up uncomfortably.

“Sorry for the... size of Wanda,” she murmurs, something she usually says. Her car can feel like a thimble to me, but it does the job.

“You don’t have to apologize for that,” I say. “Just be glad we have wheels to get to Wine Country.”

She doesn’t answer while she busies herself weaving through afternoon traffic in the town square. “You know, if you ever want to say yes to someone, you can,” she offers, a little strained.

I scoff. “What?”

She flaps her hand toward the diner. “Back there. I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, I get it. And, um, same to you, I guess.”

“Thanks?” she says, but it’s a question.

“You’re welcome?” I ask, and why the hell am I making that a question too.

Emerson turns onto a winding road that curves past vineyards. “I mean, that’s what we decided, right?”

My chest tightens, irritation threading through me. “That’s what we decided,” I agree crisply.

“It’s for the best,” she says as if I need reminding.

“I know. Trust me, I know.”

We’re silent for one mile, then another, then several more. That’s awkward too. We aren’t silent people, but now there’s this heavy quiet hanging like a thick blanket between us. It’s suffocating, and I reach to my collar like I can loosen a tie I’m not wearing.

There are a thousand things to talk about—the show, the traction it’s getting, the thank-you pies Dot and Bette sent us, the emails from Hayes saying he’s in various talks.

.. There’s our own wish to shoot again in New York someday.

A year ago, we did a week of episodes there.

Maybe we can find a sponsor for a few more Big Apple videos.

But I don’t broach any of those topics. Instead, I stretch a hand to the Bluetooth speaker. “Want to listen to music?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate, like she’s underscoring a potent wish to fill the silence with anything but our voices.

The car fills with the sound of The Wallflowers. Maybe that’s an olive branch, that she picked a favorite band of mine rather than Rent or Wicked .

Maybe it’s a sign that this awkwardness will pass. Please, let it pass soon.

A couple days later, we’re at a new salad bar in Oakland, and as we shoot, I wax on about the chicken meat in the salad.

“You love your meat,” she says, all sass and vitriol.

My eyes widen. That’s gotta be good. A sign we’re getting back on track.

I arch a brow and counter, “So do you.”

I lay on the flirt before I consider the extra innuendo. For a second, Emerson’s face goes pink, her expression morphing into something serious.

Shit. Is on-camera awkward going to be a regular thing now?

She’s silent for a beat longer than I’d expect, then she squares her shoulders. “You think so?”

And she came to play ball. Batter up . “I sure do,” I say.

“I suppose, but only certain kinds,” she says in her trademark purr.

Wait. Is she talking about my dick? Well, the fucker seems to think so because he’s sitting up in my jeans. Thank God for tables.

The fans shout their approval of our banter.

“Is Nolan giving you a foodgasm?” someone asks.

The pink in Emerson’s cheeks races up the color palette to cherry.

But she rolls with it, giving a saucy flick of her hair. “Nolan always gives me foodgasms,” she says, all slow and drawn out, and not helping along any deflation.

When we’re done shooting, I take a minute to let the effect of her wear off, then we pose for photos as usual. At the end of the line is a bearded dude in cuffed-up jeans who saunters over to Emerson then points to me. “Hey, are you two a thing?”

I clench my fists. Why the hell is he asking?

“We’re just friends,” Emerson says with a cool grin.

Smirking, he lasers his focus solely on her. “Ah, so that means?—”

“No. It means no,” I cut in.

The guy holds up his hands and backs away. “Sorry, dude.”

When he’s gone, she gives me a what gives look. “Really, Nolan?”

“Oh, were you into him?”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point then?”

“Don’t talk that way to a fan,” she whispers as she drops the tripod into her backpack.

“You say it to women all the time.” That feels a little I know you are but what am I and I hate it.

“No, I say we’re just friends, and I say it nicely.”

But men should not be coming on to her. “Em, that dude was hitting on you, so I made it clear you’re not available.”

Backpack on, she crosses her arms. “Is that for you to decide?”

“So that’s it? That’s the issue?” I bite out, thoroughly frustrated with this conversation and my own role in it. “Did you want to go out with him?”

“No. But that’s not the point.”

“It kind of seems like it is,” I say.

“The point is I’m a grown woman with a mouth of my own.

A big mouth, thank you very much. I can answer for myself.

I can turn him down myself. As you know, I can be a dick if I need to.

But that wasn’t a situation that called for one.

” With a huff, she points down the block.

“I’m going to the coffee shop next door to edit. ”

“I’ll do the socials,” I mutter.

We settle at the same table in the café, where Emerson drains her espresso in two sips then sets it down with a loud thunk . Silence wraps around her as she taps away on the screen. Tap, tap, tap .

She hammers the keys, punctuating the quiet.

But I have nothing to say because I’m picturing her dating that bearded guy with the rolled-up pants.

Or some other dude. Some boring toad like her ex, John, or that dick she dated a year ago who fell for someone else while he was with her.

Hayden, or Butthead, or Shit for Brains. I don’t even want to remember his name.

I grind my teeth as I answer fan messages.

She huffs as she edits.

Then, she closes the laptop. “You know, you can see someone if you want,” she says tightly, like the words don’t quite fit on her tongue.

I take off my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Emerson. I’m not going to see anybody now. I haven’t seen anybody in a while. All I give a shit about is the show and getting rid of this stupid fucking awkwardness between us, okay?”

Her lips are a ruler. “Me too.”