Page 70 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

FOOD AND OTHER GASMS

Nolan

Sometimes when I’m alone, I practice things I want to say to Emerson. The stupid secrets I want to share with her. The why of them.

“Funny you should mention loans. So, about mine...”

After learning what she did for her sister, I’m even more convinced my story, the reason I’m so determined to keep my head above water, makes me sound like a complete nitwit.

So, I kept it to myself when she shared with me. I keep it under wraps like I’ve always done. The only people who know the details are my two best buds.

I’m out for a run with them a few days after the Long Food shoot, TJ and Easton pounding the pavement alongside me in Central Park.

“You almost done paying off the loan?” TJ asks.

“Close like a horseshoe,” I say.

“Good. I still can’t believe you got stuck with that,” he adds.

“Well, I haven’t always made the best decisions.”

“Who has?” Easton shrugs like it’s no big deal. “But you’re almost there, so that’s good.”

“Yeah. I just want to make the final payment and put it behind me.”

“And never have to tell Emerson about it?” TJ asks pointedly.

Never tell anyone but these two guys. These dudes are vaults, and they are also far, far away from my family and my life in San Francisco. “It doesn’t exactly scream this guy has his shit together ,” I say.

Easton shakes his head. “It says nothing about you.”

“Exactly,” TJ agrees. “But it bugs you that you never told her. That does say something about you.”

I’ll bite. “What does it say?”

“That you want her to know the real Nolan,” he tells me plainly.

Do I, though? Probably. But do I want that as a friend? Or as something more?

I shouldn’t want more with her. There’s no room for it in our plans. “What I want is to move back to New York,” I say as the sun climbs higher. “So, the sooner I pay it off, the sooner I can do that.”

TJ goes with the subject change as we near the reservoir. “Look, I’m not saying I want to see your ugly face around here more often, but I heard from some friends about a sublease in Queens,” he offers.

“Awww. I love it when you sweet talk me,” I deadpan.

“And Bellamy mentioned a friend in Brooklyn who is moving out of her studio soon,” Easton says, just as chill. “Not that I give a fuck if you’re here either.”

I plaster on a smile as we run, pretending I’m inhaling the scent of their... adoration. “The love, gentlemen. The love. It wafts off you two like cologne.”

“And I bet it smells fantastic,” TJ says.

“Seriously, though,” I add. “Appreciate the hookups. I truly do.”

That’s the simple part. But what about Emerson? Would she stay on the East Coast if the show worked out, or bounce back and forth? Would she stay if it didn’t? And what happens next?

That’s the trouble.

Our fate is in the hands of a network that has its own agenda, as TJ pointed out the first night we arrived.

As my buddies chat about New York rent and other quirks of the city—last week TJ saw a dude walking a tiger on a leash in Soho—my gaze falls on a food truck setting up for the day.

Kale-ing It is the sign on the truck, and it peddles all things, well, kale. It’s perfect for How to Eat a Banana , and I need to talk to Emerson right the fuck now.

“I gotta go.” That’s all I say before I pick up the pace and dash back to the hotel, breathing hard and sweating as I knock on room 1208.

Ten seconds later, Emerson answers, and my heart jackhammers.

Damn, she looks pretty in the morning when she’s doing her makeup and her hair is all slicked back and wet.

She’s wearing a T-shirt and skinny jeans, and I want to undress her and kiss her all over.

And make her feel spectacular with my tongue between her legs. I bet she tastes like a dream.

And fuck me. Here I go again, thinking with my little head.

I slam the door on the dirty thoughts. Now is not the time. She has her loan. So do I.

Business. Just business.

“What if they don’t pick us up at the end of this trial?

” I blurt. “What if Dot and Bette win the slot? What if we’re relegated to the bottom of the streaming menu?

If the service doesn’t promote you, you don’t become the next Stanley Tucci touring Italy.

You become a blip.” My worry spills out in a verbal ten-car pile-up. “I can’t be a blip, Emerson.”

With a makeup brush in one hand, she grabs me with the other and drags me inside. “That’s all true. What do you want to do?”

What I don’t want is to be back on the cusp, scraping by, bouncing from couch to couch, crushed under debt.

I take off my glasses, pinch the bridge of my nose, and pace up and down in her room.

“There are no restrictions in our contract against us doing the YouTube show, so long as we don’t do the chef interviews or cover the same places.

” I looked over the contract with Hayes, though I’m only working this idea out now.

“We’ve only done one or two shows for our own channel since we’ve been here. That’s not like us, Em.”

“True,” she says, moving to the bed and perching on the edge. “We’ve been busy on the Webflix show.”

“And we have to do that. And I want to do that.” I pace to the window, fiddle with my glasses and slip them back on.

“But I also think we need to keep doing our own thing. Even if it’s hard.

Even if it takes a ton of time.” I meet her eyes, desperation chasing my thoughts, my plans. “We can’t depend on someone else.”

“I wasn’t doing that,” she says a little defensively.

“I wasn’t saying you were,” I point out. “But it’s just... we can only trust ourselves, you know?”

“I do.”

“We’re the only ones who’ll have our backs. We were already ticking up before Webflix called. We just need to keep that trajectory, keep the same pace. What do you think?”

I implore her, hoping like hell she’ll agree. She’s always been a go-getter and always wanted this future. Still, I’m tense as I wait four, five, six seconds.

Then, she smiles. “When do we get rolling again?”

I stab the air. “Right now. And I know just the place to do it.”

She lifts a brow and points her makeup brush at me. “No offense, but you’re kind of smelly and gross. Maybe shower first.”

“Brains and beauty,” I say, holding my arms out wide.

She pinches her nose. “And brutal honesty,” she calls as I leave to wash off the run and make myself presentable.

Three hours later, we’re sampling kale chips that are so good, so crunchy, the chef must be a wizard. How else could he make these vegan, low-cal treats taste like decadent junk food?

Don’t even get me started on the kale fries.

“These fries are a nine,” I announce after I taste one.

Emerson goes still with shock, then gradually unfreezes. “The man can bend, evidently,” she says.

I just smirk. “When something’s this good, it deserves a nine.”

“I give them a nine point five,” she says, showing me up, as she does.

And I love it.

It feels good.

We find a coffee shop to buckle down afterward, and she edits while I chit-chat with fans on social media, just like we used to.

This feels just right.

But it also feels like I’m running a race to get the girl at the finish line, only I won’t ever win.

The next afternoon, as we’re leaving for an evening Webflix shoot, we run into Dot and Bette outside the hotel. Dot is laughing—probably at something her bestie said—and her cheeks are streaked with red, green, and yellow paint. Her hair too. Bette is also decorated in splotches.

When they spot us, both ladies wave with bright eyes and big smiles. Damn, they are friendship goals.

“Hey, cuties,” Bette says and opens her arms like she’s going to hug us, then she steps back. “Oops. I’m covered in paint. Today was make pies and paintball,” she says, like that makes sense.

Emerson raises a finger. “Your show is now pies and paintball?” Leave it to my friend to go straight to the obvious question.

Dot shrugs happily and adjusts her blonde hair, tucking errant strands into a bandana. “It’s our new shtick, apparently. We make food and tour New York. Tomorrow, we’re flipping burgers at a trendy diner and taking a helicopter over the Big Apple.”

That’s kind of a cool concept. “So, you’re like New York tour guides for food and fun,” I say, adding up the pieces.

“And then Miami and DC and so on. It’s a little wild,” Dot says, clearly jazzed at the new direction for their show. “We’ve always wanted to travel like this, so it’s super fun , as my Evelyn would say.”

“And we love it. One hundred percent ,” Bette adds. “Also an Evelyn saying.”

Evelyn pops up out of nowhere; that’s her schtick. She grabs Dot’s arm and tugs her toward the entrance. “We have that meeting in thirty minutes. You need to get out of your paintball clothes and into something?—”

“Yes, yes. Dressy and on-brand . I know, sweets, I know,” she says.

Evelyn nods to the hotel entrance. “We should get ready.”

But the message is shut up .

Fine, fine. I get it. We’re competitors now, but clearly, Webflix is making changes to both our shows.

As Emerson and I grab the train to our next stop, she gives me her big-eyed look. “Well?”

I roll my eyes. “Go ahead. Play detective. I won’t stop you.”

“But you won’t play along?” She frowns as the subway rattles downtown, taking us to Tribeca.

“I won’t. Because we just don’t know.”

“But they just might get the slot,” she says. “Their show is like Golden Girls on tour. Everyone loves The Golden Girls . That’s a fact.”

“True, true.”

“And they’re getting so much more bling and fanfare from Webflix,” she points out.

“Even more so than Max Vespertine and the Wine Dude and the Drive-Thru Babe. But Max totally appeals to the Bourdain crowd, and Drive-Thru Babe is perfect for twenty-somethings, and the Wine Dude has the whole real guy vibe. They’re all so good in their own way. ”

She’s not wrong. But I’ve spent my whole life competing, albeit in my own head, with the guys in my family. Not sure I want to add contention against the lovable, crazy, foodie grannies and everyone else.