Page 23 of The Love Bus

THE INCIDENT

N oah didn’t take the phone right away. He glanced up, searching my face for a beat before finally picking it up and pressing play.

I knew what he was seeing.

Leo, in his all-black uniform, perfectly pressed, the whole master-of-the-kitchen look he loved to cultivate.

And me, standing beside him, wrapped in Gran’s old apron, its faded floral print draped over the boho dress I’d thrown on that morning. The fabric was soft, loose, flowing—a contrast to the polished kitchen I’d spent months refining.

Noah adjusted the volume. “A cooking show, huh?”

“Yeah. It was called,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “ Lunch with Leo and Luna.” I winced. “After this segment, the name was changed to Leo’s Lavish Larder.”

Which, by the way, was a terrible name. Who even said “larder” anymore?

Noah watched as the camera panned down to Leo’s manicured hands, which were expertly chopping cilantro. He worked with the precision of a man who thought he had everything under control.

Watching now—at a distance, with fresh eyes—the awe that I used to feel for him was definitely diminished.

I studied him more dispassionately but still noticed how his eyes smiled from below honey-brown hair that he kept just messy enough to seem like he hadn’t spent ten minutes styling it.

His crisp chef’s coat, embroidered with his name and the logo of the culinary institute he never let anyone forget he’d attended, remained spotless, despite the mess we were making.

And then, of course, there was his smile—the one that had easily convinced everyone, including me, that we were not only the perfect culinary team but the perfect couple.

Watching the footage with Noah, that sick feeling from before threatened to grip me again. Because I knew what was about to happen.

There I was, off to the side, chattering away as I grabbed limes from the counter.

“Fresh lime juice makes everything taste brighter,” I chirped—yes, chirped—as I sliced one open and squeezed it over a bowl of sriracha dressing and lobster filling.

My voice was sunny. Enthusiastic. The perfect “Luna” voice.

I saw my eyes dart down and to the side, the movement almost unnoticeable if you weren’t looking for it. But Noah didn’t have the context I did. He wouldn’t know what he was seeing, what I had been seeing at the time, so I reached across the table and paused the video to explain.

“You can’t see it from the camera’s point of view, but there’s actually an iPad kind of hidden behind the breadbasket here, which is what I was looking at just now.

We used it to refer to our recipes or look things up sometimes.

Notifications were supposed to be muted while we were filming, but if you listen closely, you can hear the pinging sounds.

That’s when her messages started coming in. ”

Noah frowned. “Her?”

“Kensington Martel. Kensi. Assistant to the assistant producer. Who is now, incidentally, Leo’s new co-star. The messages were meant for Leo’s eyes only, of course. She didn’t realize they’d show up on the tablet. And the first one…”

The table, the restaurant, and Noah’s face faded away, as I could practically see the bright message bubbles in front of me, right down to Kensi’s cutesy little emojis. “She was telling him there was lipstick on his collar—her lipstick,” I explained, swallowing hard.

Noah nodded slowly, apparently not needing more details to understand what I was saying. Grateful for that, I hit play again.

On-screen, there was another soft ping, and my video-self’s eyes flicked down to the tablet again, lingering longer this time.

Some part of me, I think, had understood immediately what I was looking at.

Deep, deep down in, like, the lizard brain section or something.

There had just been this horrible sense of doom in the pit of my stomach, though I’d tried to come up with some other explanation.

Now, sitting with Noah, as I watched my face freeze and then slowly look back at the camera, it was like I was suddenly back in that moment. I could feel the heat from the overhead lights, could smell the herbs and the lobster meat.

“Doesn’t a dash of citrus make everything taste a little fresher, Lare?” I still sounded cheery, but my body felt…stiff.

Leo, oblivious, enthusiastically agreed as he scraped the chopped cilantro leaves into a bowl.

Another notification flashed across the screen.

Kensi: That old apron makes her look like someone’s grandmother.

What? Why would Kensi be texting this? I thought we were friends.

I glanced down at my apron—paisley and patched in places. I’d chosen it for the show deliberately, a sentimental connection to the woman who had shaped so much of who I was.

My fingers brushed the fabric, suddenly feeling exposed.

Then there was Leo in his chef coat—sleek, black, pressed, professional. My gaze traveled up to the neatly buttoned collar.

Which was when I saw it.

A pink smudge.

Right side.

My hand hovered over the bowl. The director’s voice crackled in my earpiece.

“Keep moving, Luna. We need to pick it up.”

I grabbed the buttered rolls, my hands moving mechanically. “The buttery texture of the lobster pairs perfectly with the tangy dressing. It’s truly a classic combination,” I said, my tone eerily steady. “Do you remember where you were when you tried your first lobster roll, Lare?”

He launched into some embellished tale. At least half of it was scripted, the details twisted for the audience, and Leo performed perfectly, like he always did.

Another ping .

Kenzi: Two more weeks, babe, and then we won’t have to put up with the Lunatic anymore. Just think—our show, our rules.

Leo had been working on the contract negotiations and the syndications. He was the one talking with our agent…the lawyers.

Leo turned to check the recipe. He saw the message and practically dropped the knife.

He reached for the iPad, fingers smudged with cilantro and lime, fumbling to swipe away that damning evidence. In his rush, he knocked the screen flat on the table, faltered again, and then grabbed a tea towel and tossed it over the screen, aiming for nonchalance.

Too late.

I had already seen Kensi’s last message:

Kenzi: There she goes again. A little heavy with the mayo, don’t you think?

Heavy with the mayo?

Was she seriously insulting my cooking now? It was the perfect amount of mayo! I mean, I may not understand the ins and outs of our negotiations, I may look a little frumpy in my apron, but I always, always used the right amount of mayo in this recipe!

The buzzing in my ears grew louder.

But I still caught Leo’s little dig. “Careful with the mayo, Luna.” His condescending voice carried across the airwaves. “We don’t want to go too heavy.”

My blood turned cold.

He parroted Kensi’s words like nothing was wrong, like I hadn’t just seen my entire reality crumble in real time.

Another ping , and this time we both heard it. My gaze locked on Leo, who was starting to look a little…panicked.

I wasn’t wrong about what those messages meant. It was exactly what it looked like. Leo…and Kensi…

I couldn’t explain what happened next, then or now. It was like I wasn’t me, but I was still me . The lights seemed to dim, and blood roared in my ears, drowning out the director’s voice and every other sound on the set. And yet, I was weirdly, eerily calm.

The bowl of creamy filling was in my hands, lifting up high, higher. There came a half-hysterical thought: How’d that get there?

And then, live on air, I dumped the entire thing over Leo’s head.

Chunks of lobster and spicy sriracha dressing cascaded over his chef’s hat, dripping down his face and his coat in sticky chunks.

Filling even clung to his eyelashes as they blinked furiously.

Between the lime juice and the spices, I hoped it stung.

Leo grabbed the tea towel and swiped it down his face. Lobster sauce clung to the edge of his collar, and his jaw flexed like he was working hard not to explode.

And then he gave me that look—the one that made me feel about ten inches tall.

“You are such a Lunatic,” he snapped, the nickname twisted into something sharp. He’d used it before, always with a half-laugh, like it was cute. Like I was the joke. But this time, there was no humor—just venom.

Then, just as quickly, he pivoted. His expression crumpled, like I was the one who’d betrayed him . “God, Luna…what is wrong with you?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Something inside me locked up.

Maybe I had gone too far. Maybe I was the one losing it. Maybe all of this was my fault.

But then he looked at me—really looked at me—and I saw it.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Contempt.

And in that moment, a thought crossed my mind, one that probably should’ve scared me more than it did.

He’s lucky I’m not the one holding the knife.

I spun around to walk off set, but… The floor was slippery now. It might have been comical if any of it had been rehearsed or planned. Or if my heart hadn’t been broken into a thousand pieces.

Oh, the joy of live television… I watched myself fall back, arms flailing, my skirt flying up as my ass hit the floor. I was lucky, really, not to have given myself a concussion.

So much for making a grand exit.

The video ended.

I was back in the booth in a small mountain-town restaurant, sitting across from Noah Grady. My breath was uneven.

When I finally looked up, Noah’s brows were furrowed. He had watched the entire thing in silence, not commenting when I’d recited the contents of Kensi’s messages.

After a slow blink, he dragged his gaze back to mine. “Were you injured?”

“What?”

“The fall. Were you hurt?” He winced.

“Oh…” It was the doctor in him. “No. I was fine. Physically.”

Noah’s eyes seemed to search mine, almost as though to make sure for himself. And then, “Did you know he was cheating before?”

I shook my head.

“And this all happened live?”

“Yeah.” I exhaled. “But…when I realized what those texts meant, it didn’t matter. Something just…snapped in me.”

I hadn’t watched the video since the night before I left for the airport. Oddly enough, it was the first time I’d been able to watch it without throwing my phone across the room. Without collapsing into a heap of despair.

“That job was my life,” I explained. Leo had been my life . I couldn’t separate those pieces: Leo, the show, my job. My life.

“When I…lost it—the show—I also lost all my friends. And because we had gotten to be pretty well-known locally, I couldn’t go anywhere in town without someone bringing it up.” I exhaled. “Ever since, I’ve had these little attacks. But I’m okay. I mean, I will be. I just need to get over it.”

Noah didn’t look convinced.

But he didn’t say anything right away, and neither did I, both of us just marinating in silence until Bodie came by to drop off our food.

Once we were alone again, Noah picked up a fry and popped it into his mouth.

“I mean, that was…kinda beautiful—minus the last part,” he said after a pause. “He deserved it, right?”

“It was horrible,” I immediately contradicted him and then stared down at my soup.

Tomato bisque. Leo would have said it was too pale, that they’d added too much cream, but honestly, can anyone ever have too much cream in a good bisque?

I scooped up a spoonful and blew on it a little before touching it too my lips.

“What do you wish you’d done differently?” Noah asked right before taking a bite of his burger.

“Waited until we weren’t on air anymore, that’s for sure,” I answered automatically. “And walked out with some dignity.”

“Would it have changed anything?” I didn’t think he was trying to irritate me, but I hated it when people asked questions that I didn’t know the answers to.

Because, honestly, I wasn’t sure what I would have done, how else I would have handled it.

“You worked together, right?” he went on when it became obvious I didn’t have a reply.

I nodded.

“Did you live together?”

“For five and a half years.” I knew where he was going with this.

“So, either way, you were going to be forced to make big changes.” He was just staring at me now, his burger and fries forgotten.

“By dumping whatever that was on him, it didn’t give you time to consider all that.

It didn’t give you the chance to rationalize what he did, make excuses…

Honestly, seems to me your response was pretty healthy. ”

I wasn’t sure I was prepared to look at it like that.

But Noah didn’t seem to expect a reply. Instead, he signaled to Bodie for the check.

“But Luna?” he said, low and certain.

“Yeah?”

“You were right to dump him. He’s a fucking bastard.”

I felt it in my chest—sharp and unexpected. Like a jolt of electricity. For a split second, I couldn’t breathe.

Not because I disagreed but hearing him say it—with absolute clarity and zero hesitation—made it real in a way it hadn’t been before. Like I could let go of some of that shame…

And I’m not sure why, but right then, it felt like a weight had shifted. Not gone. But moved.

He stood up before I could say anything else. “We need to get moving,” he added, as if my entire internal world hadn’t just realigned. “And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not have to find our own way down the mountain.”