“Best fish tacos in LA,” Asher says. “I swear on the turtle’s honor.”
We order and talk, and the conversation gets stickier, heavier. ASher tells me about growing up outside Philly, about how his parents split and his mom went crazy toxic overnight, and how he had to practice non-regional diction for years to drop the Jersey from his voice.
“I still slip when I’m drained, or when I go home,” he says. “But my coach said it’s the first thing people judge you on.”
I confess that when I first moved to LA, I auditioned for three straight months without booking a thing. That I sometimes call my agent “mom” by accident, which is only marginally less humiliating than admitting that I miss my actual mom.
He’s almost gentle now, in a way he wasn’t before. “I haven’t had a real girlfriend in years,” he says, as if the words are hard to fit into a script. “Too much work. Too much… needing to be on all the time.”
I nod, maybe too fast, because I recognize this: the toxic suspicion that if you let down your guard for a second, everything will be taken away.
“I’m not really in a place for…” I try to say it, but it comes out softer, “I don’t know what I want.”
“Me either,” he says. “But I like this. I like you.”
I look at him, and there’s nothing player-ish about the way he says it. It’s clear and plain, like New Jersey in winter, nothing to hide.
We eat until we’re dizzy, and when he offers a walk on the beach, I almost accept. But I have a meeting in the morning, scripts to read, a life that is separate from this new thing. I stand in the parking lot and stretch one last time, pretending that I’m not nervous.
“What should we do tomorrow?” he asks.
“Can we try something less strenuous?”
“Sure. I’ll think of something interesting.” He grins and leans in, not for a kiss, but for a quick warmth at my shoulder, a promise. Something like, “This is not just for the cameras.”
But then again, what do I know?
CHAPTER 4
ASHER
There’ssomething surprisingly thrilling about waiting for Emma at the curb, knowing she’s going to be annoyed I won’t tell her where we’re going. I lean against the passenger side of my car, watching the slide of light across the manicured hedges of her Beverly Hills bungalow. The property glows as dusk turns blue and then electric, those iconic palm silhouettes sharp against the sky. LA looks its best in the dark, when the filth is hidden, when the city feels like a city and not a theme park for the beautiful and desperate.
I text her: Don’t wear heels, for the love of god.
She emerges five minutes later, pulling a navy hoodie over a white t-shirt, jeans scraped on the knees, and hair cinched into a haphazard ponytail. She’s perfect, which is infuriating.
“You’re late,” I say, opening the car door for her. “And overdressed.”
“You said seven. It’s 6:58,” she says, shooting me a look that is all ironic detachment and no actual irritation. She slides into the seat: “You got a cooler in the back, or are you planning on stopping for tacos?”
“Trust me,” I say, starting the car, and I mean it, because tonight I feel an unfamiliar lightness, like the night is a trampoline and I might actually bounce.
She’s grinning. “You know, statistically, the majority of ‘just trust me’ situations end in either kidnapping or murder.”
“I have references,” I say, pulling out into the slow current of Franklin.
“I already texted three people your license plate.”
I check her face for the lie, but she’s holding it together. Only a slight curl at the edge of her mouth gives her away. “Shouldn’t you wait until I start behaving suspiciously?”
“That was two minutes after you told me not to wear heels,” she says, and pulls her legs up, criss-cross applesauce, like a kid on a road trip. “So what’s the deal? Are we going to an underground fight club? BYO brass knuckles?”
“Close,” I say, and roll the windows down so the city spills in. “It’s a science thing. And anyway, I just want to… I don’t know. Not do the usual first date crap.”
This is technically our third date, if you count the first one, which was sterile, and the second, which was so orchestrated and publicized it barely counts as anything except a farce. The world still wants to believe our thing is real, and I don’t want this act to become exhausting too soon. I realize I’m tapping my fingers on the wheel, a childish anticipation I haven’t felt in years.
She’s watching me. I can feel it, a pressure or warmth. “You get weird when you’re excited,” she says, softly.
