In the sunlight, with her hair coming loose from her bun and a smudge of barbecue sauce on her own shirt, Nicole Farrarah looks nothing like the spoiled neighbor I pegged her as on the day we met.
She looks like someone I actually want to know.
Chapter Ten
Dominic
Nicole leads us down a side street, away from the busier stretch of shops, and suddenly the scent of garlic and tomato sauce hits me like a welcome punch to the senses.
“Welcome to Paulie’s,” she announces. “Best pizza in West LA. And the even better part? No one comes here to take photos of their food. They actually eat it.”
The storefront is unassuming with a red-and-white striped awning, a slightly faded menu taped to the window, and a neon “OPEN” sign that’s missing the “N.” But the line of locals stretching outthe door speaks volumes.
“Looks promising,” I say, genuinely impressed. This place feels like it exists for the people who already know about it.
“I promise it’s worth the wait.” Nicole tugs gently on Cocoa’s leash as he attempts to investigate a discarded napkin. “Plus, they don’t mind him on the patio.”
We join the line, and I notice something I didn’t expect—nobody has their phones out. Not a single person is documenting the wait, the menu, or crafting the perfect caption. People are just talking. Laughing. Existing together.
“This place feels … different,” I remark.
Nicole smiles, like she knows exactly what I mean. “Sometimes you just need pizza without a filter, you know?”
The line moves quickly, and soon we’re at the counter. A heavily tattooed man with flour up to his elbows gives Nicole a nod of recognition.
“The usual, Nic?”
“Yes, please, Tony! And whatever my friend wants.” She gestures to me.
I scan the overhead menu, overwhelmed by the sheer number of toppings. Back home, pizza was pizza. You got pepperoni, or maybe supreme if you were feeling adventurous.
“What’s good here?” I ask Nicole, feeling oddly out of my depth.
She leans closer, her shoulder brushing against my arm. “The margherita is life-changing if you like it simple. The ‘Brooklyn’ if you like meat. Or…” She points to a chalkboard special. “The potato rosemary thing is actually incredible, even though it sounds weird.”
“I’ll try the Brooklyn,” I tell Tony, figuring I can’t go wrong with a classic.
“Coming right up,” he says. I swipe my debit card and leave some cash in the tip jar. “You guys grab that table by the window before someone else snags it.”
The patio is small, just four metal tables on a sliver of sidewalk, but it feels cozy rather than cramped. Nicole ties Cocoa’s leash to her chair leg.
“So,” Nicole says as we sit down, “I feel like all our interactions so far have involved some kind of disaster. Dog pee, loud music, sandwich casualties.” She gestures to my stained shirt. “I swear, I’m not always this destructive.”
“And I’m not always this grumpy,” I reply, surprising myself with the admission. “Moving to a new city, new team … it takes adjustment.”
“I get that. I moved here from New York about a year ago. It’s culture shock.”
“Exactly.” I find myself leaning forward, relieved that someone understands. “Everyone here seems to be living in a completely different reality.”
Nicole laughs, and I notice how her smile reaches her eyes, creating little crinkles at the corners. “Oh, the Content Creators’ Society? Yeah, that park is basically an outdoor studio now. I’ve tried to film there myself and always fail spectacularly. Cocoa ensures that.”
“What were you trying to film?” I ask, genuinely curious.
She ducks her head, looking embarrassed. “Skincare tutorials. For my line, Glow Girl. Which, by the way, is currently on life support thanks to a little chemical reaction issue that made everything smell like rotten eggs after a couple months.”
I can’t help but laugh, not at her failure but at the candid way she describes it.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “That’s terrible.”
