by Tash Skilton
She wants friendship? I’ll friendship her till effing dawn.
“For what it’s worth, I know what you’re saying,” I continue. My voice sounds far away. “I feel that way about Matty sometimes. I would tell him about, you know, girls, and I sometimes worried he was only putting up with me because he had to. But Heather was my first. There were no girlfriends to talk about before her.”
Just people I kissed so I’d be worthy of kissing you.
“I’m not saying it makes sense,” Nina says quietly. “But I want you to know I’d listen. If we end up hanging out, I’d listen. I’m sorry I didn’t stick around to do exactly that, and prove that I could.”
“Me too. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to find out why you were upset.” A weight’s been lifted off my chest, but I miss the weight. It represented the possibility that we could’ve been more than friends, and now it’s gone.
She offers me her hand across the table. “To friendship?”
We shake. I try to ignore the smooth feel of her palm. “Want to go cruisin’, friend?” I ask, and the radiant smile she gifts me in response makes my throat hurt.
* * *
The first place we drive is CarMax Burbank, a used-car dealership, because it’s making me crazy that I can’t put the top down in Janine’s Jaguar.
Shoving aside all pride, I lay it out for the salesman, who isn’t thrilled to be helping non-customers with their rich-people shit.
“Little does he know we can barely make rent,” Nina whispers, and I almost crack up in front of the dude.
Nevertheless, the salesman explains which buttons to push, and his irritation is more than worth it when the roof folds back on itself, revealing the night sky above our heads.
“Yes!” I pump my fist, and we’re on our way again, wind tickling our hair, as we soar along Barham Boulevard to the overpass at the 101. I coast over to the right lane and exit on Mulholland, so we can climb the twisting, slender path of the mountains for a spectacular view.
“Sebastian Worthington in a Jaguar convertible,” Nina muses. “Quite a long way from the Klepto-car.”
Back in New York we christened my piece-of-junk Nissan the “Klepto-car” because I hoped someone would steal it. Whenever we went to the movies at Pyramid Mall or over to Cornell to rollerblade around their campus, I deliberately left the car unlocked with the windows down. The insurance payout from its theft would have been about $300, i.e., the cost of treating all our friends to a night out at La Café Cent-Dix on Aurora Street, our goal at the time.
Heather hated that car.
“Oh, this is amazing,” Nina says quietly when we reach our destination, a secluded overlook bathed in the day’s last streaks of sunlight. The sky is a saturated, incandescent mix of purple and pink, but not for long; soon it’s going, going, gone. The irony, of course, is that the most spectacular sunsets are caused by smog.
Within minutes all is dark, save for the intricate pattern of lights shimmering below us, backdropped by the dark silhouette of the mountains. From this high up, traffic becomes a harmless stream of colors and sounds that can’t touch you. The stretched-out vista embodies promise and possibility, a great wide-open city that urges you to ask, over and over, “Is this real? How can this be real?”
I’m not sure how much time passes, the two of us side by side as the night air turns chilly, before Nina breaks the silence. “Are you seeing anyone now?”
“Not at the moment. I dated a few actress-slash-models the last few years, and—”
“Not to brag,” she teases.
“They’re the only people out here! But I’m not interested in doing that again.”
“Can I ask what happened with Heather? Is she still doing theater?” Nina asks. “In Chicago, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, she moved home to Evanston the same time I moved out here. She was thinking about joining me at some point, but it never happened. Last I heard she booked a commercial for probiotic yogurt.”
“Nice! Lifetime supply!” Nina says in a high voice. “I’m guessing?”
I’m perplexed. “Maybe?”
“You don’t keep in touch, then?”
“Not really.”
Unlike the abrupt excommunication by Nina, Heather and I never had a blowout. We floated off in our own directions with no hard feelings.
I have photos of her filed away somewhere, and I liked her a hell of a lot, but for the life of me, I can’t recall a single evening we spent together in detail. The entire summer is one soft blur, undefined, no edges.
In contrast, the days and nights I spent with Nina on that ratty old dorm couch shift like splinters beneath my skin, specific and sharp, poking out when I least expect them. And here we are, five years later, sitting not on a couch but in the front seat of a luxury car, gazing out at a view that belongs in the movies.
“What?” Nina asks, tilting her head.
The lump in my throat dissolves enough to let me speak. “I’m glad you’re here.”
My tone is lighthearted, but I try to strengthen the impact of the words by looking her directly in the eyes.
I can get used to this again, being with her but not with her. I did it for four years and then I lived without it for five years and I know which one I prefer, even if they both kill me in different ways and to different degrees.
“Don’t get too sappy on me,” she says.
“I won’t. But I do have a request: Let’s take the long way home.”
CHAPTER 10
NINA
We’re pulling onto my street, having talked the whole way home. Non sequiturs that jumped track from the first time we met to an observation about smog being LA’s original ultra-chromatic filter to a snippet of season one dialogue from a baby-faced Duncan, and back again. What we don’t discuss is the little lie I just told.
I was upset that Sebastian hadn’t mentioned Heather to me before, of course, but that mostly had to do with my own humiliation—with me leading myself on that I had a chance. It’s too much too soon to fully reveal that to him now . . . and maybe it always will be. Maybe the way to hold on to this friendship now is to extricate it from the messy entanglements of the past. And I really do want that. I forgot what it’s like to bounce around so smoothly in conversation with someone that it’s like the dialogue was written for us. To have it be so fun and easy that time flies by. Sometimes, I would wonder how college and high school had both taken four years, when one felt as if it was over in the blink of an eye and the other felt as if it lasted an eon. Now I think the answer is in front of me. Maybe it turns out we can all manipulate time without Mount Signon, if only we’re allowed the luxury of having a true friend at our side.
“This was really lovely,” I say.
“It was,” he says, smiling at me.
NINA SEBASTIAN
“Let’s do it again sometime?” “We should do it again sometime.”
I smile back. “Definitely.” I look at the latch for the car door. Once I open it, I’ll be well on my way back to Crazytown, aka Celeste’s house. I take in a deep breath.
“You okay?” Sebastian asks. “Do you want me to find the button that opens the door again?” He looks over at the panel and I can tell he doesn’t have a clue which button that is.
“No, I could use the exercise.” I waggle my fingers. “I just kinda don’t want to leave. My roommate is sort of . . . bonkers, actually.”
Sebastian looks toward the house. “Where did you meet her? Him?”
“Her. Celeste. And I met her on Craigslist.”
“That might have been your first mistake.”
“Don’t I know it.”
He stops smiling. “Wait, do you feel unsafe?”
Images of bees and leeches flash before my eyes, but I know what Sebastian really means. “No, not like that,” I say firmly. “She’s harmless.” Even if her pet projects—emphasis on pet—aren’t. “But I think I definitely need to move out soon. It’s just finding someplace solo on my salary seems
impossible. And as far as roommates go . . . I mean, better the devil you know? Maybe?” A black tail swish floats in front of my eyes again.
“Huh. Well, actually . . .” Sebastian runs his hands through his shaggy blond hair. “You know, Matty just moved out. So I have an extra room, and I’m looking for a roommate . . .”
“Oh.” How wonderful would it be to live with a roommate who’s also my friend? To have that friend be Sebastian. On the other hand, would it be too much too soon to be that close to each other—literally—when we’re still figuring out how to be friends again?
“It could be temporary,” Sebastian says quickly. “And I’m not going to be there for the next two weeks while Janine is away. So you could use it as a quiet base to find a more permanent living situation. Feel free to think it over. No pressure.”
“Okay, I will,” I say. “But for now”—I place my hand on the door—“I shall take my leave, with my sincerest wishes for a successful joust . . . with LA drivers.”
“And it was ever thus,” he responds without missing a beat.
* * *
“I’m sorry, but that fuzzy handcuff teaser image is completely the wrong shade of lavender. Stu Stu would never.” The voice that speaks the absurd words is calm, professional, wrapped in a pleasant Australian accent, and currently coming out of the black flying saucer in the middle of the conference table. Sean glares at me over it.
“Oh, is it?” I say. “I just posted it as is. It’s the image I got from . . .” I scroll through my phone to find the email. “Jake D’Addario.”
The woman sighs on the other end. “Figures. I’ll get the right image over to you. Please take that one down.”
I go over to the multiple tabs and delete the offending posts from Twitter, Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat. The images were meant to tease our huge upcoming announcement but apparently they’re the wrong shade of purple to do so.
“So, Jeri, are we all set with everything else? The commenting?”
“Stu Stu texted me a thumbs-up emoji but, er, I will try to get a firm confirmation on that. But, yes, I believe we are all set.”
“Helena?” Sean asks.
“Everything is good on our end,” Helena confirms.
“Dana?”
“I don’t see an issue from us.”
“And Bill?”
“Um . . . well, Stu Stu has decided that he’s going to be in charge of his own social media from now on. Or . . . at least this week,” Bill chimes in.
“What does that mean?” Sean growls.
“It means, well, I’ll be with him, of course. But he’s going to be doing the actual typing and posting.”
Sean groans.
Stu Stu, aka Stuart Stutter, is former front man for the Hot Flashes, now brooding, Australian solo artist. Jeri is his personal publicist. The absent Jake (he of the wrong-colored fuzzy handcuffs) works PR for Stu Stu’s label and has apparently sent me the incorrect ten-pixel image from his first album art. Helena runs the wildly popular Comments by Stars account on Instagram. Dana works at Instagram, though I have yet to figure out what her wordy title actually means. And Bill is Stu Stu’s manager. We are all currently finalizing the most strategic way to make our big announcement: Stu Stu, longtime CoRaB fan—his first hit single “Queen of My Heart” is allegedly an ode to Lucinda, not his girlfriend at the time, popular Australian soap star Alma Rogers—will be making a guest appearance on the pilot episode of the reboot.
And not a single person is content with announcing this the old-fashioned way: via, say, a press release, or as an exclusive to a popular website.
“The fans need to discover this,” Sean ordered me. “Figure out a way for them to feel like they’re fucking Sherlock Holmes. Go.”
It took me a few hours of soul-searching and browsing around on the socials to hit upon an idea. What if we posted something as a benign ode to “Queen of My Heart,” then Stu Stu commented on that post, asking if he could come on the show, and then the Comments by Stars account “caught it” as a screenshot. And we let it take off from there, not confirming or denying anything for a few days. It should create a frenzy. I know because it’s the type of thing Seb and I lived for in college.
Sean had not gone so far as to say my idea was brilliant or even good. But he’d immediately had me set up this conference call so I had to infer that it was.
So here we all are, making this “spontaneously viral social media moment” happen. Via a two-hour conference call. And endless coordination.
“Okay, great. So, since Stu Stu is in London at the moment, it’ll be eleven thirteen a.m. UK time on Saturday. That’s tomorrow morning. That’s what’ll work for Stu Stu, correct?”
“Affirmative,” says Bill.
“Yes,” says Jeri.
“Works on our end,” says Helena.
“Us too,” says Dana.
There’s silence until I realize Sean is glaring at me, expecting me to chime in.
“Of course, I’ll be there,” I say.
“Okay. Great. Let’s make this happen, people.”
* * *
11:13 a.m. UK time is 3:13 a.m. LA time. Because of the ungodly hour, on a Friday night no less, Sean is letting me work from home. But I know if I fuck this up, I’m in severe trouble. So I think it’s best to power through and stay awake rather than go to bed and risk being so deeply asleep at three a.m. that I miss my alarm clock.
I turn on the old TV I have in my room. It’s a tube TV, a tiny fifteen-inch one that I found on a corner a couple of weeks after I moved here. It’s not connected to cable or anything. But I did splurge on the latest Nintendo console a couple of months ago. And that’s what I turn on now to relax, instantly navigating to Breath of the Wild.
The funny thing was—is—I’ve always thought Sebastian looks like Link, the main character of the game. Long, shaggy blond hair, wide clear eyes with a sweet mix of curiosity and virtue, a propensity to get overexcited and willingly dive into a cave of trolls (aka 4chan). The only thing he’s missing is the elf ears. I never told Sebastian this. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I once mentioned, early on, that I had a crush on Link and thought he was—for a video-game character—sorta hot. Even before I realized I might feel the same way about Sebastian, something in my subconscious had protected me and stopped me from revealing too much.
For the next couple of hours, I explore shrines with an avatar version of Sebastian. My two cups of coffee have long run out. I could make more, I guess. Then I remember something that once made me alert and awake (and certifiable) for a solid twelve hours.
I take out my phone and text Sebastian. Remember the Vivarin Incident?
His reply is immediate. Who could forget that? The vision of you sprawled out at the 40-yard-line at Butterfield is seared into my brain.
I can’t help but smile. It was the third week of college and Sebastian and I hardly even knew each other. Our freshman orientation packets had come with a selection of small Ithaca swag, coupons for local businesses, and some sample-size products. A lip balm, I think. A trial size of Tums. But the one I remember most acutely was a small bottle of something called Vivarin, which was touted in bold yellow writing as A STUDY AID.
The tinier writing told me they were caffeine pills. My first college exam was the next morning and I wanted to study. So why not get “aided”? There were six pills in the bottle. Knowing my body was pretty tolerant of caffeine thanks to the coffee addiction I’d had since I was ten, I took three.
Big mistake.
It was Sunday night, CoRaB night, so Sebastian was there for my extra-jittery, extra-opinionated viewing of the episode. He was also there when I had to get up and pee approximately twenty-five times during a fifty-two-minute episode. It took us almost three hours to watch the show because he kept having to pause it. And, finally, he was there when I decided sneaking into the football stadium would be a great idea, the kind of prank that would be a lasting college memory. “Come on, Worthington, hav
e some balls!” I believe were my exact words to the kid I had known two whole weeks.
He stayed with me throughout the entire thing. I know he thought it was funny (my loud giggle fits made it clear that I certainly did), but I also knew he was concerned. And the thing I knew most of all was that, despite his being practically a stranger, I felt safe with him. I felt safe being goofy and a little high. I knew nothing would happen to me except that lasting college memory I was looking for.
I sorta wish I had some now, I text to Sebastian.
What?! That stuff made you crazy. Do you remember the CRASH the next day?
I snort, remembering weeping into the thin fabric of Sebastian’s pale aqua button-down, convinced that I would fail my first exam and be forced to drop out of college entirely.
I know. I know. I just have to stay up until 3 AM for something important and I don’t want to miss it. But I pinkie swear I’m not actually taking it, I write.
Okay . . . but if you do manage to get your hands on any, please call me. I’ll be right over.
Now that’s one way I know I could stay up for a long time: having Sebastian to talk to. For a second, I think about asking him to come anyway. But without the buffer of hallucinatory caffeine pills to make me brazen, I can’t. No matter how close we were five years ago, that gap of time is a wedge that has made us into near strangers again. I can’t just ask him to drop whatever he’s doing on a Friday night to come entertain me.
I promise. Good night, I write.
I do manage to stay awake on my own, without caffeine pills or my tall, nerdy Brit as a stimulant. A little more Zelda, the last hundred pages of the Lisbeth Salander/Queen Lucinda fanfic I was reading on my phone, some surfing around on the internet and—bingo—it’s three a.m. Just have to make it another thirteen minutes and I’m golden.
I open up a new tab on my laptop’s browser, about to navigate over to one of the biggest CoRaB fansites, along with the biggest Stu Stu fansites, so I can make note of when the buzz starts happening for my weekly meeting with Sean. I’m greeted with a pixelated dinosaur, letting me know my computer is offline. What?