Page 44 of Glamour and Grit

“When did I say I was ashamed of it?”

“Look out!”

He jerks the wheel, getting us back into the proper lane.

“I never said I was ashamed,” he says.

“Then why don’t you want to talk about it?”

His silence lasts just a little bit too long.

“Because we don’t need to talk about it.”

What’s that supposed to mean? Is he trying to say that it was just a physical thing? Or is he trying to put me off because he’s scared of catching the feels, too?

“Okay, fine. Let’s not talk about it.”

I heave a sigh and look at the phone screen again.

“Selene…”

“No, no, you don’t want to talk, so I’m not going to force you to.”

Dane sighs and grows silent. Grumpy and silent.

Now he’s grumpy because I told you we slept together.

We slept together? When did that happen? Did you spike my drink or something?

I shake my head as I type my response.

Be serious for a second. I think I might really like this guy. Keep getting mixed signals tho.

The dots on screen dance for a long time while I wait for her response. If I know Chloe, that means she’s typing and then deleting and then typing a response repeatedly.

At last, a big block of text appears on the screen.

Gurl you want it you go and get it. I believe in you. And if this guy isn’t absolutely cray cray about you, then it’s his loss! The biggest thing toknow is how he answers the Question. You always said that was the citrus test.

I chuckle and type my response.

Litmus test. Not citrus test. And I haven’t had a chance to ask him yet.

You slept with him before you asked the question? You really do like him. Hang in there, gurl.

I look over at Dane as we roll into the shabby outskirts of LA. Should I ask him the Question right now? It kind of seems like a bad time. I just don’t know how to get past this awkwardness. And part of me thinks he should be the one to get us past it.

Dane turns to me and cocks an eyebrow. “What?”

I start to reply, but stop myself. “Nothing. Is this the place?”

He nods as we both turn our gazes to the Fallen Star hotel. Outdoor access rooms face onto a crumbling concrete balcony with rusted iron railing. Most of the windows have the curtains tightly drawn.

A shabbily dressed man shuffles past, swaying with a heavy drunk. He turns bleary eyes our way, but nothing registers in his gaze. Whatever he's seeing, it’s not us.

“Do we have any idea which room he’s in?” I ask.

“No.” Dane takes a long pull from his water bottle and then screws the cap on with an adroit twist. “We only know he used a credit card to pay for a room here.”

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