Page 1 of What's in a Kiss?

Chapter One

“You know I hate this, right?” Masha says, riding shotgun in my Nissan LEAF as I squeeze into a parallel parking spot two sizes too small. It’s a brilliant blue morning in Los Angeles, but Masha doesn’t know that—she’s blindfolded with the faded green bandanna my mom used to wear to weed her begonias.

“You’ve made your thoughts on bachelorette parties clear,” I say, squinting to read the four different parking signs through the fronds of a palm tree—if there’s a way to get towed in this town, I’ll find it.

Damn. Thursday street sweeping.

“Luckily,” I tell Masha as I throw my car into reverse, “twenty years of friendship has taught me to read between your lines. What you hate are penis-shaped plastic straws, male strippers, and Sex Position Bingo—”

Masha gags.

“Because,” I continue, “you’re still scarred from your sister-in-law’s bachelorette.”

“The stripper sat on my lap,” Masha says. “Andgrinded.”

“I know, babe—”

“Then my sister-in-law sat onhislap. And grinded.”

I glance at my watch—three minutes to eleven—then boldly swerve into the marina’s paid lot.

It’s like there’s a hole in my bank account.

But what’s an additional thirty dollars for parking, compared with your best friend’s happiness? When I tug off Masha’s blindfold in a minute, the view of the Pacific will make a much better reveal than a side street dental office.

I park the car and reach into my back seat for the rusty green tackle box I stocked this morning with plastic lures and fishing line.

The cold nose of my terrier, Gram Parsons, nudges my hand. He loves to fish and is eager to get out of the car and consider the subtleness of the sea. Me too.

I place the tackle box on Masha’s lap and take a breath.

“Here’s what you don’t hate,” I say. “Intimate gatherings, Pabst Blue Ribbon, beef short ribs, nineties R & B... and fishing.”

I reach for the cooler, borrowed from my friend Werner, who owns a Greek-fusion restaurant in West Hollywood. Since I’m perennially short on cash, sometimes Werner gives me lunch shifts at Mount Olympus, and recently... there may have been some lighthearted petting in the walk-in fridge. But that’s neither here nor there. What’s here—what’s now—is my best friend on the eve of her wedding; my favorite pup, decked out in the turquoise life vest that makes him look like a doggie briefcase; my dad’s old tackle box; and this cooler, complete with Bluetooth speaker.

I crank Toni Braxton’s “Breathe Again” and undo Masha’s blindfold.

“Mrs. Morsova,” I say grandly, because I love how Masha and her fiancé are making a legal mash-up of their last names—come Saturday Eli Morgan and Masha Kuzsova will be Mr. and Mrs. Morsova. “Your deeply personalized, two-woman bachelorette party awaits. So, let’s fucking throw down!”

Masha blinks in sudden sunlight—then screams like she won the Powerball. She lets fly her beautiful, massive smile and throws her arms around me.

“BBS, Liv,” she says.

“BBS, Mash.”

BBSis a code that calls back to the beginning of our friendship, to the day Masha and I met.

We were eight years old, in third grade, each of us the only girls on our respective Little League teams. It was the playoffs. I was catching for the Yankees. Mash was batting cleanup for the Braves.

In the bottom of the ninth, Masha drove the ball to the center field fence. She was rounding third when our shortstop threw the relay to me. Masha charged the plate. I held my ground. We collided—and by some thunderclap of destiny, both of us broke our left fibulas. The same orthopedist reset both our bones.

I was in agony, physical pain compounding my grief at having dropped the ball, at the memory of the umpire calling Masha safe. But when she signed my cast (red, like hers) withBroken Bone Sisters, a lifelong bond began.

Now we clamor down the dock at the port of Marina del Rey, tackle box, fishing poles, and boom box cooler in hand. We’re laughing like we’re eight again. It’s a typical mid-Maymorning in Southern California, the kind of day that dazzles tourists, but here we take our midseventies, slight breeze, and periwinkle sky just a little bit for granted.

Even though I’ve spent my entire life in LA, the smell of sea air still makes me buzzy, primed for adventure. It’s a feeling I realize I haven’t had in a while. I’ve been wasting a lot of recent time stuck in other people’s traffic, or holed up in my bungalow, doom-scrolling job boards on my phone.

I push all that aside today. Today’s about being in the moment with Masha.

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