Page 13 of What's in a Kiss?

And it’s my own idiotic fault. In the hours since I opened my pale yellow journal, civil war has broken out. The part of my brain charged with keeping me mostly functional is taking heavy ordinance from the part of my brain projecting a perfect memory of senior prom.

I’m trying to stay in my lane along Sunset Boulevard’s curves, but it’s like I cansmellGlasswell’s eucalyptus soap in my unchanged air filter. Like the Southern California sunisthe heat of his palm against my cheek on the night we never kissed. And the lights turning green at Sepulveda are Glasswell’s eyes, and I’m locked in their gaze, and he’s talking about another world, and his lips part, and his head tips—

I need to shut these memoriesallthe way down. The fate of my best friend’s wedding depends on it.

I remind myself that I feel... blank about Glasswell. I released my mortification years ago. Hindsight clearly shows me that what happened between us one night ten years ago was No Big Deal. Which means tonight can be totally casual.

Then why do I feel like I’m trapped in the dream where I’m back in high school and forgot to study for the big exam everyone else is prepared for?

Probably because my hair is fucked, my maid-of-honor toast is nonexistent, and I’m nowhere near the version of me I want to show Glasswell tonight.

“I need to cram!” I shout in my car, forgetting I’ve got a passenger. In the rearview, she’s Korean American, about my age, dressed Coachella-chic. It’s possible I follow her on Instagram. “Sorry, forget I said anything—”

“No worries, babe,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “You good?”

Her overwhelming disinterest feels like a safe forum for me to keep on talking. “It’s just... I’m seeing this guy from high school tonight. An acquaintance. Barely. You know what I mean? It’s nothing. But for some reason, I feel really unprepared.”

“What’s his insta?” she asks, still looking at her phone.

“No. I can’t—”

“Because he’s like, off the grid?” Now she meets my eyes in the rearview. One brow arches in intrigue.

“Um...”

“What’s his name? I’ll find him, no matter what dark corner of the web he’s hiding in.”

There’s no way I’m breathing a syllable of Glasswell’s famous name, which occupies all the internet’s brightest places. Butmaybe this woman’s right about confronting him online before I have to confront him tonight in person. Practice. So that I’ll be primed—relaxed—by the time I’m face-to-face with Glasswell.

“Thanks,” I tell her. “Google is a good idea—I’ll try that.”

“Good luck,” she shrugs before going back to her phone.

By the time I drop her off at LAX, my thumbs itch to google Glasswell. I’ve even landed on the best key words. I barely make it to the airport waiting lot before I’m typingJGlass Climbing Wallin the YouTube search bar. It autocompletes after the third letter. Of course it does.

I don’t watchEverything’s Jake, but one could not inhabit the Milky Way and not have heard what happened on his show’s season finale last year. It happened during a rock-climbing stunt temporarily built into the middle of the show’s set. For some reason, Glasswell and Aurora were supposed to race to the top of the structure, then rappel down, but something went wrong. Glasswell lost his grip, and, despite being strapped into a harness, he panicked on live TV. Apparently, his body flailed so hard his face knocked one of the climbing holds—chipping off an eighth of his perfect left front tooth.

For a solid forty-eight hours, Glasswell was the only meme in the universe. Thousands of fans posted videos attempting to knock a chip out of their own left front tooth. Every time I see someone missing part of a front tooth, I still wonder if it’s an homage. People went so nuts that Glasswell never got his tooth fixed, making his smile perhaps one of the world’s most recognizable.

I try not to know these things, but I think they get absorbed through the LA air—a hybrid of smog, envy, and self-consciousness.

Today, I get the feeling watching Glasswell biting it on camera might be just the thing I need to settle my nerves, to take the mystique away from the man.

I put my LEAF in Park, drop my sun visor, and hunker down in the concrete pond of gig workers. We’re all waiting for a ride from purgatory, though some of us think we’re driving.

Barely overhead, an Airbus screams in for a landing. I prop my knees against the steering wheel and hold my phone in my lap. Anticipatory calm flows through me as YouTube loads. The first clip is calledJake Glasswell Blooper Reel.

I smirk at Gram Parsons, who puts his chin on my arm for a better view.

From the second I press Play I have to check myself. Because unfortunately, from certain angles—like head-on, in profile, or from behind—the man just really is beautiful. He’s a handsbreadth taller than I am, with thick dark hair and broad shoulders, usually accentuated by tightly tailored pin-striped suits. But for this climbing stunt, he’s changed into all black athletic gear that highlights his lean, muscular physique and makes him look like he’s about to go out for a casual half-marathon. He has the kind of lopsided grin—even in his pre-chipped-tooth era—that makes camera flashes pop.Adorableis a word used in proximity to his name. He looks like Harry Styles’s tan cousin, plus freckles, minus the pearls.

But for me, the worst part is Glasswell’s eyes. They’re asleepy, grassy green, and deceptively, cruelly kind. On this YouTube clip, when he looks into the camera, it’s like I’m back on the curb outside prom.

I know he isn’t looking at me, just a teleprompter and a camera lens. But a woman could be forgiven for forgetting it isn’t more intimate than that.

Isthiswhat it means to be photogenic? This effortless relationship with the camera? It occurs to me suddenly that maybe the whole world feels as unkissed as I do.

Standing before the climbing wall, Glasswell addresses the camera and, with slightly ominous levity, says, “What could possibly go wrong?”

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