Page 17 of What's in a Kiss?

Can I leave Glasswell in a vacant lot in Inglewood?

This idea thrills me... until I imagine Masha catching wind of it. I bang my head against the steering wheel, causing my horn to honk, causing horns around me to honk, causing Gram Parsons to howl in tune.

“Maybe your being my ride is lucky,” Glasswell says from the back seat.

“Like when a bird shits on you?”

He doesn’t clap back right away. I glance over my shoulder. He’s looking out his window, one long leg folded over the other in a figure four, hands clasped in his lap.

“I was worried things might be awkward,” he says. “Between you and me. I think it’s good we’re clearing the air.”

“Is that what you think is happening?”

“I’m sure we can both at least agree we don’t want to mess up the rehearsal dinner tonight because of some old—”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, not wanting to hear Jake describe how he rejected me a decade back. “Nothing will ruin Masha and Eli’s happiness this weekend. I’ll make sure of that.”

“And I’m happy to help.”

“And the only way you can help is to stay out of my way.” I slam on my brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision with an Aston Martin SUV. “That guy came out of nowhere!”

“You are a terrible driver,” says Glasswell, checking his seat belt. “Do you enjoy this line of work, Dusk? I suppose striking fear into strangers’ hearts does seem on-brand for you.”

“I should be asking why you’re slumming in a Nissan LEAF?” I crane my neck to confirm that this traffic does indeed stretch beyond the horizon. “Is some intern getting fired for not booking your black car?”

“That’s a boring story,” he says.

“Your specialty,” I say, which actually makes him laugh. “And just so you know, I’m only doing this because—”

“There’s no shame in being a rideshare driver,” Glasswell says.

My knuckles on the steering wheel turn white. I could wring Glasswell’s face like a sponge. He’s always had a gift for condescension. “My life,” I say, “is one hundred percent, absolutely great.”

I think of my mom, and of Masha, and this feels essentially true. But saying it out loud to Glasswell makes it sound like a lie. It’s as if, from the moment he got in my car, Glasswell has beenholding up a mirror to me that says, right above my face:Your life is a shitstorm.

“No judgment, Olivia. I swear—”

“I have a real job, okay? I’m a podcast producer for a very demanding host, and if this traffic doesn’t clear, or you don’t evaporate, I’m going to be late for an important recording session.”

“You produce a podcast?” he says. “Wow, that’s cool.”

“I really think I’m going to puke.”

“What’s it about?”

I pause. There’s the version I tell everyone, which is true, about my mother’s compulsive need to discuss the self-help books she reads, and how I channeled that into something fun and useful for us to do during the pandemic. And that we’ve had exactly twenty-one downloads, our two reviews are mixed, and Mom and I don’t care.

Then I glimpse Glasswell’s arrogant face. “Book reviews.”

“What genre? Classics? Sci-fi?” He leans in and drops his voice. “Erotica?”

Gram Parsons growls. Glasswell retreats. I eye him in the rearview mirror and say, “Never utter that word to me again.”

I don’t know if it’s Glasswell’s husky voice that’s gotten me so flustered or the fact that he still seems to expect an answer, but suddenly my mom’s taste in self-help books feels dubious. Why is it that so many things I feel good about become embarrassing under the gaze of this particular man?

“You’re not going to tell me?” he says. “Just because I saiderotic—”

“Contemporary, okay? Mostly nonfiction.” It’s not anoutright lie, but it’s enough to inspire a disappointed glance from Gram Parsons.

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