Page 18 of What's in a Kiss?

“I’d love to do something like that,” Glasswell says.

“Is there an Off switch to your pandering? You’re not on the air.”

“Thank God.”

We fall into miserable silence. I hate the downward tick of my battery meter. I hate the NPR blaring out the open window in the Tesla next to us. I hate that we’ve covered less than half a highway mile.

I turn on the radio. Chuck Berry’s voice fills the car as he sings “You Never Can Tell.” It’s a beautiful song about a wedding, and I take this as a sign to center myself. I imagine Masha’s wedding going gorgeously tomorrow, bright smiles and joyous dancing, good food and great romance and ocean waves crashing in the background—

“I can’t believe our best friends are getting married,” Glasswell says, shitting on the vibe.

Who does he think he is?I’mpermitted to feel that brand of wonder, becauseI’man actual best friend to one of the people getting married.I’mthe best friend who drives Masha to get her IUD put in and has a cherry Slurpee waiting when it’s time to wheel her from the procedure because she’s feeling faint.I’mthe best friend who buys two pistachio muffins when they’re in stock at Sprouts because they’re Masha’s favorite—one to freeze!I’mthe best friend who waits to watchThe White Lotusseason finale when Masha gets Covid and her power goes out the same weekend, because we’ve yet to miss a live-texting session, and some traditions are sacrosanct.

Does Glasswell even count as Eli’s friend?

As far as I can tell, Glasswell’s the buddy who has his assistant send a generic gift basket at Christmas. Who invites Eli at the very last minute to join a pre-planned trip to Vegas, probably when someone more important canceled, to watch something dumb like a fight he got free tickets to.

Okay, men show their love in idiotic ways. But I take BBS with Masha as seriously as I take anything. Our bond isn’t something Glasswell gets to touch.

Then again, this weekend, friendship means giving Masha the loveliest, least dramatic wedding of all time. The friend of my best friend’s fiancé cannot be my enemy—at least from rehearsal dinner through Sunday brunch.

“I can’t believe it either!” I force myself to say, but I sound like Moon Zappa in “Valley Girl.”

“You’re worried,” Glasswell says.

“I’m not. The wedding will be perfect.”

“I mean about your podcast. You’re going to be late.”

“Welcome to LA.”

“Yeah, this place never felt like home,” Glasswell says. “Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

I cough in shock. “You’re not—”

“About to flip coasts? Unfortunately, the network tells me I am.”

“That’snotfunny.”

I lay on my horn for no particular reason other than I’m trapped in a car with Glasswell, who’s moving back to LA.

“Don’t worry, Dusk,” he says. “Something tells me we don’t run in the same circles. You won’t even know I’m here.”

“Can we try that now? This is already far more time with you than I signed on for this weekend.”

Glasswell slaps his knees. “Let’s abbreviate it then.”

I unlock the doors. “Cool. Bye.”

“Ha,” he says, seeming unsure if I’m joking. “I mean, if you skip my stop, and go straight to your recording studio—where is it?”

“Santa Monica. Way out of your way—”

“I can catch another ride. The only drawback,” he says, “is you won’t be able to blame me for making you late.”

“Au contraire, derriere.”

“Olivia. It’s one less hour of your day spent suffering my presence,” he says. “Don’t overthink it. Just say yes.”

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