Page 39 of What's in a Kiss?

I try to roll down my window, but it’s locked. I look at Glasswell. He reads my need exactly. The window unlocks, I open it, hang out my heavy head, and sing. I sing to Masha and Eli, to the moon and the universal ocean, to Lorena, and my dad, and that old man on the phone. I get to the second verse, and belt out the line where Whitney wishes her beloved “joy and happiness.” But my voice breaks off before the next line.

The line that wishes them love.

Masha and I used to argue over what these lyrics meant. She claimed to find them profound. I thought they were funny, because they suggest that having love is more important than being happy. As a kid, I thought maybe I’d understand this line when I got older, but I still don’t.

But then, Glasswell starts singing the line where I left off. His voice is a bright, surprising tenor. I stare at him. My eyes widen. Hearing him hit all the notes oflove, then break into the stunning chorus—the meaning of the line finally lands.

That joy and happiness are temporary. That love is... all the time.

Where did this revelation come from? How did Glasswell’s voice AirDrop it to my brain? More importantly, why does it feel like he’s singing this, of all songs,to me?

That’s when I know. The knowing curls up in my stomach, settling in for the long haul. This is bigger than a very bad night. Some piece of reality has been shaken loose. I’m not in the same world I woke up in.

But where the hell am I? How did I get here? Why am I with Glasswell? What do I do?

I want to ask him all these questions, but then again, I don’t. I reach for the button to set “I Will Always Love You” on Repeat.

••••••

When I feelthe dark, romantic curves of Mulholland Drive, I open my eyes and gaze over Glasswell’s shoulder at the view. Mulholland is the highest street in LA, snaking the zenith of theHollywood Hills, offering alternating views of downtown and the San Fernando Valley.

When I was a baby and couldn’t sleep, my mom says she’d get in the car and just start driving. Usually she’d end up on Mulholland. This road, above all others, soothed me, soothed her. She used to tell me that an Angeleno’s never alone in pain or pleasure. And there’s no surer way to know that than looking out from this old, audacious road.

There’s no better time to drive Mulholland than at night, no better view than the Valley’s distant, waving trees making house lights twinkle, the ground doing an impression of the sky. At the far edge of this dazzling expanse, the San Gabriel Mountains tear the horizon into sheaths.

Now Glasswell veers down the steep palm and pine-lined path that leads to Laurel Canyon proper. Soon, I see the Gothic wall sconces of my landlord’s house and just beyond them, my near-invisible driveway. My body tenses with desire to get out of this car and be alone.

“It’s right there,” I say, indicating where to turn, but Glasswell’s already missed it, like everybody does. My driveway’s narrow as a needle’s eye, especially at night. “Reverse!”

“Did you fall asleep?” Glasswell says, turning up the driveway after mine. The driveway that leads to the top of the summit. To the mansion up the hill from my backyard.

“No—” I start to say. But then Glasswell slows before vast gates and presses a button above the rearview mirror.

The gates swing open wide.

My jaw drops.

“What are you doing?” I ask. I point down the driveway, down the hill, down the far side of the wheel of fortune. “My house is...”

A smile begins in Glasswell’s eyes. “Yes...?”

I should stop talking. All the things I used to know have become question marks. Each new protest out of my mouth makes me sound more bananas. And Glasswell seems very confident that I don’t live where I think I live. Where I woke up this morning, and every morning for the past three years.

He’s still driving—there is so much driveway to drive up, I see for the first time. We approach a wide French-style fountain and a detached four-car garage. The garage door rises. There’s a Porsche Taycan, a Lucid Air, and two Zero motorcycles inside.

“When did he buy this place?” I whisper as the knowing inside of me balloons. Still, I don’t want to face what it’s trying to tell me. I wouldn’t know how to face it if I did.

On unsteady legs, I get out of the car and close the door. I breathe in the musty smell of the dark garage, which somehow is familiar. Though I’ve definitely never been up here, I feel like I’ve seen these rakes and shovels, these surfboards on ceiling-mounted racks.

At the door that leads outside, Glasswell turns back, waiting for me. “You coming?”

I need to see my bungalow. I need to know how deep this rupture with reality is.

“I’m exhausted,” I say, “so I think I’ll just...” I gesture toward the slope of hill that leads down to my hobbit hole.

“Crash on the hanging daybed?” he says dubiously. “I don’t know. A lot of wildlife out there.”

Since when does he care if I get scratched by a racoon? “Good night.”

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