Page 59 of What's in a Kiss?

I watch him lean out a little further in the palm tree to hear her words. He nods.

“Julie would not say no to a littleDirty Dancingsoundtrack, everybody,” Jake says. “So can someone with a Spotify accountpleaseget these babies out of the corner?”

A second later, a beamer on the east side of Hollywood Blvd starts blasting “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life.” The taco line cheers, and by the time the song rolls into its first verse, it’s a full-on dance party in the street.

On shaking legs, I move closer, into the intersection. I must stand out as the only personnotdancing, because that’s when Jake finds me in the crowd.

I stop walking in the middle of the street. I stare at him. He stares at me. A sense of knowing ripples through me, the answer to the questions just beyond my grasp.

His face lights up, like someone flipped a switch. I blink and feel a corresponding switch flip in me. He just saw me this morning, and expected to see me tonight, and still, it matters to him this much that our eyes have met, like I’m a touchstone for him.

I find myself thinkingthat must be nice. For him. For High Life Olivia. That seems like not a bad way to feel about your spouse.

But I am not his spouse. And I don’t understand what’s going on here. I raise my hands likewhat the fuck?

He grins. He waves. He shrugs.

Like he can’t believe it either, but he’ll roll with it. With anything.

And that’s when I know. This isn’t a stunt. This is a natural phenomenon. On the ground: an honest car accident.

And up in that tree? That’s just Jake, being Jake.

With shaking hands, I take out my phone and googleJake Glasswell.

His ancient Twitter feed. A wedding website the two of us apparently made ourselves, which I’ll have to look at later. A LinkedIn page announcing vaguely that he’s a “writer/producer.”

And then, scrolling down, I see a very basic website for a food truck.

Jake Au Jus, specializing in unusual French dip sandwiches.

I click the link.

Merde! We’re closed, the landing page proclaims, next to a picture of Jake, waving from inside the kitchen of a small red truck. He’s wearing a chef’s hat and a goofy adhesive handlebar mustache that somehow makes him look even cuter. He’s smiling, but I see wistfulness in his eyes. It hits me that I—or High Life Olivia—probably took this picture. But for what? Jake didn’t actually have a food truck, did he?

I typeJake Glasswell talk showwith increasing urgency as a man in front of me dips his girlfriend Patrick Swayze style.

It looks like there aren’t many great matches for your search, the internet enlightens me. A heavy pit forms in my stomach as I confront an unsettling truth.

Jake is showless in this life.

He isn’t famous. He’s just Jake. Husband. “Writer/Producer.” Failed French dip slinger. Megaphone-wielding Good Samaritan in a palm tree.

I watch him now, chatting with some people in line for tacos at the base of his tree. When Jake mentioned “the show” this morning, I leapt to the only logical conclusion: that he was talking aboutEverything’s Jake. But if there’s no show, what was that podcast gear for? Is “Ben” a real producer... or just a buddy Jake hatched an idea with? Are we looking at a Lorena-and-Olivia-level winging-it situation?

Further to that: Do all those dollars in our bank account... come from me?

I stare at him and all that charisma. What’s Jake’s deal in this life?

His fame, his fortune, his stratospheric success. Where is it?

What if, when we kissed at prom, it tookeverythingfrom him? And all he gets is... me? That could never be enough.

A cheer sounds from the street. Startled from my thoughts, I see that the men have somehow righted the truck just as the tacos are cleared from the street. Elena is helping Enrique pack up the salsa bar. People are taking selfies with Jake in the background, with the truck, with Julie, who is doing Lamaze in the Jeep.

One of the men who’d been working on the truck runs tothe Jeep and hops in the driver’s seat. Everyone applauds. I see that he’s the actual father, that he lifted an actual truck out of the road for his wife and future children on the day they would be born. Their family will tell that story for generations. And Jake will be a part of it.

A police escort on a motorcycle finally reaches the intersection. Soon he’s guiding Julie’s Jeep across Hollywood Blvd. People are cheering, laughing, and some are crying as they make their way back to their cars. Fenny finds me in the mayhem, handing me a paper sack of tacos. She gives me a hug.

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