Page 6 of What's in a Kiss?

“Fine,” Masha says, wagging a finger at me. “But don’t think we’re done with this subject.”

I ignore her and return to my list. “We need to be at Mount Olympus tomorrow night by seven. The menu’s finally set.” Planning a rehearsal dinner for only five guests may sound easy—and it was certainly simpler than it would have been had Masha’s and Eli’s overbearing families been invited—but adhering to Eli’s dietary restrictions was no small feat. “Everything’s vegan, gluten- and dairy-free.”

“Bless you,” Masha says. “Eli’s nutritionist won’t kill me. Yet.”

“And,” I say, proud of this surprise, “I sweet-talked Werner into giving us the Treehouse for our party of five.”

The food at Mount Olympus is great but simple—Werner’snot winning any Michelin stars. His roof deck, though—it silences the snobbiest of LA haters. Two of whom will be in attendance tomorrow night.

Not that I care what Glasswell and his over-the-top celebrity girlfriend think. I’m still not entirely sure why she’s even invited.

“Oh wait, it’s now a table for four,” Masha corrects me. “Didn’t I tell you?”

I blink. “What?”

“Jake’s not bringing Aurora.”

“Oh?” I cough, feeling a tightness at the back of my throat. I suddenly wish I’d packed a few more PBRs. I feel Masha’s gaze on me. Even though I’ve barely said a word.

“Be nice,” she warns.

“Since when isOha derogatory word?” I use my filet knife to slice too hard into the fish’s spine.

“You know,” Masha says. “If I’d told sixteen-year-old Olivia thattheAurora Apple was canceling an RSVP, there would be hair-rending on the level of Greek tragedy.”

It’s true that in my younger days, I was a massive Aurora Apple fan. I internet-deep-dived her enough to know her real name is Allison Applebaum, and she was born two years before me to two schoolteachers in Topeka, where she starred in every musical production her high school put on. When she played Caligula in the teen rom-comOblivious, her aesthetic took over my vision board for the rest of high school.

But last year, when Aurora started cohosting Glasswell’s internationally syndicated morning talk show,Everything’s Jake, rumors swirled that the cohosts were in fact a couple. I quit myintrigue with Aurora cold turkey. I started to see her for what she really was. Another fool duped by Glasswell’s phony charm.

I don’t ask why Aurora is gracing us with her absence tomorrow night, and I can’t know whether having one less snob at dinner is a good thing, or whether a table for four will force me into additional interaction with Glasswell. Either way, none of this is enough to spoil a successful day of friendship and fishing. I drop the ziplocked filets into the cooler and decide not to obsess. It’s that simple. Mind over madder.

“It’ll be fun,” Masha says as I literally bite my tongue. “I don’t think the four of us have hung out solo since, wow... prom?”

“Has it been that long?” I say, my voice suddenly tight. I start hosing down the boat’s cutting board so I don’t have to meet Masha’s eyes.

“Liv?” she says. “You okay?”

“Absolutely!”

I feel her squinting at me. “You’re not feeling weird about seeing Jake this weekend, are you?”

“Of course not!” I sputter. “That’d be ridiculous. Why wouldIfeelweird?” We’re near the marina now, so I take the tiller and putter to a slower speed. I wave at a passing boat full of kids and grandparents, hoping Masha doesn’t notice the sudden heat in my cheeks.

“Hmmm,” she says, because of course she noticed.

We’ve taken a wrong turn in this conversation, and I need to get us back on track. I am (was) a drama teacher! A professional. Paid to understand the art of acting. If I can’t do this now forthe sake of my best friend’s happiness, then what is wrong with me? I meet Masha’s gaze and commit:

“You’re right. The whole weekend’s going to be a blast.”

And somehow, just like that, Masha smiles and leans back on her bench, convinced. Hell, maybe I’m convinced, too. Maybe I’ll be fine seeing Glasswell tomorrow night.

Chapter Three

“This is bullshit, Joy!” I yell into my phone at the teenaged girl whose YouTube tutorial—Foolproof Box Dye at Home!—is now a failed hypothesis.

While Joy shows off her fabulous glossy highlights from the comfort of what looks like a very soothing pink bathroom, I’m squinting into my phone from a folding chair in my slanted backyard with dye oozing down my forehead and dripping into my eyes.

I toss the bottle over my shoulder in frustration. Then I wince and start crawling through the dirt, squinting my burning eyes in search of the busted bottle’s plastic pieces before Gram Parsons gets his underbite on them and I’m out another five hundred dollars at the vet.

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