Page 7 of Fun at Parties
Logan:Wait Quinnie why are you driving?
Bailey answers for me, telling the version of the story I told her: time off work, scenic route, yada yada. Everyone is jealous, and Logan makes an impassioned case for meto stop in Tahoe, where he’s spending a few days with friends.
It’s not surprising that’s he’s traveling; Logan Forrester is constantly on the move, but his destinations are usually more, er, nightlife focused.Maybe!I say.I am going north. Either way, can’t wait to see you all!!!I scroll through the thread twice to see if Nate said anything else, but there’s nothing.
And then a message from him pops up, but not in the group chat. It’s only to me. I swallow hard and open it.
Nate:Hey. Can I come?
Chapter 3
Santa Monica, California—3,330 miles to Seapoint
Two days later, I pullTim’s car into the beachfront parking lot by Ocean View Park. It’s not particularly convenient for me and extremely inconvenient for him, but if I’m going coast-to-coast, we need to start at the coast.
I snag a spot at the front of the lot, with a view of unblemished sky and the gleam of the ocean. My windows are closed, but the voices of early-morning surfers returning to their cars filter in anyway. And then I wait.
When Nate messaged me, I first thought he wanted to hitch a ride all the way to Seapoint, and the idea ofthatwas overwhelming. Turns out he only wants to go to Tahoe, to meet up with Logan. They’re an odd duo, best friends since kindergarten but complete opposites. Nate has always been steady and low-key; Logan has the energy and temperament of a puppy and has done two stints on reality TV.
I check the time. In front of me, a woman follows twotoddlers who are teetering down the promenade, pointing at gulls overhead.
This trip is important, and I have a clear vision for how it’s supposed to go. Nate’s presence is not part of that vision, especially since we haven’t been alone together in two years. But this L.A.-to-Tahoe leg is a tiny fraction in the grand scheme of things, and it’s going to be fine. It’sgood,actually. For reasons I will excavate from the knotted-up jumble of feelings in my gut any second now.
I’m still watching the woman and her toddlers when I hear the passenger door open. Someone drops into the seat. I catch a whiff of salt air and all my best Septembers, and a prickling sensation tiptoes across the back of my neck, and I know without looking that Nate Reed just got into my car.
“Hey,” he says.
I turn toward him slowly, at the exact pace you’re not supposed to rip off a Band-Aid. It’s still not slow enough for me to ease myself into this moment.
He looks,I think,exactly like Nate.Which is maybe the least intelligent thought I’ve ever had. Sandy brown hair, fine but thick, that one piece in the front veering left.Nate’s hair.Blue-gray eyes that always make him look softer than he’d like.Nate’s eyes.I’ve seen bits of him all over this city for the past few months—hell, for most of the last two years—unsure every time whether the jolt of recognition I felt was excitement or dread. Nate’s Vans and surf shop wardrobe in the line at Go Get Em Tiger for my weekly coffee treat, Nate’s sly mouth in a Santa Monica bar, Nate’s long, muscled swimmer’s arms on someone jogging in my neighborhood. Almost never actually Nate.
“Hey! It’s good to see you,” I say, managing to conjure the right words from somewhere inside me. If I were being completely honest, I’d saySeeing you makes me feel like someone’s carving out one of my organs with an ice cream scoop.
“You too,” he says, in a hasty, impersonal voice that should be reserved for, like, the time you run into your middle school frenemy at the airport Hudson News. It should not be a voice for me.
I swallow what feels like a sack of rocks.
He slides a cup out of the cardboard drink holder in his lap. “I, uh, brought you a smoothie. It has parsley in it.”
“Is that a selling point or a warning?”
Half a surprised laugh slips out of his mouth, which he stifles with his free hand before moving to put the drink in one of the car’s cupholders. They’re both occupied, one by my water bottle and the other by the smoothie I brought myself. “Ah. Never mind. I’ll just…” He reaches back to feel around for the cupholders between the back seats. “Maybe I should throw it out.”
“No, no,” I rush to say. “Thanks. I’ll drink it after this one.”
“It’s probably good,” he offers. “There’s banana in there. Ginger, carrot. I got it at this new place near my apartment everyone seems to love.”
“It must be good if you thought it was worth holding on to for an hour-long Uber ride.”
His brows furrow, and he fiddles with the drink holder. “It wasn’t that long. Maybe I didn’t tell you? I moved to Culver City in January.”
My stomach drops. “What?” I ask faintly. Nate used to live in Silver Lake, on the east side, essentially another planet. But Culver City is only ten minutes from me. January waseightmonths ago. Before I saw him during Logan’s last visit, when we all went out for pizza and drinks in the Arts District and he neglected to tell me that we were practically neighbors. “Alone, or…?”
“No, with Ravi.” Ravi is the software engineer and dedicated gamer he’s lived with since he moved here, an amiable guy who didn’t complain when I crashed with them for my entire first month in L.A.
This is fine. It has to be fine. “I’m sure it’s a good smoothie.” I deposit it in the rear cupholder myself. “I love ginger.”
He drags a hand down his face. “This is awkward, right?”
