24. Bryce
TWENTY-FOUR
brYCE
A week after Emerson’s interview, he was officially offered the position. With a massive grin plastered on my face, we stroll into Pho-nomenal Pizza. It’s time to celebrate. Well, more than the perfect pounding he gave me last night.
Even though it’s only a few blocks from the Bigby, neither one of us has been here. It’s tucked away on a small side street I don’t frequent with Bobo because there are no trees or fire hydrants. I’d never heard of it, and Portia insisted we try it.
The name alone makes me question why I agreed to meet here, but then the decor hits me.
I’m immediately engulfed in the vibrant atmosphere.
The walls are adorned with colorful anime murals, creating a playful yet nostalgic vibe.
The fusion of Italian and Asian cultures is clear—a blend of rustic wooden tables paired with elegant paper lanterns that sway gently from the ceiling.
Featuring tailored black outfits accented with silk sashes, the waitstaff dart around like well-dressed ninjas.
Who thought this was a good idea? Portia, of course.
“Okay,” Emerson says, his eyebrows raised as he glances at the menu. “Is this a joke or … ”
“Nope,” I say, unfolding my kitten origami napkin. “Only Portia would know about this place. Vietnamese pho meets pizza. A soup-to-slice fusion.” I shrug. “You really can get anything in the city.”
Emerson gives me a side-eye. “Have I entered some alternate universe?”
“Wait until you meet Portia. This is just how she operates.”
I spot her by the door, wearing a pale blue scarf wrapped tightly around her head, and wave to her. She scurries over as if she’s on a caffeine binge, her bright scarf flowing behind her like a classic Hollywood actress late for her call time.
“Bryce! There you are! And you brought Hot Prof!” Portia calls, too loudly. A few heads turn, but nothing fazes her. She’s too busy applying a fresh coat of lipstick as she joins us.
I lean over to Emerson. “You’ll get used to her. Mostly. Maybe. Just roll with it.”
She sits down with a huff, kisses my cheek, and I introduce them. I watch Emerson try to figure out how to shake Portia’s hand when she leans her cheek in for a kiss. After he delivers one, she returns it, leaving a bright red mark on his face.
“Bryce, darling. This one is fit to be tied.”
I pat Emerson’s knee under the table. “He sure is.”
“Well, I skipped Pilates for this. And my chakra cleanse. But all the kids are raving about it. Apparently the food is pho-nonemal.” She winks at me.
“So, Emerson, I hear you’ve secured a permanent position at the University of New York.
” She applies more lipstick, presumably to replace what she’s painted on our cheeks.
“You locked that down quickly. How does it feel? You must be very proud.”
Emerson, ever the professional, takes a beat before answering. “Well, it feels great, actually. But I don’t think ‘locked down’ is the right phrase. More like ‘I’ve finally reached the promised land of tenure.’”
“Oh, sure,” Portia says, nodding as if she completely understands. “I get that. It’s how I feel whenever I walk into the first-class lounge at the airport.”
I glance at Emerson, who’s trying not to laugh.
“Oh! I have the best news to share,” she says. “Well, best news for me. You’ll likely be neutral.”
“Do tell,” I say.
“Whitney sprained her ankle during rehearsals. Guess who has two thumbs, flawless skin, and got cast to replace her?” Portia points at herself.
“Justice prevails. That’s fabulous.” I reach across the table and squeeze her hand in excitement.
“I’m assuming we don’t like Whitney?” Emerson asks.
“I swear I’m not usually this petty,” she tells him. “But trust me, she deserves it.”
The waitress arrives, and we order—Portia gets a cocktail called a Wasabi Fizz and some bizarre combination of pho and Hawaiian pizza, Emerson goes with the classic Pho-Roni, and I settle on something that looks like the bastard child of a Margherita pizza and a steaming bowl of soup.
The food arrives, and despite everything, it actually smells incredible.
I take a bite and … okay, okay, as usual, Portia is right. It’s surprisingly scrumptious.
Between bites, we chat about Emerson’s new gig, his excitement, and the relief of it all. He’s been working so hard for this.
“I’m just excited to not have to deal with adjunct professor paperwork anymore,” Emerson says, wiping a tiny drop of broth from his chin. “I never thought I’d get so giddy about research opportunities and regular office hours.”
I run my fingers over his thick thigh. “Don’t forget the benefits.”
Portia leans in with a smile that can only be described as mischievous and unhinged. “Does that mean, like, unlimited salad and breadsticks?”
I shake my head. “No, I mean a steady income and health insurance. You know, basic needs.”
“Meh,” Portia says. “Doctors these days are extremely overrated. Clean living is where it’s at.” She lifts her fancy drink.
Emerson snorts, trying not to choke on his food. I can’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all.
Just then, my phone buzzes on the table. It’s Preeti. Gulp .
I look at Emerson. “I’ll be back in a jiff. Work stuff. This is important.”
Or could be. I step outside, the cool evening air hitting my face as the city zooms by.
“Bryce,” Preeti says immediately, her voice sharp. “I need you. Now.”
“For the last time, I can’t have sex with you. For multiple reasons.”
“I’m actually being serious. The network ordered Queers in the Headlights straight to series. Ten episodes. They loved the pitch so much, they want this on the air by December. They think it could be great counterprogramming to all the December reruns and holiday specials.”
“Ten episodes?”
“Yep. It’ll be about three months of work with the possibility of more if the show does well.”
I clutch my chest in amazement. Finding steady work as an actor can feel as impossible as searching for love on dating apps.
“When do we start?” I ask.
“I need you to take the first flight out here in the morning.”
“Out here? Where’s here?”
“LA.”
I guffaw into the phone. I wonder if Preeti can see my eyes bulging out. “I thought we were filming in New York.”
“We were, but the network got tax credits, so we’ll be filming the first season in LA. Depending on how things go, future seasons might go back to New York. LA is great! You can work on your tan and recreate the opening montage from Clueless . I’ll be your Dionne.”
“LA.” Not even the thought of imagining my life as a Noxzema commercial can quiet the unease piling up inside me.
This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for, the one that could change everything.
I look up at the sky, letting the rush of emotions wash over me.
But there’s a pull in my chest, a weight I can’t ignore.
Emerson. Bobo. What I have here. What I’ve finally found. Built. Emerson’s handsome face floats into my head. I’ve never had something so steady. Something so real. He’s such a good man.
“Preeti … I need to think about this.”
“Bryce, I need an answer now. Because if you’re not in, I need to pivot.”
I nod my head. Shooting schedules can’t be adjusted for people like me so far down on the call sheet. Preeti extended a lifeline getting me this gig, but she can’t hold it forever.
“Do you want it or not?” she asks. The million-dollar question.
I stare down the street, the lights of the city blinking back at me. I think about what I have, about what I could lose.
I close my eyes and utter the only response possible.
“Yes.”
Preeti rattles off some details about an email, flights, and packing lists, and we hang up, my mind racing. I walk back into the restaurant, my feet suddenly heavy. I take a seat again, trying to look casual, but my stomach coils like a rope pulled too tight.
Emerson looks up, sensing something’s off. “Everything okay?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Everything’s … fine.”
Portia, ever the observant one, raises an eyebrow. “You look like my mum whenever she walks into a kitchen with Formica countertops.”
I let out a half-laugh, trying to shake off the unease.
“No. No. I’m just … hungry. Let’s eat.”
Emerson gives me a curious glance but doesn’t press. Instead, he raises his glass. “To new jobs and adventures,” he says, smiling. “To us!”
“To us,” I repeat, raising my glass too. But inside, I’m already thinking about LA. And everything I’m about to leave behind.