Chapter 17
I’m wearing one of Whitney’s scoop-neck “hot girl” (her words, not mine) white sundresses, with platform sandals and a leather jacket.
She insisted on curling my hair into some loose waves, which I allowed, but her play to switch out my leather jacket for a jean one, was swiftly denied.
One doesn’t waltz into a battle without armor, and I don’t go on first or second dates without my leather jacket.
What’s the difference, Rick? The difference is stark and yet almost subconscious to the casual observer.
A jean jacket says come talk to me, the leather jacket: don’t fuck with me.
I get to the bar ten minutes early to stake out a spot.
I picked this pub because it’s never too crowded.
They play fun Irish rock music at the perfect volume, and the walls and ceiling are draped with colored Christmas lights all year long.
There’s a consistent backdrop of cheerful chattering, but it never gets so loud that you can’t hear yourself speak.
It’s cozy and unintimidating, and during high school I used to come here for dinner with Whitney and Jordyn on Friday and Saturday nights all the time.
I choose a stool at the center of the bar and order a glass of red wine. Then I spend seven minutes swirling it into a maelstrom, thinking this is what my stomach looks like right now.
What’s he going to say about the chapter? also runs through my brain about fifty thousand times.
Maybe he won’t show. Maybe he lied. Maybe the combination of chapter and random-ass text were lethal, and he’s figuratively died and become a ghost.
He’s going to think I flew out here to have sex with him. Literally. That’s what he has to be thinking. It’s what I would be thinking. I can’t believe I sent that stupid idiotic chapter—
“Rikki?”
My head snaps up so suddenly that some of my wine sloshes over and plops onto the floor. Reed casually swipes some napkins off the bar and lunges down to clean it. Heat floods my center.
Why is this hot? Does it count as other? Mental note to award an A.
He rises from the ground a beat later, lips twisted in that amused knot from the wedding. His neon eyes snag mine like two searchlights piercing the night, throwing my heart into that same 360 twist it did the first time he spoke to me.
“Hey,” he says cheerfully. He tosses the wine napkins on the bar and grabs a stool.
“Hey,” I parrot. Tonight Reed’s in dark jeans, a white button-up, and a leather jacket. I clear my throat. “Nice outfit.”
The edge of his lip twitches up. “Likewise. The text said to wear clothes, and I really took that to heart.”
I choke on a laugh as the bartender swings by to take his order.
“I’mnothereforsex,” explodes out of me the moment the server’s out of earshot.
Reed cocks a brow, eyes glinting. “Come again?”
“I’m. I’m not here for you,” I clarify louder, articulating each word with hand gestures.
His lips spread into a grin. “Well, I am, in fact, here for you. Did I misread the text? I believe I was invited on a date?”
My heart wiggles up into my windpipe. “Yeah. This is a date. I just mean I’m not here in California for you,” I explain. “I was in the area. And I thought I might as well invite you to stop by, to join me, while I stopped by . . . at this bar.”
His smile widens. “Well, I’m glad you invited me to stop by, to join you stopping by.”
I swirl my wine. “Well, I’m glad you stopped by, to join me stopping by, this time that I stopped by.”
Reed scoots forward an inch so our knees interlock. Without breaking eye contact, he takes a sip of the beer that’s appeared in front of him. I press my lips together as a flurry of sensation floods my thighs. Casual touch, A. He lowers the drink. “So what are you doing here, Rikki?”
I take a sip of wine. “Whitney lost Glenn.”
“Is that the title of a play, or are those people you know?”
“Whitney’s my twenty-eight-year-old cousin, and Glenn’s her thirty-year-old husband.”
He drops an elbow onto the bar. “Her thirty-year-old husband died?”
I shake my head vehemently. “No, they got married last week. It’s why I was flying back from LA before Babe’s wedding. They moved in together this week, had a fight, and now Glenn’s been missing for about seventy-two hours with his phone turned off.”
Reed’s mouth falls open.
I wave him off. “The police aren’t very concerned, but his absence is obviously deeply upsetting to Whitney.”
“Shit,” Reed says softly. “Where have you looked so far? Where was he last seen?”
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “He was last seen at Ridgerock Beach, where he likes to surf, and his car is still there. And, I mean we haven’t looked anywhere since I got here .
. . Whitney’s been so distraught. She’s staying at my aunt’s right now.
She checked the beach three days ago—that’s when she found his car.
She thinks something horrible happened to him in the water. ”
I notice a faint spattering of red-brown freckles across Reed’s nose and cheeks as he studies me. “What do you think?” he says.
“I think there’s a high probability that he’s staying with friends and avoiding confrontation.”
Reed finishes up his beer and throws down a twenty. “All right.”
“Are you . . . leaving?” I ask.
He stands. “Let’s go look for Glenn.”
“What? We just—” I squint at him. “You want to look for Glenn with me?”
“Rikki, I want to do anything with you.”
I scoff, sliding off my stool. “You want to do anything with me?”
He nods, waiting for me to grab my purse. “That’s what I said.”
I glare at him as I pull my crossbody over my head. “Don’t blow smoke up my—”
“I’m not blowing smoke up your ass.” He pivots toward the door.
I stare at his back for a moment before hustling after him.
The two of us emerge onto the well-lit Studio City sidewalk.
People mill about in cute outfits, wandering in and out of the restaurants and bars.
I follow Reed, mind spinning as I weave through passersby, and stop short as he circles around to the driver’s side of a blue Mercedes sedan parked on the street.
I gawk at him across the hood. “What is this?”
“This is called a car.” He opens the door and steps into the driver’s seat.
Reed drives a Mercedes? What is he, like . . . a financially stable millennial adult? I don’t know if I’ve ever dated one of those.
He rolls down the passenger side window and leans over to catch my eye. “Do you know about doors?”
My brow furrows. “Doors?”
“Have you operated them?”
I give him the finger, yank open the door, and shove myself inside, hastily buckling the seat belt.
“Okay.” He twists toward me. “What do we know about Glenn?”
“His birthday is in November, and he likes Harry Styles,” I reply automatically.
Reed’s mouth presses into a thin line. “What helpful information do we know about Glenn?”
I swallow, grappling with that for a moment. “He likes to drink and play pool with his buddies, I think. He likes to surf. He smokes cigars. It’s disgusting.”
“You two seem close.”
I slap the dashboard. “I think I’ve heard Whitney say he goes to that billiards bar down in Sherman Oaks.”
“There we go.” Reed pulls out into the street. When the light in front of us turns green, he hangs a U-turn, sending us back in the opposite direction on Ventura Boulevard.
The radio’s set to a classic rock station.
Pink Floyd plays faintly over the speakers.
We’re quiet as the car glides past a slew of familiar landmarks I haven’t seen in a while.
It’s only been seven months, but so much has changed since the last time I drove around out here.
It’s bizarre how the seemingly permanent landscape of your hometown shifts like sand on a beach the second you move away.
“Maybe I should have driven,” I mumble quietly.
“You should have driven my car?”
“I’ve given you the power to kidnap me.”
He purses his lips. “Ah, and you’d prefer to hold the kidnapping power.”
“Of course.”
“Do you want me to let you out?”
“No,” I say quickly.
“Okay.” Reed sounds amused. He shoots me a smile. “Can I ask another first-date question?”
“You may.”
“What’s your fatal dating flaw?”
I blow out a harsh laugh. “Reed. Your first-date questions are not questions. They’re essay prompts.”
His toothy grin catches the light.
I turn toward the window, watching the reflection of the streetlights float across the glass.
“Welp. It’s probably—needing to control everything .
. . but also not wanting to have to control it at the same time?
I want a copilot, not a passenger. And men I’ve dated see me taking charge of things, and either become intimidated by it all, or sit back, relax, and let me do all the work in the relationship.
And . . . it takes me a while to realize it’s even happening because I can so easily become an out-of-control control freak. ”
Reed chuckles gently from the driver’s seat. “Hmm . . .”
“Hmm?” I repeat.
His lip curves up his cheek. “Hm, sounds like you’ve dated some lazy assholes.”
I bark a laugh, studying his sharp profile for a beat as he gazes confidently out at the road. “How did you know?”
“About the assholes?”
“No.”
He pauses. “That you wrote the reviews?”
A chill wisps through me. “Yeah.”
“Educated guess.” He offers me a shy smile.
“The timing lined up. You lined up. It wasn’t that big of a leap after talking to you all night.
You have a distinct voice.” He pauses, tapping his finger against the steering wheel.
“Honestly, after how that day went, I would have been more surprised if you weren’t Renee.
That was . . . kismet like I’ve never experienced before.
“I meant everything I wrote about that review.”
I watch the lights change as we drive past the Ralphs on Hazeltine. “That I ruined your writing career when I didn’t like Harrowed and Used?”
He shakes his head, shooting me a smirk. “Noooo, that you gave me the career with the Broken and Bruised review. You legitimized it for me. I have that thing framed on my wall, Rikki.”
My eyelids snap up as I cough-laugh in shock. “No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“I do too.”