Chapter 28 Church and State
“So, Reed.”
“So, where do you live, Rikki?”
I laugh. “Hoboken.”
He smiles out the windshield. “I’m looking for exact parameters, floor, apartment number—you know mine. It’s only fair.”
My cheeks burn neon as I drop my forehead momentarily against the passenger side window.
“Yeah, all right. I’m in Hoboken—fifth floor of this building along the Hudson.
” I rattle off the exacts of my address, and we lapse into silence as he pulls us onto the I-405.
“Paradise by the Dashboard Light” by Meat Loaf plays lightly over the radio.
“So, Reed.” I return playfully to my original unvoiced train of thought.
“Yes, Rikki?” He lobs the words back in a hot, professor-like murmur.
“Do you do your acting work under a whole other pseudonym?”
He grins out the windshield. “Been googling?”
“Oh, I googled you the second I got back from the wedding. Not much to find, which was obnoxious.”
Reed laughs. “Yes, I act under another name.”
“What is it?” I ask.
He glances over mischievously. “I don’t think I’m ready to share.”
I guffaw. “Reed. How can I ever truly know you if I can’t go back and watch slash roast your backlog of commercial work?”
He smiles. “I have a bigger project coming up.”
My brows jump to my hairline. “Go on.”
“I’ve taken a step back from the podcast company for it ’cause, I mean, it’s a job job. Oliver’s been mostly running things at Oh Brother Audio himself for a while now.”
“Wait, what? Congratulations!”
“I have to finally get an acting Instagram because the streamer wants me to be able to promote it on my nonexistent actor socials.”
“Reed! That’s amazing.” I pause, studying his amused, guarded expression. “And what—you’re not going to tell me what this project is?”
His mouth rolls into a decisive purse. “I feel like I should wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for this to be a little more solid. It hasn’t been announced.”
“This being the movie or this you and me?”
He shoots me a playful smirk.
I guffaw again. “I can’t believe you’re about to keep this to yourself. Is it a Marvel movie? Is that house bought with Marvel money?”
He barks a laugh. “Are you going to tell me about the us-adjacent articles you’re working on for Love Today before they go live?”
I squint at him. Has he read my last three pieces?
20 First-Date Questions to Keep in Your Notes App.
How Many Romantic IRL Meet-Cutes Does the Average Person Encounter in the Digital Age?
Can You Actually Meet Dateable Single People at a Wedding?
My stomach twists as the multiple failed five-date ventures I embarked on during the first half of the year come careening back to mind. Perhaps it would behoove me to keep that area of my life separate from the romantic one.
Reed meets my eyes for half a second and lifts his brow.
“I wonder if we should have a rule about work,” I suggest.
He cocks his head. “Hit me.”
“Should we separate church and state? Keep work details private from dating-life escapades? Can we keep that area of our lives out of our—conversations?”
“Interesting proposition. But what if you come by my work, or I run into one of your articles?”
I shrug. “I mean, then we’re happy for each other, but we have a mutual understanding that our work is our work, and we don’t need to let it affect whatever’s going on between us?”
“So basically I keep acting under wraps and you keep Love Today separate? Like the pseudonyms doing those jobs are actually different people.”
I grin. “Exactly. Maybe you promise not to read my articles or listen to the podcast for the span of this agreement.”
Reed rolls that around in his mind for a long beat. “And are you going to watch the things I might appear in?”
I bite my lip. “Well—I guess I won’t without your consent. But I’d love to watch the things you’re in. I feel like they’re probably not derived directly from your personal life.”
He chuckles. “Maybe you avoid the press interviews. That’s more equivocal to your podcast and column.”
Press interviews? “Okaaayyyy.” What the fuck is he going to be appearing in?
He grins. “All right. I agree to this amendment under the condition that we drop the texting law.”
I smile out the window. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he says. “We’re allowed to casually speak between dates?”
“Okay,” I say again.
“Can I call you?”
“On the phone?”
“Microwave.”
I snort.
“Yes, the phone, Rikki.”
I watch the white lines stretching and breaking along the black highway.
In no world will I be able to “remain” any semblance of “casual” about this situationship if Reed is calling me regularly.
“How about we can call each other, but only if we’re both sitting on a bed?
Like you have to be on your bed to call me. ”
“And if you’re not on your bed when I call?”
“Then I can’t pick up and vice versa.”
He slits his eyes in my direction before looking back at the road. “Okay, Renee.”
I smile. “Okay.”
“All right, movement to replace no texting with separation of church and state approved. Calling while located on mattresses also approved. Add it to the constitution.”
“Done.”
He smiles at the windshield. “This all feels very Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“I have another question,” I prompt.
“I’m ready.”
“You said in your chapter you’ve been Commitment Issues Guy for the last nine years? Let’s dig into that.”
“Wow, jumping right from zero to a hundred.” Reed shakes his head, grinning.
“You said you were ready.”
He takes a beat and sighs. “I haven’t actually dated dated someone in a hot second. Just mostly one- to two-date flings here and there.”
“How long is a hot second?”
Reed’s eyes flick over to me and back to the road. “A while.”
“Don’t Edward Cullen me.”
He blows out a hard breath. “Four . . .”
“Four years?” I ask.
“Fourteen,” he says quickly.
“Fourteen?” I repeat, confused. “You’re only thirty-two.”
“Yeah.”
I gawk at the green highway sign up ahead. “You haven’t been in a relationship since you walked in on your fiancée cheating on you?”
Reed catches his tongue between his teeth, as we veer onto the I-10. “That kind of trust. That level of intimacy,” he starts. “Being in a romantic partnership—it’s big. It’s different than physical intimacy.”
He pauses, and I hold my breath, willing him to elaborate.
“It means openly trusting someone with every aspect of your life, and they’re trusting you with theirs. You’re willingly handing over the power to control your emotional well-being. It’s—I mean, that’s some scary shit.”
We drive in silence for an interminable three minutes because I’m not sure what to say. I feel like I just dipped over the edge of a roller coaster.
He hasn’t dated anyone since he was eighteen. And here I am, secretly hoping this long-distance nothing will at some point spontaneously evolve into “something real.”
Bad news: I’m an idiot.
Good news: I am now an idiot in possession of a teleportation journal. It said thirteen jumps. I have twelve more. I could come out here once a week for at least six more weeks.
Bad news: I’m not some magical unicorn with the power to change his ways.
Four whole minutes later, when we’re off the highway, sat at a red light, I finally work up the gall to speak.
“So all these one-night, two-night casual dating stands you’ve been hitting these past fourteen years.
What are they like? What do you do with these people you already know you don’t want to see more than twice?
How much smoke gets blown up each ass? Are you a serial ghost? ”
He lets go of a breath as the light goes green. “I try never to blow smoke up any asses, Rikki. We usually do something fun and then go back to her place, and that’s it.”
“What do you talk about?”
“I don’t usually talk much. They talk, I listen.”
“You’re telling me you’re not a snarky 1860s statue come to life with every other woman you encounter in the wild?”
He snorts. “I’m sorry—1860s what?”
“Do you not engage in a playful back-and-forth with other suitors, Reed?”
“Maybe for a second, but then they have the floor.”
“People ask questions back.”
“I can easily spin a question.”
I narrow my eyes, staring him down as we move through the numbered streets of Santa Monica.
“Do they know you don’t do relationships when you embark on these dates?”
He microshakes his head. “No, not typically, but I’ve never lied if they asked.”
“Why suggest a pact with me if you don’t do relationships?” I ask, voice quiet but firm. “It’s implying more than two encounters.”
He pulls us into a spot and throws the car in to park. “What’s your relationship thing, Rick?”
“What do you mean?”
He shifts to face me in his seat. “I mean on dates, what’s your pattern when you decide you don’t like the person? How do you escape?”
“I, well, um.” I exhale a gust of nervous air. “I tell them I have a dog at home with separation anxiety. That it’s crying and my neighbors are texting, so I have to get back.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“Then what happens? Do you text them after you leave?”
I open and close my mouth. “Um, well, no, because it was just a first date, and it was bad.”
“Exactly.”
“I mean yes, but that’s only if they also don’t text. So it’s a mutual ghost.”
He tilts his head. “Who’s to say my dating experiences didn’t end in mutual ghostings?”
“Okay.” I cast my eyes toward the beach stretching out in front of us, adjacent to the pier. “You’re right, after a first date it’s not exactly ghosting. It’s more of a taboo thing from the third date on, I guess.”
“What happens when they text you after the first date, but you don’t want to keep seeing them?”
I serve him a hard look. “I don’t ghost. I have a text precrafted by Jordyn in my notes that says I’m sorry I’m just not feeling the vibe here. It was great meeting you.”
Reed nods, a small smile on his lips. “I like that. Nice of her to draft it out for you.”
“Yeah, she understands that dating apps are modern-day vampires slowly sucking the life out of their users. They dangle the promise of love, and we open our veins to their fucking fangs.” I bark out a laugh, remembering my first conversation with Reed at the wedding.
“I see now why you called dating fun. You don’t actually do it with the goal of a relationship.
You go in, knowing you’ll only see them once or twice!
“You don’t have grand hopes of finding your person that you have to watch catch fire repetitively each time you find yourself across the table from some new brand of dick.”
Reed huffs a laugh. “Rikki—”
I cut him off as another realization slaps me in the face. “Hold up . . . Does this mean you haven’t been on a third date in fourteen years?”
Reed’s mouth curves into a sad self-aware smile. “When you put it that way, I sound insane.”
I widen my eyes at him. “Reed.”
“It hasn’t been fourteen whole years—I’ve just found that when you want to keep things casual, it’s hard after three-plus dates. It starts to feel like something to the other party.”
I slam a hand across my face. “You’ve been living with an actual two-date rule for a decade?”
Laughter rumbles through him. “Rikki! I’ve been full steam ahead with my career since I got out of college. I’m an efficient guy. I don’t like to waste time.
“Remember how I was ready to get married out of high school? She said yes. I was a fiancé. I was getting married. I was a hundred percent ready to commit to someone forever. And don’t get me wrong, I’m glad I didn’t, because I didn’t know who I was, and she didn’t know who she was.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t ever want to find someone I want to do that with again.
“I’ve put so much work into myself this past decade. I’ve done a shit ton of therapy.
“I’m not twenty-one anymore. It’s not that I’m not looking, Rikki, I just know what I’m looking for.”
He’s quiet as his jet-fuel eyes find mine across the center console. My heart hammers as the implication reverberates in the silence.
I break eye contact and refocus on the dashboard. “I do enjoy efficiency.”
His lips twitch. “I caught that. Do you feel like you’re wasting your time?”
I should say yes. My brain says yes. It’s been saying yes since I found out we don’t live on the same coast. You’re dumb as shit to trust this guy. To risk putting your heart in this basket. To waste your time and mental space daydreaming about a future with this man.
But the rest of me says no. The universe said no.
I meet his gaze. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Okay.”
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
“You can always ask me things, Reed.”
“Will you still be in California this weekend?”
I swallow hard. “Maybe.”
“Any chance you’re free Saturday?”