“You checked out all of that?” Nolan asks. “In twenty-four hours?”
“That’s, like, literally my job,” she says as if she can’t believe anyone wouldn’t do the same. “But I did want to confirm a few things.” She holds my gaze. “Let me know if these facts are correct. If not, please elaborate, as we like to know who we’re working with. First, I see that for the last five years you’ve lived in an apartment you shared with your twin sister until her death. And now, you live by yourself. Is that true?”
I swallow past the knot of memories in my throat, but words are harder.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Nolan says, jumping in like a superhero, sensing what I need at this moment.
Evelyn turns to Nolan. “You were in France for two years with an Inés Delacroix. You moved back to San Francisco, worked in a restaurant there, and rented. Now you’ve been going back and forth and staying with friends in New York and San Francisco, including your brother. Go Hawks,” she says, with a fist pump. “Love them—they used to be in Vegas. Anyway, all of that is correct?”
“Yes,” he mumbles.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“That’s all accurate,” I put in. It’s my turn to look out for him as she outlines the ups and downs of his recent years.
“Well, let me just say—living with your brother . . . that is such a great millennial life hack,” Evelyn says with admiration.
“Yeah, thanks,” Nolan says drily. I can hear his sarcasm, but I know him. Hopefully, she can’t tell. “It’s my DIY life.”
“Perf. You two are all Gucci.” She swings her phone to us. “Sign this memorandum saying you won’t talk smack about Dot and Bette, and then you can shoot.”
Wow. This kid is a shark. “I want you repping me someday,” I say as I sign her memo.
“Let us know if you take on more clients,” Nolan adds as he signs.
“I will, but let’s be honest. I have a lot of calculus homework, so it’s probably not going to happen.”
“Understandable,” I say solemnly.
She points to the hall then returns her attention to her phone. “Oh my God, that’s so extra,” she says to the screen, and we’re done with the sixteen-year-old Great White.
This is a dream kitchen, and Nolan has a woody for it.
“I want to marry this kitchen,” he says of the palace where we’ve set up the taste test.
“I want to have babies with it,” I put in.
“Let me tell you, sweetie pie,” Dot says, “this kitchen has seen some action, if you know what I mean.” She adds a bawdy wink.
“You’re such a bad girl.” Bette laughs then smiles for the camera. “Now, did you know it’s my favorite time of day, Dot?”
“Bedtime?”
“Try again,” Bette says.
“Wine o’clock?” Dot offers.
“Girl, it’s taco time.”
We spend the next few minutes indulging in the food we brought, finishing with the tacos, then Bette starts in again.
“Now, I have a bone to pick with you, Dot.” She shakes a finger at her bestie. “How can you have been my friend for years but never once taken me to Tacos El Gordo?”
“Shame on me. Just shame, shame, shame.” Dot lowers her head but quickly snaps it up. “This just means we’re going to need regular recs from Nolan and Emerson. These two know where everything good is, from the Brussels sprouts to the egg sandwiches to these divine tacos. Will you two please keep sharing your faves?”
Nolan flashes a panty-melting grin. “You two will always get special treatment,” he promises.
And hearts flutter.
“But you know what I really want to try?” Nolan continues. “Those zucchini nachos you were teasing me about. Don’t hold out on me now.”
Dot slides a tray to us. “Never. You can have everything you want. But, Nolan,” she chides, “we have a ladies-first philosophy here.”
“But of course,” he says, then scoops up a zucchini nacho and offers it to me.
From his hand.
He’s feeding me the chip, the fucking ham.
When in Vegas . . .
I part my lips and crunch into it, and my taste buds shimmy. When I finish, I lick my lips. “Look, I know I have a rep for loving stuff, but I just do! This is a double I’d do it again. I’m giving it a nine point one.”
Our hostesses bump hips. “We got it going on,” Bette sings, then flaps her hand at Nolan. “Your turn, bad cop.”
He takes a chip, chews, then groans in absolute delight. When he’s done, he takes a deep breath, then issues a declaration: “I’m giving this an eight point nine two.”
Dot and Bette squeal.
“He hasn’t given anything close to a nine in months,” I say.
“If you gave us a nine, I would know you were sucking up,” Dot says. “So, I like this score a lot.”
Maybe we are sucking up a little, but for a good cause. This is special, the chemistry the four of us have, and I can’t help but think YouTube will see it too. We will be hard to beat, and maybe this is it—our chance.