From the Jump(53)

Deiss nods and slaps him on the shoulder, making Sebastian’s eyes widen in surprise. His hand goes to the spot where Deiss made contact, and his expression turns pleased, like he’s interpreted the sporty display of camaraderie as some kind of acceptance, rather than the blow-off it is.

“Dream maker?” Phoebe says the moment Sebastian is out of earshot. Her cackling laugh draws attention from the table next to us.

“You said to flatter him.” I grin, grabbing the chair next to the one she’s pulling out from the table. Mac slides a marinara-soaked plate on the chair to my right, but Deiss notices it before he sits down and shakes his head.

“Are you twelve?” Demonstrating his own maturity, he places it gently on the table and takes a seat. Then he ruins the effort by flicking a piece of bread crust at Mac’s head. It arcs through the air and, by what I assume is at least seventy percent luck, smacks Mac directly between the eyes.

“Children,” Phoebe admonishes. But her giggle undercuts the messages.

I’m able to keep a straight face until Mac lets out a high-pitched squeak of incredulity, his hand flying toward the spot of contact as if he’s been shot. A snort rips out of me, and he turns my way, cartoon-level betrayal on his face. Rather than dampening my amusement, his expression makes me laugh out loud.

“No drinks for you,” he says irrationally.

“What?” I point at Deiss. “He did it.

Mac looks at him. “No drinks for you, either.”

“Phoebe laughed first,” Deiss says.

Mac looks at her, the reluctance in his expression clear. “Sorry, baby. Fair’s fair.”

“And I’m sorry, too.” Phoebe reaches out and places her hand sympathetically on his. “But you’re the one who tried to ruin Deiss’s pants with red sauce. That means no drinks for you, either.”

Mac’s face falls with disappointment, but to his credit, he accepts the ruling with a nod.

“However,” Deiss says, leaning back in his chair with his chin tilted up so he can look down on Mac like a benevolent god, “I choose to forgive you. So, you may have free drinks.”

Mac perks up and declares his own forgiveness, sanctioning drink distribution for everyone. Within a few minutes, we have an entire page of specialty cocktails in front of us and are trying to narrow it down to the four with the most unusual combination of ingredients. I end up with one that pairs strawberry and peach with basil, while Phoebe’s contains elderflower and mint.

“I’m telling you,” Deiss says, defending his choice, which involves orange juice and coconut, “it tastes good.”

“I’m not saying it doesn’t.” I squint doubtfully at his glass. “I’m just saying that it reminds me of one of those homemade hangover cures of orange juice and milk designed to make you vomit the previous night’s shame.”

“That’s a lovely image, Liv.” Deiss pulls his glass back as if he doesn’t want it tainted by my words.

I giggle, already feeling a little drunk after half a glass. It must be the giddiness that comes from free cocktails in the middle of a workday, because everyone seems to feel the same, and none of them are half the lightweight I am. Phoebe keeps eavesdropping on the table behind us and excitedly reciting everything that’s been said, despite the fact that each of us has confirmed more than once that it is not, in fact, Margot Robbie she’s spying on.

The next couple of rounds are much less strategically ordered. They involve pointing randomly at the menu, then picking our favorite colors when the server arrives with them. I sip at the newly arrived neon-green one and grimace before covertly swapping it out with the untouched one in front of Deiss.

“Where’s Simone?” I ask, hoping to distract Deiss from the fact that his cocktail has transformed from a cranberry hue to something that oozes out of sewers in superhero movies. “Did anyone invite her?”

There’s a silent pause where I feel, rather than see, the guilt that bounces between them.

“We don’t—” Mac says before getting cut off by Deiss.

“We tend to assume the drive is too far for these kinds of impromptu things,” Deiss says with a too-casual shrug.

“Plus, it’s weird between her and Sebastian now,” Phoebe adds quickly. “You know how agents are. He acts like he wants to sign everyone, but of course he just wants everyone to think he wants to sign them. But Simone called him daily for months because ‘you have to push for what you want.’?”

“Phoebe’s doing lots of air quotes,” Mac says with delight. “That means she feels guilty about something.”

Phoebe shoots him a look, but it’s unnecessary. I know exactly what she feels guilty about. I wasn’t supposed to find out that my adherence to a normal work schedule and the distance of my condo has excluded me from agent-sponsored drink-a-thons—just like I wasn’t supposed to discover that Phoebe still sees Deiss and Mac almost daily, while I’ve been so lonely I sometimes wonder if my voice will dry up entirely from lack of use. It doesn’t matter, though, because we’re here now. And it feels just like old times. And if I can just stay near them, I’ll never have to be lonely again.

“I’m looking at rooms for rent in Silver Lake,” I blurt out.

“You are?” Phoebe squeals and clasps her hands together.