The Friend Zone(20)

“If they wake up,” she whispered, “we scatter and reconvene at the donut place on Vanowen.”

“Got it. If you’re captured, no matter what they do to you, don’t break under interrogation.”

She scoffed quietly. “As if. I can’t be broken.” She snatched her roll and darted from behind the truck.

We made short work of it. Operation TP Sloan and Brandon’s was completed in less than five minutes. No casualties. We got back into the truck laughing so hard it took me three tries to get the key in the ignition. Then I noticed she’d lost a curler.

I got unbuckled. “No curlers left behind. It’s Marine Corps policy.” We got out for a recon mission on Brandon’s lawn.

I located the fallen curler under a pile of TP by the mailbox. “Hey,” I whispered, holding it up. “Found it.”

She beamed and jogged across the toilet-papered grass, but when she reached for the curler, I palmed it. “You’re injured,” I whispered. “You’ve lost a curler. The medics can reattach it, but I’ll need to carry you out. Get on my back.”

I was only about 50 percent sure she would go for this. I banked on her not wanting to break character.

She didn’t skip a beat. “You’re right,” she whispered. “Man down. Good call.”

She jumped up and I piggybacked her to the truck, laughing the whole way.

Those thirty seconds of her arms around my neck made my entire night.

Once we officially made our getaway and were driving from the neighborhood, she turned to me. “Hey, you wanna see something cool?”

I wanted to do anything that meant I got to spend more time with her. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay, turn left here,” she said. “It’s a surprise.”

We drove a few miles and then she directed me into a vacant parking lot in a strip mall on Roscoe Boulevard near her house. “Park there. This is it.”

I pulled into the empty lot and put the truck in park. “Well? What’s the surprise?”

None of the businesses were open. It was almost 1:00 in the morning.

She unbuckled herself and sat facing me, her legs tucked under her on the seat. Her eyes sparkled. “Look.” She pointed out the windshield to a run-down pawnshop in front of the truck.

“What?”

“You don’t know what that is?” She grinned.

I looked back at the storefront. Just a tired shop. “Nope. What?”

She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I ain’t through with you by a damn sight. I’ma get medieval on your ass.”

My eyes flew wide. “No fucking way.” I jumped out of the truck and stood in front of the pawnshop, examining the windows and sign. She climbed out after me.

“Is this…?” I asked in awe.

“Yup. The pawnshop from the gimp scene in Pulp Fiction.”

I grinned up at the yellow sign. “Wow.”

“I know.”

I knew the movie had been filmed in California, but it never occurred to me to look for the landmarks.

“Are there more?” I asked.

“Yeah. There’s the street where Butch runs over Marsellus. And the outside of Jack Rabbit Slim’s is actually a vacant bowling alley in Glendale. We could drive by that sometime if you want. Most of the landmarks are gone though. The restaurant from the Honey Bunny scene, the apartment where Vincent gets killed—all torn down.”

I furrowed my brow, but not because of the demolished landmarks.

This was the best date I’d ever been on. And it wasn’t even a date.

I looked at her, balancing on the balls of her feet off a concrete parking lot divider. She had no makeup on. Sweats. Hair in fucking curlers. Hell, she didn’t even change out of the shirt with the enormous lasagna stain on the front before we left the house. And she was a thousand times better than the drop-dead gorgeous yoga instructor from a few hours earlier.

Fun. Witty. Smart. Beautiful.

The cool girl.

And nothing that I could have.





TEN





Kristen




My cohabitation situation with Josh was on day five. I stayed in Mom’s empty beach house the two days he went to work. It wasn’t ideal. My inventory was at my house and I had to be there to get any work done. The commute was two hours. But he was right—I couldn’t be in my house alone at night. It just wasn’t safe.

Josh and I had developed a sort of routine. We ate almost every meal together, watched marathons of shows, took turns walking Stuntman, and did late-night food runs. I had planned to stay away from him as much as possible, but there was only the one TV in the living room and the coffee table was my unofficial office. And if we both needed to eat, it didn’t make any sense to do it separately. So we just kind of fell in together.

Every morning he’d patrol the yard for evidence of my creeper. It was seriously fucking hot. Then he’d make us eggs and we’d sit at the kitchen table talking until he had to get to work.

He had just come back over for another two-day stretch. I sat on the steps of the garage talking to him. I wore a tie-dyed shirt I’d made at summer camp, like, nine years ago with Sloan. I also wore the matching scrunchie. I’d been digging deep to maintain my homeless-chic wardrobe. It was becoming more and more necessary.