Sam looks at her, surprised. He always reads the stuff Erin writes, because she’s his best friend and she sends it to him, but he wouldn’t exactly have pegged Fiona for a connoisseur of long-form investigative journalism. “Guilty,” Erin says, ducking her head, but he can tell she’s dorkily pleased to have been recognized. She’s more like him in that way than she’d probably want to admit.
“That was, like, incredible reporting,” Fiona says, her face open and earnest. It’s . . . actually the most sincere he’s ever heard her sound. “Can I ask you something? When you’re writing something like that, do the sources come to you, or . . . ?”
“It can work a few different ways,” Erin says. “That time I got a tip from a friend of a friend who worked at the school and knew that the administration was trying to clean up the mess without anybody finding out.”
“Of course they were,” Fiona says. “Did you read that thing on the Cut about the equestrian camp—”
“—in Greenwich,” Erin finishes, nodding excitedly. “A friend of mine wrote that.”
In the end it turns out Sam was worrying for nothing. By the time they drain their first round of drinks, Erin and Fiona are deeply engrossed in a conversation about the New York Times, TikTok, and the flattening of the media landscape, and Sam finds himself totally extraneous to the entire proceedings. “Honestly, it’s probably only a matter of time until I have to start pitching stories via viral video,” Erin says wryly.
“Let me know if you need any pointers,” Fiona replies, grinning. “I’m something of an expert myself.” Then, glancing across the table at Sam and seeming to realize suddenly that he is, in fact, still here: “Another round, please, bartender.” She slides her empty glass in his direction.
Well. Sam can take a hint. He gets up and heads over to the bar, watching the two of them with their heads tipped close together and trying not to feel like this is somehow weirder and more stressful than the alternative. He’s waiting for the bartender to look up from what appears to be Grindr when his own phone vibrates in his pocket.
“Hey!” he says, picking up quickly when he sees Russ’s name on the screen. “How’s Tulum?”
“Miserable,” Russ says. “Hot as shit, my daughters both hate me, and the Wi-Fi at the resort is garbage.”
“Any word on the firefighter thing?”
“What?”
Sam frowns. “The thing from the other day,” he clarifies. “My audition?”
“Ah,” Russ says, like possibly he’d forgotten all about it. “No, not yet. I’m calling about Birds of California.”
“Oh. Um. Hang on a second?” Sam glances over his shoulder at Fiona and Erin, neither of whom are paying him any attention, before heading for the door of the bar. “It’s dead in the water, right?” he asks once he’s out in the parking lot, blinking in the raw brightness of the midday sun. “I mean, after what happened with Fiona and that photographer . . . ?”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Russ sounds triumphant. “But I just got off the phone with Arkin, and if anything, they want it more.”
“Wait.” Sam feels the blood drain right out of his face. “Seriously?”
“All publicity is good publicity, et cetera,” Russ says. “And according to Bob, they’re going for an older audience with the streaming platform—edgier, more sophisticated. ‘Family After Dark,’ or some fucking thing.”
“That . . . is a terrible way to brand it,” Sam says. “It makes it sound like all the shows are going to be about vampire incest.”
“For fuck’s sake, Sammy.” Russ makes an impatient sound. “Can you focus, please? I’m on vacation here. The point is he and Hartley want to know if you’ve made any progress with the girl.”
“Progress?” Sam echoes.
“Hartley said he ran into the two of you together on the UBC lot,” Russ reports. “And don’t think I didn’t see those pictures of you all canoodling outside your apartment.” He chuckles. “I gotta say, when I told you to sweeten the pot, I didn’t mean literally.”
Sam winces. “It wasn’t like that,” he protests. He glances over his shoulder again, feeling slightly panicky. It’s cheesy, but the truth is he completely forgot about the reboot the moment Fiona came to the door yesterday afternoon. The last thing he wants is for her to come outside and hear him talking about it now.
“Sure looked like something, pally.” Russ sounds positively cheerful, though Sam guesses that could be the unlimited daiquiris at whatever fancy all-inclusive resort he’s working from this week. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. The whole thing is great PR. Frankly, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”
Sam’s stomach roils. “We’re friends,” he insists, “that’s all. And I gotta be honest, I don’t know if I love the idea of trying to convince her to do something she’s been pretty clear she doesn’t want to do.”
Russ laughs. “That girl doesn’t know what the fuck she wants,” he declares, with a casual certainty that takes Sam’s breath away. “Now, if you don’t want to do it, on the other hand—”
“No no,” Sam says quickly. “I do, I just—”
“Are you sure?” Russ interrupts. “Because if you’re not interested in the work, I’ve got plenty of other clients I could be busting my ass to try and—”
“No, it’s not that.” Sam hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Shit. It’s not like he doesn’t need a job—at this point he’d be crazy not to do whatever it takes to book anything Russ can scrounge up for him, up to and including that imaginary Dancing with the Stars gig. But there’s another part of him that was hugely relieved by the idea of the reboot drifting forgotten to the bottom of the pile so that he and Fiona could . . . do whatever it is they’re doing without the specter of it sitting there breathing heavily on the table between them. Sam doesn’t like the idea of lying to her. But it’s already too late to tell her the truth. “I’m working on it, okay? It’s a delicate situation.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Sam can hear the smirk in his voice. “Listen, Sammy, I gotta go. Cara signed us up for scuba lessons. I’ll talk to you soon, unless I somehow mysteriously drown, in which case you’ll know she finally made good on her threats and murdered me.”
Russ hangs up without saying goodbye. Sam stuffs his phone into his pocket, then goes back inside, squinting in the sudden dimness. When his vision clears he sees that Fiona and Erin have bellied up to the bar on their own, still chatting busily away.
“We helped ourselves,” Fiona reports, raising her glass when she sees him, “being two independent women.”
“We got you one, too, even though you don’t deserve it,” Erin chimes in.
“Like I always say, you’re a couple of classy broads.” Sam picks up the pint glass and drains the beer in two long gulps, feeling edgy and out of sorts. He’s worried his conversation with Russ is sticking to him in a way Fiona is going to notice, that she’ll be able to smell it on him like cheap drugstore cologne. “What did you guys talk about?” he asks.