Love, Comment, Subscribe by Cathy Yardley

CHAPTER 27

Tobin decided to take Lily to a nice restaurant. He still felt bad after the whole In-N-Out debacle, and besides . . . he wanted to spend more time with her, without work in the way.

He tried not to focus on why he wanted that.

They went to a little French bistro that had opened up in Westwood, a charming place with small marble-topped café tables and exposed brick walls, painted white cabinets, and displays of rustic cookware interspersed with plants. The menu was in French, or at least the titles were, and the actual food was delicious. He got a Thai chicken sandwich with something intriguingly called a “Thai caramel drizzle” as well as papaya slaw and a lemongrass aioli, and even indulged in a side of truffle fries. Lily went with the roasted salmon with arugula, pickled shallots, and remoulade but indulged in a cup of pumpkin bisque beforehand, as well as stealing several of his fries.

“I need to edit, obviously, but I think today went well,” Lily said. “Only two more to go—one of mine, one of yours.”

That caused a pang. “I think it’s been a good idea,” Tobin said.

“It’s been fun,” she remarked, swiping another one of his fries. “Honestly, filming with you has gone so much more smoothly than I would’ve thought.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “I wasn’t expecting it either, necessarily, but your shock is just this side of impolite.”

She reddened, then rolled her eyes. “Ha ha. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Herd in town had money on whether or not I’d murder you before the series was over. Like, some kind of box system where people bet on which episode of the series would finally push me over the edge.”

“Nonsense,” he said, waited a beat, then grinned. “It wasn’t just the townies. Hayden set it up on the Slack channel for everybody to vote.”

“Damn it!” Lily laughed, shaking her head. “And don’t tell me: they also had another running bet of whether or not the two of us would . . . you know.”

“You know . . . what?” he repeated.

She huffed out a little embarrassed chuckle. “Hook up.”

He felt the tips of his ears heat and took a bite of his sandwich to buy himself some time. “Um . . .”

“Oh, God, they did,” she breathed, eyes going wide.

“Apparently that particular bet has been going on for years,” he said, feeling sheepish. “Way before the Slack channel. I don’t know if that helps or not.”

“I don’t know either,” she admitted.

“On the plus side,” he added, “we’ve outlasted most of the bids. So that’s something?”

“It’s just so weird. We have never . . . you know.” She was blushing now, too, but grinning. “I’ve never understood the draw of the whole enemies-to-lovers dynamic, anyway.”

“Enemies might be a trifle strong,” he said. “I’d like to think that we’re friends. By this point, at least.”

She looked contemplative, nodding as she flaked away salmon and nibbled it delicately. “Friends,” she agreed, with a tiny lopsided smile. “That’s also weird.”

“Well, at the very least, we’re good collaborators,” he pointed out.

“That we are,” she agreed, but the shock was still evident.

“There’s that surprise again,” he said with a grin of his own, nudging her with one foot.

“I don’t know. Beauty influencer and game geek. It’s not intuitive.”

“We’re not that different, though,” he said, and he wasn’t quite sure why he was making his case; at least, he wasn’t sure why he was putting it so strongly. “We were friends back in the day—even if you felt that it was by default.”

“I never should have said that. It was shitty,” she said, looking morose.

“No. I mean, you can’t help how you feel about things,” he quickly added.

“I was just so angry at being . . . discounted, you know? For these weird reasons. I knew I could fit in if they’d just have given me a chance.”

“So because we didn’t make you work for it, it didn’t count as much,” he said. He wanted to ask it as a question, but figured it’d be better to just make it a statement, as gentle and nonjudgmental as possible.

“I guess.” She pushed the arugula around on the plate. Then she brightened. “So . . . next video at your place?”

He winced. If anything was designed to bring down his mood, it’d be that. “Um . . . yes?”

She looked at him with sympathy. “So. You wanna talk to me about the whole freak-out?” she said quietly. “You’re having trouble coming up with content?”

“Not exactly trouble, per se,” he temporized. “I think I’m just tired. I’ve been doing this for a few years at this point without a break. I mean, I’m not trying to say that I’m special. I know what it takes to make it as far as we have in the community, and I know it’s about putting up more and more original content. It’s just . . . I don’t know. I feel a little worn out.” He grinned humorlessly, toasting her with his glass of fresh-squeezed lavender lemonade. “Of course, who the hell am I to complain, right?”

That came out more bitter than he’d intended it to.

“You can’t help how you feel about things,” she reminded him, parroting his words back to him with a small smile. “And I’m not going to judge you. I get it. It takes more than people realize, to do what we do.”

That. There it was, exactly. “I mean, I talk shop with Shawn and some other YouTubers,” he said slowly. “But I don’t want them to feel like I’m complaining. And they usually just want to fix the problem. Even Josh, who is like a brother to me, just wants to brainstorm a solution and ride to the rescue. But sometimes the answer seems to just be, you know, sitting with it. Does that make sense?”

She sighed, pushing her plate away, but finishing the fries. “I don’t know. I’ve never been what I’d consider particularly creative,” she said.

“You’ve come up with years’ worth of content,” Tobin challenged. “Like clockwork.”

“But that’s just the thing,” she said. “They’ve been challenges from other people, or whatever. Testing new palettes. Coming up with looks. But nothing truly original or groundbreaking. Nothing to help me stand out in the crowd . . . and it’s a big crowd at this point.”

“But you’ve been a success.”

She shrugged, smiling a little. “I’m a hard worker,” she said, and there was an edge of determination in her voice. “I wasn’t the smartest in school, either, but I sure as hell studied and put in the work, more than anybody I knew. That was what mattered.”

He nodded. He did know. She regularly studied on the bus, over weekends, even during the trips to and from Academic Team. And yes, it was geeky as hell that they were on the Academic Team together.

Note to self: Maybe do a trivia-night thing? Or a grown-up academic bowl?

He sighed. No. That would probably not work.

“I think that you’re a good content creator,” he said, because she looked sad and because he believed it. “I mean, I’m no expert on beauty, obviously. But I think that you’re positive, you’re never mean spirited, and you’re just calming. I would watch the shit out of your videos, just to chill out.”

She smiled, and it was warm and appreciative. “Thanks,” she said. “And I’d watch your videos just to feel better. You’re silly, but you’re also never nasty or condescending. I hate that, I really do. But it always seems to get ahead.”

He nodded. He hated that as well.

They wound up shutting the restaurant down, and he paid for dinner over Lily’s objections, leaving a generous tip. He felt tense and wasn’t looking forward to the drive back. He also wasn’t looking forward to brainstorming another video for the two of them. He felt . . . empty. Like a jug of milk that had a hole in it and just left a mess and no satisfaction whatever.

Or something. He was even too tired to metaphor.

“So you’re going to edit tomorrow and post the next day? Or end of day tomorrow?” he asked as they went back to her place. He accompanied her up to get his clothes out of the dryer.

She nodded. “I’ll edit tonight. Even if we didn’t plan that much, we didn’t ramble, and it should be really straightforward. I think it should go pretty well—we’ve got some good material.” She went to the dryer and patted the clothes. “Still a little damp. You okay to wait another half hour, maybe?”

He groaned before he could stop himself. “Sorry, I’m just wiped out,” he admitted. “I mean . . . it’s not a big deal. Maybe you can just bring me the clothes when we see each other again?”

“All right. And that should be . . . Thursday? Friday?”

He nodded, frowning. He didn’t have his calendar on him, but that seemed to be what they’d agreed upon.

God, how was he going to come up with something by Thursday?

He startled a little when Lily put a hand on his shoulder. “Um . . . this is a little weird, but . . . are you okay?”

“Tired,” he said. It was becoming his go-to phrase. “Just kind of tired.”

“I don’t think you should be driving if you’re this tired,” she said, and she genuinely looked worried.

He took a deep breath and was about to protest but then realized that he was full of shit and chuffed out a breath. “Yeah. I probably shouldn’t, actually,” he agreed. “I think I haven’t been sleeping well lately—just under the gun. A full night’s sleep will probably do the trick, y’know?”

“I do that, too, sometimes,” she admitted. “I’ll go on a spree where I’m working, like, eighteen-hour days, even though I suck when I don’t have enough sleep, and then after a few months, I just need to take a day and sleep for twelve hours and then spend the rest of the time watching the fluffiest rom-coms I can find.”

He laughed. “I would not take you for the rom-com type,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you know of any hotels around here, do you?”

She frowned. “I never use any,” she said, and he started to google it . . . only to stop short when she cleared her throat. “You could stay here, if you wanted.”

He blinked, his finger frozen on the cell phone screen. “Here?” he croaked.

“I mean, we’ve shared a bed, and it hasn’t been that big a deal,” she said. “Also, it brings up my next point. How about we film the next video for my channel instead? That’ll give you a bit more time to brainstorm something new.”

Relief crashed into him like a wave. “Really? You mean it?”

She smiled brightly, nodding. “Sure. No problem. Why not?”

He hugged her. “You,” he said, smooching her cheek, “are awesome. Thank you.”

She looked away, a blush painting her cheekbones. “Um. Don’t mention it.”

Of course, the last time they’d shared a bed was before their epic make-out session with their hands all over each other and their mouths devouring each other and . . .

He stopped that train of thought immediately. He didn’t know what Lily was expecting, if she was expecting anything. They hadn’t discussed what had happened. Maybe she wanted to pretend it never happened. Maybe this was just friendly concern and convenience. Her couches were these artsy, flat things that had about as much padding as a wetsuit, more design than utility. Still, he could always crash on one. Or the floor, if need be.

He wondered abruptly if he was making a big mistake. But looking at Lily, he knew he was going to go for it anyway, and damn the consequences.