“As in, ‘Have you ever been George Clooneyed?’ ” Oliver asks.

“Exactly. ‘We went for a walk, and then George Clooneyed until around two. Good night.’ ”

Oliver nods, putting some pens away in a drawer. “I’d probably have to add that to my bucket list, too.”

“See, this is why we’re friends,” I tell him. Being near him is like a dose of Xanax. I can’t help but be calmed. “You would get that George Clooney as a verb would be such a monumental thing that, gay or straight, you’d want a piece of it.”

“He’s totally gay,” Not-Joe says, louder this time.

Oliver makes a skeptical noise, finally looking over at him. “I don’t reckon he is, though. He got married.”

“Really?” Not-Joe asks, coming to rest his elbows on the counter. “But if he was, would you do him?”

I raise my hand. “Yes. Absolutely.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Not-Joe says, waving me away.

“Who’s the front and who’s the back?” Oliver asks. “Like, am I getting George Clooneyed by George Clooney, or am I doing the Clooneying?”

“Oliver,” Not-Joe says. “He’s George Fucking Clooney. He doesn’t get Clooneyed!”

“We’re turning into idiots,” I mumble.

They both ignore me and Oliver finally shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”

“Like, actually losing IQ points,” I interject again.

Not-Joe pretends to grab a pair of hips and thrusts back and forth. “This. You’d let him?”

Shrugging defensively, Oliver says, “Joe, I get what we’re talking about here. I also get what the man-on-man sex would look like. What I’m saying is if I’m going to be with a guy, why not Bad Batman?”

I wave a hand in front of his face. “We should get back to the part where my comic is going to be a movie, though.”

Oliver turns to me and relaxes and his smile is so sweet, it makes everything inside me melt. “We absolutely should. That’s bloody brilliant, Lola.” He tilts his head, his blue eyes holding mine. “I’m really fucking proud for you right now.”

I smile, and then suck my bottom lip into my mouth because when Oliver looks at me like that, I can’t even be a little cool. But it would terrify him to see me swoon over him; it’s just not what we do.

“So how are you going to celebrate?” he asks.

I look around the store as if the answer is right in front of me. “Hang out here? I don’t know. Maybe I should do some work.”

“Nah, you’ve been traveling constantly, and even when you are home, you’re always working,” he says.

Snorting, I tell him, “Says the guy who is in his store every waking hour.”

Oliver considers me. “They’re making your movie, Lola Love.” And the nickname makes my heart spin in my chest. “You need to do something big tonight.”

“So, like, Fred’s?” I say. This is our usual routine. “Why pretend we’re fancy?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Let’s go somewhere downtown so you don’t have to worry about driving.”

“But then you have to drive back to Pacific Beach,” I argue.

Not-Joe pretends to play the violin behind us.

“I don’t mind,” Oliver says. “I don’t think Finn and Ansel are around, but I’ll round up the girls.” He scratches his stubbly jaw. “I do wish I could take you to dinner or something, but I—”

“Oh, God, don’t worry.” The idea of Oliver leaving his store to take me out to dinner makes me both giddy and totally panicky. It’s not like the building would catch fire if he left here before dark, but it doesn’t mean my body doesn’t feel that instinctive panic. “I’ll just head home and freak out alone in my room for a bit, and then get exceedingly drunk later.”

His smile melts me. “Sounds good.”

“I thought you had a date tonight,” Not-Joe says to Oliver, coming up behind him with a giant stack of books.

Oliver blanches. “No. It wasn’t—I mean, it’s not. We aren’t.”

“A date?” I feel my eyebrows inch up as I try to ignore the growing knot in my stomach.

“No, it’s not like that,” he insists. “Just the chick across the street who works—”

“Hard Rock Allison,” Not-Joe sings.

My heart drops—this isn’t “just the chick across the street” but someone we’ve all remarked upon once or twice for her keen interest in Oliver—but I work to give an outwardly positive reaction.

“Shut up!” I yell, smacking Oliver’s shoulder, and adding in a dramatic French accent, “A very hot date.”

Oliver growls at me, rubbing the spot and pretending it hurt more than it did. He nods to Not-Joe. “She wanted to bring us both dinner, here in the store—”

“Yeah, so she could bang you,” Not-Joe cuts in.

“Or maybe because she’s nice,” Oliver says, a playful challenge in his voice. “Anyway, I’d rather go out and celebrate Lola’s movie. I’ll text Allison and let her know.”

I’m sure Hard Rock Allison is a nice woman, but right now—knowing Oliver has her cell number, knowing he can just casually text her to change some plans they made—I sort of want her to get hit by a train in the blackened-soul way that you want horrible things to happen to the new girlfriend. Allison is pretty, and outgoing, and so tiny she could fit in my messenger bag. This is the first time I’ve been faced with the prospect of Oliver dating, the first time our friendship has been faced with this, at least as far as I know. We got married and divorced in less than a day and it’s clear he was never really into me, but we’ve never discussed dates with other people before.

How should I react here?

Cool, I decide after checking myself. Happy for him.

“Definitely reschedule,” I say, giving him the most genuine smile I can manage. “She’s cute. Take her to Bali Hai, it’s so pretty there.”

He looks up at me. “I’ve been meaning to go there for ages; you love that place. You should come along.”

“Oliver, you can’t bring me along on a date.”

His eyes go wide behind his glasses. “It’s not. I don’t—I wouldn’t,” he says, adding quickly, “Lola. It wouldn’t be a bloody date.”

Okay, so he’s clearly not into Allison. The knot in my stomach uncoils, and I have to stare at the countertop with mighty concentration to keep from smiling.

After a few deep breaths, I succeed.

I look back up at him and he’s still watching me, expression as calm as the surface of a lake in a canyon.

What are you thinking? I want to ask.

But definitely don’t.

“Lola,” he starts.

I swallow, unable to keep from blinking—for just a second—down to his mouth. I love his mouth. It’s wide; his bottom lip and top lip are the same size. Full, but not feminine. I’ve drawn it a hundred times: with lips barely parted, lips pressed closed. With lips curved in his tiny smile or arced in his thoughtful frown. Lips with teeth sharply sawing across or, once, his mouth soft and open in an obscene gasp.

The count of two is all I get before I look back up at his eyes. “Yeah?”

It’s a year before he answers and by the time he does, I’ve gone through a million possibilities for what he’ll say next.

Have you ever thought about kissing me?

Reckon we could go shag in the back room?

Would you ever cosplay Zatanna?

But he simply asks, “What did Harlow say when you told her about the movie?”

I take a deep breath, shutting down the image of him leaning forward and putting his mouth right up against mine. “Oh, I was going to call her next.”

And then what I’ve just said sinks in.

Oliver’s eyebrows go to his hairline, and beside him, Not-Joe makes a high-pitched noise of panic that tells me either the cops are at the door or we’re all going to be murdered by Harlow and it’s my fault.

“Oh, shiiiiiit, why did I do that?” I ask, covering my mouth. Harlow is always the one I tell after Dad. She would kill me if she knew I came here. “What was I thinking telling you first?” I take a step closer and give them both my most threatening face. “You cannot tell her you knew before she did and that I’ve been here for—”