9. The Warm Nut Conspiracy

9

THE WARM NUT CONSPIRACY

Maeve

“Question for you,” I begin as our short flight to Vegas hits cruising altitude.

“Hit me,” Asher says, stretching his long legs out in front of him in first class. He always upgrades us whenever I travel with him—an extravagance he waves off, saying he has points or that he fits better in this row. The luxury, which I eat up while I can, is the opposite of my life. I live in a tiny apartment with a shower that’s too short, a toilet that faces the wall, and a couch with a broken spring.

When I fly solo, it’s all cramped seats and rude people clipping their toenails, so I try not to get too spoiled on our trips. But still, I like Asher’s world better—a world of warm nuts and champagne.

I nod toward the flight attendant in the nearby galley, prepping beverages and snacks for our short ride across the California sky. “Day drinking—yes or no? ”

A smile coasts across Asher’s lips, and the thought that pops into my head is I kissed those full lips, and they tasted good .

Pretend it didn’t happen, girl.

“Yes,” he answers. “Because don’t you know? There’s no alcohol in champagne when you’re flying.”

“The nuts are calorie-free, too, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Maybe I can get two of each,” I whisper.

“Go for it,” he urges.

But when the attendant comes by with a tray of both, I behave myself and only take one flute and one tiny dish of warm, salted nuts. I pop a cashew into my mouth and sigh happily as I chew, enjoying this respite from my normal life where I don’t know if I’ll ever catch a big break. “Why are warm cashews better on planes? Are they this good on land?”

“No one knows. No one serves them on land.”

“Why not?” I demand.

“It’s one of the great mysteries of the universe, Maeve,” he says.

I playfully bang my fist on the armrest. “We need to solve that mystery, Asher.”

“How about this? When we return, we’ll get to the bottom of the warm nut conspiracy.”

That’s what friends do—tackle silly adventures together. “I’m in,” I say, snagging an almond.

Asher holds up a finger to catch the flight attendant’s attention. “Hey, Ginger. Thanks for these, but it seems mine disappeared into my stomach already. Any chance I can have another dish of warm nuts?”

“Of course, sir.”

“See? You’re an addict, too,” I tease .

Teasing him will remind us both that the kiss last week was just for show, and that’s all. I can’t risk being too much for Asher. What would I do without these moments with him?

When Ginger hands Asher a white ceramic dish, he thanks her and then slides it onto my tray. “Here you go,” he says.

Oh. “I thought you were getting that for yourself. You said?—”

My eye falls on his full dish. The nuts didn’t disappear into his belly. He got the extra…for me. It’s a small but completely Asher gesture. A friendly gesture.

“You enabler,” I say with a smile. Clearly, he wants to stay in the friend zone too.

“What can I say? I aim to please,” he says, lifting his glass of champagne.

He’s resetting. This is good. This is exactly what I need. What we both need—a reminder that the kiss didn’t mean anything more for either of us. I know a good way to recalibrate too.

“Plane selfie,” I declare, whipping out my phone. “Speaking of, we still need to plan our big adventure this year.”

He gives me a look like I didn’t just say that. “I told you that last month.”

Oops. “I can’t help it if you’re more on top of things than I am,” I joke.

“I even gave you suggestions.”

Hmm. Maybe he did. “This is sounding vaguely familiar.”

He rolls his eyes. “Airstream glamping. Yoga with pigs. Or visiting the new hot pepper truck in Darling Springs.”

I tap my chin. “Those are all tempting. ”

He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s what you said when I texted them to you.”

“I’m nothing if not consistent, then.”

“Take the pic, Maeve.”

“I am definitely on top of our photo album though,” I point out.

“You are,” he concedes.

I’m the keeper of our never-ending pictorial record. I add to it all year long with snaps like this of daily life and then show it to him on our annual Big Adventure trip.

I hold up the camera and lean next to him, my shoulder bumping his. A spark skitters down my chest.

That’s odd.

I don’t think I’ve felt a spark like this with Asher before. Not one that traveled between my thighs. Except…maybe I did after the auction? When we kissed on the street?

But that was a normal byproduct of a kiss. That’s all.

Perhaps this spark is a side effect of selfie-taking? That has to be it. I angle the phone and snap a shot of us in first class, relaxing in cushy seats, enjoying champagne and extra warm nuts.

Our heads touch, and that spark rekindles. But I don’t analyze it this time.

When I put down the phone, I raise my glass to offer a toast. “To this year’s Big Adventure, whatever it might be.”

Lifting his glass, he laughs. “I’ll drink to that. How about we pick when we get back? While we’re tackling the warm nut conspiracy?”

“Deal,” I say, a cozy, safe feeling spreading inside me as we clink glasses.

We started what we call our annual Big Adventure several years ago. It was a “death-iversary” of sorts, which sounds morbid, but it’s not. Maybe because grief isn’t entirely morbid for someone who’s lost both their parents—it’s a part of life. For different reasons, the two of us have been trying to move through grief for the last decade. Or really swim through it—it’s an ocean, that bitch. And it’s best to ride the waves.

Asher and I met in grief counseling ten years ago, when I was nineteen, he was twenty-two, and my brother was twenty-three. I took my brother along to a local support group since it had been a hell of a year—our mom had died, and six months later our dad died too. The meetings were held in the basement of a small community center, where the beige walls and creaky folding chairs felt as heavy as the sadness we carried. It was a place of hushed voices and tissues passed from hand to hand, a sanctuary for our pain.

Asher was leading the group, and that surprised me. I’d have expected a therapist type—a cuddly aunt or the classic sensitive, nice guy in khakis and a V-neck sweater. Not an athlete in a hoodie with wild hair and a crooked grin. But his humor helped us both cope with the twin losses of our parents, and we helped him too—I think—to deal with the loss of his longtime girlfriend. The three of us became fast friends.

A few years later, though, when my brother was working in Los Angeles and the anniversary of our mom’s death rolled around, the thought of visiting the lighthouse where we’d scattered her ashes was too heavy. I wanted to do something different to remember her and my sad, devastated father.

I wanted to celebrate…living.

“Let’s have an adventure instead,” Asher had said.

The annual Big Adventure was born. Some were in town; some were road trips. Some were hours away by plane or train. One time, we spent the day on a lavender farm in a small artsy town called Darling Springs; another time, we went camping in a tree tent near Evergreen Falls in the mountains of Northern California. The next year, we hopped on a plane and visited an ice hotel near Quebec City, with warm nuts along the way.

Maybe that’s what this trip to Vegas is—another adventure tale told in pictures. I drink the champagne, feeling more settled now than I’ve felt all week while replaying that kiss.

I know what this trip is—the next stop in our shenanigans.

I know what it’s not, too—a real date.

That’s for the best. There’s too much I need to deal with on the other side of today. There’s the live painting party and the search for a commission. The endless, ravenous search.

I sigh, a little content but mostly wistful. Life might be unpredictable back home. My work situation is anything but reliable. But here with Asher? Life feels steady and certain. Like the earth’s not about to rumble under my feet.

Who else would give me his extra warm nuts? I pop a cashew into my mouth and rest my head on his shoulder.