Free The Clasp by Sloane Crosley Page A

into L.A.’s infinite field of lights, wondering what Nathaniel was doing as her wheels touched down. Or obsessively checking his Twitter account to see if he had started following any of the girls who followed him. Back in New York, her phone would report a missed call from Nathaniel and she would be grateful that she hadn’t heard it ring. Ideally, she could hold the missed call in her hands, a glowing ball of energy. She could live in the space around it for a few hours. Please, she’d think, just a little while longer before it’s rude not to return his call. Because once Irelinquish this feeling of control, it could be weeks before I get it back.

    â€œHey,” she asked Victor, back in New York, as they sat on a bench, eating bagels, “have you talked to Nathaniel recently?”
    â€œWe don’t really converse anymore. You’re the one who goes to L.A.”
    â€œI know, I just wonder if he’s happy.”
    Two cab drivers going in opposite directions down Houston screamed at each other while their passengers looked dutifully at their phones. This would make a good love story, she thought. We met by exchanging commiserating glances.
    â€œYou’re concerned with Nathaniel’s happiness?”
    â€œHe’s our friend. Aren’t you?”
    â€œI think he’s fine.” Victor scooped excess cream cheese from her wax paper, adding it to his bite. “More than fine.”
    â€œRight.” She waved her hands at the implication of Nathaniel’s active love life. “Just asking.”
    â€œFrom what I gather, he’s shed all his body fat and turned into an intolerable douche. If that’s what you’re saying.”
    â€œThat’s what you’re saying.” She slurped her coffee, grinning, satiated.

    The last time she saw Nathaniel was during an ill-fated dinner in Los Feliz where he was already in the final stages of intolerable douchedom. He picked the restaurant. When she arrived, he was so horrified by her description of where and how she had parked, he demanded her keys. He left her at the table, telling her to order for him.
    â€œI don’t know what you want.”
    She meant that in about a thousand different ways.
    â€œLike the raw vegetable plate and a side of truffle fries.”
    â€œAre you joking?”
    â€œOh, and a green tea.”
    She watched him dodge traffic through the restaurant window, leather jacket flapping in the wind. She touched the teal Wayfarers he had left behind, trying to spin them like a top. Who was this person? Out of everyone, she and Nathaniel were supposed to be cut from the same cloth. But that cloth had apparently turned Christo-size.
    â€œYour ass was in the red,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYour car. That’s why I moved it. You should have valeted.”
    â€œProbably. I find the driving here to be really stressful.”
    â€œI love the driving. Being in my car makes me happy. I never know why people come from New York and complain about driving. What are the chances that Los Angeles, a city that caters to this many egos, would make things difficult on you? I mean, a cymbal-bashing monkey could point to Santa Monica. Living in Los Angeles is the most logical thing in the world.”
    â€œYeah, but sometimes don’t you think,” she said as if the table were bugged, “that this whole city feels off ? Like walking out of a matinee?”
    â€œYou’re welcome to think that.” He unfolded his napkin.
    Then he kept on talking about pilot season and who was sleeping with whom at what studio. He complained about how weird it was when “your friends get famous” but Kezia had never heard of any of the names he dropped. They were featured in The Hollywood Reporter , not Us Weekly .
    â€œAnd Eric Goldenberg is the UTI agent?”
    â€œUTA.” Nathaniel smirked, employing the same tone she used for people who added an