Page 50 of Prime Time Romance

By the time we’re out of the main area of town, I’m starting to get the hang of things. I’m even thinking dangerous thoughts like Maybe they weren’t so wrong when they coined the phrase “It’s like riding a bike.”

Then we hit the hill.

Here’s the thing about observatories. They work best with an unobstructed view of the sky. Which means the tops of hills are prime real estate. Which means two-point-five miles straight up on yet another questionably maintained road.

“Stupid forking pothole,” I swear as I narrowly avoid another hydrangea incident.

Spencer cruises up beside me and flashes an easy smile. He’s not sweating or swearing or struggling for oxygen. “What did you say?”

“Just admiring the view,” I gasp out between labored breaths, nodding at a field of horses.

There are two brown mares grazing in the grass next to the fence.

“Are you feeling okay?” He leans forward to get a better view of my face. “You’re kind of turning purple.”

I’m also starting to see little black specks at the edge of my vision. I was not cut out for this much cardio.

“Just peachy.” I wheeze in a deep breath of much-needed oxygen.

“Great.” He pops up off his seat, picking up speed. “I’ll race you the rest of the way, then.”

He takes off before I can tell him that’s easily the worst idea I’ve ever heard. A few moments later, I hear a loud “Wahoo” from up ahead and silently pray it’s him claiming victory.

By the time I reach the top, he’s already parked his bike and is pulling his backpack off.

I stop at the edge of the parking lot. It’s mainly because I’m out of breath and need to catch it before I attempt conversation again, but it’s also to take in the scenery.

The observatory is on a stretch of flat rock surrounded by grass and low-lying shrubbery. There’s an unobstructed view of the whole island and ocean as far as the eye can see. The observatory itself is a large cylinder made of gray stone, with dark ivy running up the side and a big white globe protruding from the roof.

It was the setting for one of the most iconic and swoony episodes of Carson’s Cove—ever. That episode contained the kind of moment that makes you wish you could self-inflict some sort of temporary, targeted amnesia so that you can live it for the first time over and over and over again.

Funnily enough, this heart-clenching moment wasn’t even between Spencer and Sloan; it was between Fletch and Maya Colletti.

For most of the third season, Fletch had a bit of a drug problem. He ran track at Carson’s Cove High and hoped to get a scholarship—until he failed his biology midterm. He started buying Adderall to study. Over the course of the season, he became more and more addicted to it. The climax came when he punched a wall at Poppy Bensen’s after-prom party and tried to cover it up with Mr. Bensen’s painting of The Last Supper. No one spoke to him for weeks.

Enter the new girl: Maya Colletti. Very beautiful. Very opinionated. A little bit pregnant. Her soon-to-be-teen-mom status made her an instant outcast, so she and Fletch became fast friends. She helped him get clean through tough love and an epic monologue in the middle of a thunderstorm. So when her parents found out about the soon-to-be baby and tried to ship her off to a home for unwed mothers, Fletch proposed.

He wasn’t the father. But he took Maya to the observatory, filled it with candles, got down on one knee, and promised that if she took a chance on a screw-up like him, he’d take care of her and her baby forever.

America swooned and fell in love.

Maya said no.

Her refusal left Fletch moody and devastated for most of season three, while Maya left the show (possibly because the actress who played her got a role in an action movie franchise).

As much as I know that it’s completely unrealistic to expect candlelight and soul-baring declarations of eternal love, I have high expectations for my date with Spencer.

What I get is the same blue blanket from last night spread out on the floor and a playlist of John Mayer hits played from Spencer’s iPhone.

“I packed us a picnic.” Spencer pulls several containers from his backpack. Unlike last night’s picnic of Luce’s homemade bougie cheeses and bread, this feast includes a few brown glass bottles, some tiny jars, and a box of something that appears to be carbohydrate in nature.

“Here, let me help you.” I sit down beside him, chastising myself for being silly. He’s obviously put a lot of thought into the evening. I should learn to manage my expectations.

“What’s this?” I open a plastic container and take a sniff. The stench makes me gag, which I cover with a cough, snapping the lid and tossing the container off the blanket. “I think that may have gone bad.”

Spencer retrieves it with a laugh. “It’s called kefir. Everyone in LA eats it. It’s great for digestion.”

I digest just fine on my own. And I stand by my earlier assessment that something has gone seriously wrong inside that container, but I ignore it and instead turn my attention to the silver flask Spencer is handing to me.