Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
He holds the theater door open for me, which would be sweet if he didn’t check his phone while doing it. I step inside, the warm air wrapping around me like a bath towel that’s just a bit too old.
We get in line at the ticket window. Jake doesn’t offer to pay, just pays for himself and steps aside so that I can get my own ticket. But honestly, I’m glad because the less date-like this is, the better. I tap my card, and the girl behind the glass slides a stub through the slot. Her nails are painted gold and they glint every time she moves.
Jake immediately angles for the concessions stand. “You hungry?” he asks, already ordering a large popcorn. I tell myself it’s fine, that I like popcorn, that maybe the carbs will blunt my anxiety. He pays for the snacks, but makes a show of checking the receipt. “Total scam,” he whispers. “But I’m happy to share with you, Andie.”
“Thanks for your generosity,” I say in a stiff voice. Not.
We walk into the theater itself, and the Apollo does not disappoint. It’s like a fever-dream cathedral: red velvet curtains, gold-flecked walls, rows of cracked leather seats, and chandeliers shaped like inverted wedding cakes. The floor slopes so dramatically I feel a little seasick, but it’s gorgeous, in a haunted sort of way.
Jake leads us to the far right aisle, “for the best sound,” as if this was a decision made by acoustic science. The seats here are slightly sticky, the armrests chewed and pockmarked by generations of anxious hands.
We’re barely settled before I spot him.
Oh my god, what is Thomas Moreland doing here? While I’m on a date with another man?
Even worse, Thomas is clearly on a date of his own. He’s three rows down and just off-center, sitting next to a woman so elegant it’s like she stepped out of an ad for diamond tennis bracelets. Her hair is glossy and dark, her top black with a plunging neckline, her laugh low and melodic. Thomas is in a button-down white shirt that highlights his bronzed skin, and even in the half-light, he looks like the answer to a question I don’t dare ask.
For one wild second, I think about running. My jaw locks so tight I taste copper. I dig my nails into my palm until I’m sure I’ll draw blood. I do not look at him, but I do. Again. And again.
Jake is talking now, something about the previews, but I don’t hear it. I can’t stop cataloging every movement Thomas makes—the way he leans in to the woman, the shape of his hands, the perfect square of his jaw as he turns to glance up at the projectionist’s booth. His date touches his arm and he laughs as a pulse of pure, hot jealousy shoots through me.
Why am I here? What am I doing?
I pretend to listen as Jake cracks a joke about the “thousand-dollar popcorn” and pops a kernel into his mouth with a waggle of his eyebrows. He tries to drape his arm around my shoulder, but I flinch, and he acts like he didn’t notice. The house lights dim, the room gets impossibly quiet, and the first preview begins.
I keep my eyes on the screen, but I can’t concentrate. Does Thomas know I’m here? Somehow, although we haven’t made eye contact, I think he does. There’s an animal instinct to him, and when he turns his head slightly, I think that he senses me.
I tell myself I’m being foolish. I tell myself to focus on the movie, to be present, to at least enjoy the entertainment. But every time Thomas shifts in his seat, I catch the movement in my periphery, and it’s like my whole nervous system lights up.
I try to imagine myself being intimate with Jake: his hand in mine, his mouth on my neck, his body pressed against me in the night. I try to make it real, but my brain keeps swapping him out for Thomas, and the idea makes me dizzy with shame and hunger.
The movie’s title card hits, and a chorus of explosions fill the theater. Jake leans in to whisper, “This is going to be sick,” his breath hot with artificial butter and the metallic edge of Red Bull.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
My heart is beating too loud. I want to disappear, or be seen, or both at the same time.
I watch Thomas out of the corner of my eye, and he never once looks back.
It’s almost worse than if he did.
The movie is only ten minutes in when Jake starts with the handsy bullshit. He slides his arm around my shoulder like we’re the B-list version of a homecoming king and queen. It feels bad because his hands are icy, even through the fabric of my blouse, but I can deal. But then he starts to squeeze my shoulder. Not gentle or exploratory, just hard, grabby, and weirdly methodical. Like he’s reading instructions off a website. What the fuck?