“I hear it’s not just a romantic comedy. And I remembered you really wanted to see it.”
The movie … is awesome. I’m so riveted by Ryan Gosling, Emma Stone, Steve Carell, and Julianne Moore that I don’t even notice when the dynamic changes. There’s usually a comfortable distance between us, some kicking, maybe, or a popcorn fight, but the next time I look up at Ryan, he’s right next to me and his arm is around my shoulders. This is not standard operating procedure; while Ryan hugs, he doesn’t cuddle.
I’m cuddling with Ryan McKenna.
What does this mean? If I knew crap about boys, I’d have some clue how to play this. But they’re a giant mystery to me, so I’m frozen. Eventually, my heart stops thundering, and I decide he’s still in comfort mode because I was freaking out over the idea of UPS Joe ruining my life. Ryan can be pretty protective. So I take this as a gesture of friendship and lean against him.
By the time the credits roll, I’m laughing and crying at the same time. It’s messy, but I can’t hold it in. “I wanted them to get back together so bad. Do you think they will?”
“You do know it’s a movie, right?”
I scowl. “Don’t interrupt my emotional ramblings with relentless logic.”
This is one game he won’t play with me. He doesn’t talk about book or TV people as if they’re real, speculating about their lives after the story ends. In my opinion, if Ryan has a fault, it’s his lack of imagination. He’s practical to the point of pain sometimes. At least, it bothers me a bit when he reins me in and reminds me this stuff’s not real. It’s not that I don’t know that but sometimes I like a world somebody has created so much that I want to stay in it a little longer, dreaming of the possibilities.
He doesn’t reiterate his position—that a work of art is exactly what it is, nothing more or less. You can’t add to it any more than you can draw mustache on the Mona Lisa. To which I say, Yeah, but you can wonder why she’s smiling. You can write a story about it. But this is a bridge that Ryan can’t cross; his brain just isn’t wired that way. It’s also probably why he rocks at chemistry, and I do not.
“Hey, I liked it,” he says, smiling. “You could tell he’s still crazy in love with her, regardless of how many women he slept with.”
“You’d think if he really loved her, he wouldn’t want anyone else.”
“Sometimes sex is just about wanting not to feel alone. Or it can start that way, anyhow.”
I feel like I’m about to fall into the deep end of a pool without a swimsuit. Ryan and I have never talked about this stuff. Ever. Obviously, I’m a virgin, as I’ve never even had a boyfriend. Which means I’m sixteen and never been kissed, let alone … other stuff.
“You know that how?” Grinning, I add, “If you say she lives in Canada, I’m calling bullshit.”
He searches my face, brown eyes serious behind the hipster glasses. “No, not Canada.”
So there is somebody. Why didn’t he tell me? Shock rockets through me with hurt hot on its heels. A normal person might get mad, but I’m afraid of anger, so I never let myself go there. My therapists don’t realize they’ve trained me to suppress it, but I feel better that way. Safer. I’m really, really determined to be good. Positive. Worthy of a second chance.
So I manage a smile, shoving away the bad feelings. “Who? Where? When? Damn. I sound like a journalism lead.” He laughs, as I intend him to, and it eases the tension. “Seriously, Ry, you can tell me anything. I won’t judge.”
“Her name is Cassie.”
So he’s not gay. There’s another little pang, as I remember how much I liked him last year. Strangling that, too, I put on my attentive face, encouraging him to continue.
“And she’s twenty-one.”