Feeling better, I fall into step with him, and we make our way to the promenade. He asks me polite questions—how long have I been in town? Where am I from? Oh, DC. Have I seen the president or toured the White House? Have I been to Dupont Circle?
By the time we get to the giant ray-gun sign, the only thing I’ve been able to ask him is how long he’s lived in Coronado Cove (all his life), and where he goes to school—Berkshire Academy. The private school. This throws me for a loop. I never pegged Alex as a private-school kind of guy. I’m trying to figure this out as we step inside the shop.
Video Ray-Gun has one of those great dusty-musty smells that come with old stores, though most of their inventory doesn’t date back more than a few years. They specialize in campy sci-fi movies, and because that’s my dad’s catnip, he’s in love with this place. A few movie-related collectible posters and and toys grace the walls around the register, behind which hangs a TV where a Godzilla movie is playing. Two middle-aged long-haired men are paying more attention to the movie than to us when we walk past. Thank God, because I was just in here with Dad a couple of days ago, and I don’t want them to recognize me.
The store is busier than I expected—not exactly the best place for a quiet, romantic get-to-know-you date, but what can I do now? It’s all I have to work with. We stroll past oversize boxes of candy in retro theater packaging and a rack of upcoming Blu-ray DVDs available for preorder, and I try to pretend like I don’t know where I’m going as Patrick leads me to the Film Classics section.
“They don’t have a lot of stuff right now,” he tells me, turning the corner around a bay of shelves. “I was just in here yesterday. But check this out.” He grabs something off a shelf and hands it to me. “Boxed set of classic gangster films from the 1930s. It’s a steal.”
I accept the box and look at the back. “I’m not a huge fan of gangster movies.”
“Are you kidding? White Heat? The 1932 version of Scarface? That was insanely violent for its time, really pushed the envelope.”
“Yeaaah,” I drawl, handing him the box back. “Not a big gun fan.”
“Oh,” he says, reshelving it. “One of those, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
He holds up both hands. “Hey, whatever you’re into is fine. No argument from me. I just think film is film, and that you shouldn’t paste your political views onto a piece of art.”
Jeez. This isn’t going well. I take a deep breath and pause for a moment. Maybe this is my fault? I don’t really think so, but I strive to be the bigger person. “It’s not that. I had a bad personal experience, so it’s just . . . kind of a thing for me. Just not my cup of tea.”
“Oh, God,” he says, resting a sympathetic hand on my shoulder—just the tips of his fingers, actually. “I’m so sorry. I assumed. I’m being an ass. Forgive?”
“Forgotten,” I say with a smile.
“Oh! What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Everyone loves that.”
Is he being serious? I mean, I love Audrey Hepburn, but I just can’t watch Mickey Rooney playing a broadly caricatured Japanese man for goofs and giggles. No thanks. I tell him so. His argument isn’t as strong for this one, but he’s still disbelieving that I’m not singing its praises.
This is so weird. Our film mojo is off. Sure, we disagree online (all the time), but it’s all good-natured. In person, it feels so . . . personal. We go through the classics section, shelf by shelf, but nothing seems to click with either one of us. It’s like we’re two completely different people, and the longer we’re testing each other’s tastes, the less we’re liking each other. I’m starting to sweat in weird places and make awkward flirty jokes that don’t land.
This is not going well.
The worst part is that he notices too.
“Sometimes they have more stuff in the back,” he finally says after we haven’t spoken in several long, excruciating seconds. “Let me go ask Henry if they’ve gotten anything new in. Be right back.”
Great. Now I’m worried that he’s giving me the slip. The first time I get up the nerve to ask a guy out on a date—a guy I’ve been fantasizing about for months—and it goes hellishly wrong. If he doesn’t come back in one minute, I’m seriously considering sneaking out myself.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s is an overrated piece of fluff.”
I freeze. No one’s around. I glance down the aisle in both directions. Did I just imagine that? Or did someone overhear Patrick and me talking from before, and now I’m overhearing another conversation?
“It’s not supposed to be a love story, you know. Which is the ironic thing in this particular situation, actually.”
“Hello?” I whisper.
A DVD moves aside. I’m now staring at a pair of eyes. Someone’s in the other aisle. I move another DVD and reveal more of the face through the wire shelving: scruffy jaw, slow grin, wild, sun-kissed curls. Porter. My hand clenches. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off.”
“And you’re following me around?” I say, exasperated.
“No, you’re following me around. I was in here when you paraded in with Patrick Killian on your arm.”
I stand on tiptoes to peer over the top of the shelves. He raises his head to meet me and cocks both brows, a smug look on his face. My heart starts pounding, big-time. Why does he have this effect on me? Can’t my body just be normal around him?
“How do you know him?” I whisper hotly, glancing around to make sure Patrick isn’t listening. I don’t spot him, so I guess he’s either in back or has flown the coop.
Porter casually rests an arm on the top of the video rack. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He thinks he’s a movie snob because his family is one of the local companies that sponsors the annual film festival. Big whoop.”
Wait one stinking minute. Big warning bells ding in my head. I definitely think Alex would have mentioned if his family sponsored the festival. That’s something you’d brag about to your film-geek friend, Forbidden Zone personal-detail restrictions aside. No way would he keep that from me. This is all wrong. But I don’t think Porter is lying, because now I’m remembering when Patrick gave me the film festival brochure: “hot off the presses,” he said. He got an early copy of it because his dad’s a festival sponsor? It’s still in my purse, and I’m fighting everything not to pull it out and scan the sponsor page for the Killian name.
Inside, I’m quietly panicking that Patrick isn’t Alex, but all I can say to Porter is, “Oh, and you know better.” It’s a weak taunt, but my heart isn’t into it.
“I know that you were right about Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” he responds. “Truman Capote’s novella is about a gay man and a prostitute. Hollywood turned it into a romance. And don’t get me started on Mickey Rooney. That was an embarrassing shambles. But…”
“But what?”
“I still think it’s worth watching for Hepburn’s performance. What? Don’t look so shocked. It was my grandma’s favorite movie. You don’t know everything about me.”