“It was one of the original theaters in Hollywood. It’s been open off and on over the years, mostly showing second-rate films. But they’re finally restoring it.”
I walk toward the railing, touching the cool metal bar with my palms, and peer down at the first floor below. Some of the chairs are missing from the rows. “Are we supposed to be here?” I ask.
Tate’s mouth softens into a smile. “I made arrangements.”
I turn, noticing a small table set up beside two of the front-row chairs facing the railing. A fancy bottle of sparkling water, a massive bowl of popcorn, and little glass dishes with an assortment of colorful candies sit arranged on the white tablecloth.
He leads me to the two chairs and we sit. Almost immediately, the lights begin to dim, controlled from somewhere I can’t see. All perfectly choreographed. I can’t believe I’m sitting here with him—Tate Collins—in a theater that’s not even open to the public. How does a person rent out a place like this? And how much did it cost him? But I wouldn’t ask any of these things. Instead I say, “What are we watching?”
His left eyebrow lifts, a silent challenge. “You’ll see.”
As if on cue, the massive movie screen flickers ahead of us, the pale light playing across Tate’s face. The black-and-white images take shape on the screen: a map of Africa, then it shifts to a grainy, distorted scene of a busy marketplace. The audio has that distant, echoed quality of an old movie. I smile, remembering our night at Lola’s—he’d been so surprised when I told him I’d never seen Casablanca. And now we’re about to watch it...together.
In the darkness of the theater, I can feel Tate’s eyes on me. He seems so still, reclined back in his seat, his gaze palpable as he watches me during the first kissing scene between our hero, Humphrey Bogart, and his lost love, Ingrid Bergman, in a flashback in Paris—where they first fell in love. I wait for Tate to touch me, expect his hand to lift and cover mine where they’re folded in my lap. Once, I even think he’s going to brush my knee when he leans forward to pour me some water, but he never touches me, not once. He’s keeping his distance. Only his eyes have managed to slip across my skin.
When the movie ends and the two lovers say their good-byes, the plane rising up into the dark horizon, the screen turns black and the lights against the theater walls illuminate once again. Tate turns in his seat. His eyes trail over my lips. “Did you like it?”
I touch a finger to the armrest separating us, a divide that cannot be crossed. “It was wonderful,” I say, not sure how honest I should be when he’s arranged this incredible surprise.
“But?” he asks. As usual, he hears what I’m not saying.
“It was just so tragic.”
“Why do you think that?”
“They don’t end up together. She leaves and then that’s it. It’s so sad.”
“So you didn’t like it?” he asks. But far from looking disappointed as I feared, he actually seems intrigued.
“No. I did. I loved it. It’s just not how I thought it would end. It didn’t seem right.” I feel awkward admitting it, but his eyes are amused.
“It’s a classic love story,” he reminds me.
“But I want them to end up together. That’s the point of a love story, isn’t it? Two lovers sacrificing everything just to be together.” I’ve never been a romantic, obviously, but even I loved Romeo & Juliet.
“They did make sacrifices.” Tate pauses as if to choose his next words. “They gave each other up, even though they were in love. Sometimes life makes it impossible to be with the person you love.”
I know this might be too bold, maybe I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious. There’s so much I still don’t know about him. And so much I want to know. “Have you ever been in love?”
He stands, his jeans hanging low over his waist. “No,” he says briefly. “Have you?”
I snort. “Please. I told you I’d never even kissed anyone.”
I think he’s going to smile back, but instead his gaze is far away. I try to read something deeper in the cool darkness of his eyes, the subtle tightening of his jaw that makes the features of his face seem remote.
“You ready?” he finally asks.
I stand slowly, turning in a circle to absorb the massive theater one last time before we leave. “Thank you for this. I won’t ever forget it.”
He reaches for my hand, twining his fingers through mine, and we walk back down the red-carpeted stairs that I couldn’t see earlier, to a metal door that Tate pushes open. The Tesla—I’ve learned Tate’s sleek black car is called a Tesla—is waiting outside. And twilight has fallen while we were in the theater.