by Jo Watson
The look and the feeling that passed between us in that moment, I’ll remember for the rest of my life. It was joy. And relief. I felt—once again—like I’d come home. All the hurt of the past had totally melted away. And now, it was like meeting him all over again. For the first time. The movie started, and Chris waggled a naughty finger at me and pointed for me to turn around, so I did.
But it was hard to concentrate, because I could feel his presence behind me. I couldn’t help but turn around from time to time, and each time, I would find him staring at me, smiling.
The movie itself was basically the funniest, strangest thing I’d ever seen. It started on a guy with an enormous beard, living at home with his ten cats. He hasn’t been outside in over five years, but works as a travel writer, who just goes online and researches the various places he writes about (sounding vaguely familiar).
He meets a girl online and they start dating. The sex scene had the audience in stitches; suddenly everything is in black and white, and the two characters are talking in French with subtitles. After the sex they smoked cigarettes. But the guy in question—not based on a real person of course—has lots of issues, and ends up losing her. And then he begins an elaborate, over-the-top campaign to win her back. It starts small—flowers, chocolates and some singing minstrels—but soon escalates to him jumping out of a plane and into her back garden with a sign that says, WILL YOU MARRY ME? The movie ends. And then some words fly onto the screen:
WILL SHE TAKE HIM BACK?
I knew, even if no one else did, that those words were meant for me. I turned around to look at him, but a sudden standing ovation was in progress. I heard much chatter around me and people threw around words like genius, postmodern, minimalist, avant-garde, noir, and Coen brothers–esque. I surmised that they must have liked it.
All I wanted was to find Chris.
But I didn’t need to, because suddenly he was walking down the stairs toward the stage where a mic waited for him. Everyone clapped and I felt myself swell with pride; that was my guy. Well, as soon as I could speak to him, that is.
He took to the stage and talked about the great actors, and the director of photography, his supportive producer who believed in the project from the start, even though the project was totally weird. People seemed to be lapping it up, nodding at each other with knowing looks.
He talked about the freedom of making a small-budget independent short film, the joy of making short films, and about exploring his creativity. He thanked everyone for coming, and hoped everyone would enjoy drinks and hors d’oeuvres. He unfortunately would not be there, as he had an urgent personal matter to attend to. There were some sighs of disappointment, but not from me.
And then he walked back up the aisle looking so confident and accomplished and stopped at my row. All he did was hold out his arm, and gesture for me to come.
I got up—everyone was watching us but I didn’t care. We linked arms and walked out together without saying a word. Chris strode out of the cinema and across the street to where a limo sat waiting for us. We climbed in.
He closed the door. The car pulled off.
And then, we were alone.
There was nothing really to do but to stare at each other for a while. Silly, big grins were plastered across our faces. Chris reached out and took me by the hands, and our fingers meshed together. There was more silly staring and then he opened his mouth; he had that look about him that suggested he was about to say something funny to defuse the loaded moment.
“Oh, shut up,” I said, and kissed him. I’ve always known you can tell everything from a kiss. It’s like a highly coordinated dance. If someone gets the moves wrong, rushes it, or goes too slowly, the whole thing looks bad and doesn’t work. It’s the same with a kiss. You either have the right rhythm and are compatible, or not.
We were compatible.
The kiss was intense. Slow. Deliberate. I had started it, but very soon Chris had taken over. His hands reached around my head and tugged at my bun, until my hair fell out and he wrapped his fingers through it. His other hand was cradling my face, telling me which way to go. His lips tasted like spearmint and they made mine tingle. His breath was warm on my face and his hands were slightly cold. He made me feel like we were the only two people on the planet, and that we were somehow melting into each other. The kiss made me dizzy and light-headed, and I swear for a moment or two, I think I may have even forgotten my own name.
“So…,” he whispered.
“So what?”
“What’s the answer?”
“To what?” It was so hard to think straight when he was speaking while kissing me and gently licking my lips.
“To the question?”
I smiled as I bit his lips playfully in response.
“Yes. Yes she will take him back.”
“Oh, thank God!” Suddenly everything changed and we were no longer kissing.
“Thank God, what?”
“Well, Annie, do you have any idea how awkward this whole thing would have been for me if you’d said no?”
“What would have been awkward?” My heart sank. Wait, was this some kind of elaborate publicity stunt? Why had the car suddenly stopped? Was I about to step out and realize that Chris had actually staged this reunion and I was just another character in one of his plots? I was freaking out.
“This…” Chris pulled me by the hand, out of the car, and onto the beach.
It took me a moment to understand what was going on.
There were no candles illuminating a path this time. No pink flowers lay scattered on the sand, and no Chinese lanterns cast mystical shadowy light. But it was perfect. Better than before, because it was real.
“That’s not an actor, by the way…,” Chris said, pointing to a man by the sea. And then he looked at me with a smile, “Okay, here goes. I am going to do something very, very corny, something that I’ve written a million times before and every time I did, I laughed a loud, cynical snicker…”
My heart started pounding as Chris got down on one knee. “So Annie Anne, hot bitch, will you not fake marry me this time?” His voice was quivering and I could hear that he was nervous.
“Only if you do it with this,” I said, pulling the ring out of my bag. Chris took it and looked up at me seriously, more seriously than I’d ever seen him. Chris the funny guy was suddenly gone—and now, it was just Chris.
“Annie. Will you marry me?”
We close on ANNIE and CHRIS as they walk hand in hand down the beach toward the real PRIEST.
***
One year later
So you’re probably wondering how the whole thing turned out. Trevv and Tess? My impromptu (real) wedding? My growing fashion biz? Chris and I?
Well, I can’t wait to tell you, because it’s been the best year of my life.
I’m afraid I can’t give you major details on the T-Squared situation; all I know is that the morning after we ruined, annihilated, crushed, and destroyed their dream wedding, they were gone.
I’d asked at reception and apparently they’d checked out before sunup. And because we have no mutual friends anymore, what happened to them…is still a mystery. Whether they got married and moved to London and are living happily ever after, with their great, really great, oh-so-great law firm, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. In retrospect, a year down the line, I do feel a bit bad. Everyone deserves love. Even Trevv.
Lilly and Damien are in the middle of planning their wedding, which is likely to be happening in Europe somewhere. Val is still desperately in love with her neighbor and secretly pining for him. Stormy is still Stormy and dating a guy that juggles fire and can put swords down his throat, and Jane, well, Jane seems to be going through something at the moment that none of us really fully understand. We’re all a bit worried about her—she’s so tightly wound she’s about to snap.
I moved to LA of course, to be with my husband. I can’t say that enough, husband. In fact, I try to slip the word into as many interactions
as possible:
Grocery shopping—“Yes, my husband loves this cereal.”
At the post office—“I’m just picking up this package for my hubby.”
To a total stranger in a parking lot—“Nice day, isn’t it. My husband checked the weather forecast and it looks like it’s going to be hot and sunny for the next week.”
And don’t get me started on how much I love signing my name. Annie Christophersen.
And what of Chris’s movie? The critical acclaim he received after it was overwhelming, and so he’s started writing and directing interesting, obscure films where he gets to be more creative. He’s finding it more fulfilling, because he gets to show off his quirky sense of humor—that special thing that makes him Chris.
Living in LA has been a bit of a culture shock and adjustment—and since I’ve been here I’ve spotted two Kardashians, and the other day (coincidentally) I passed Bradley Cooper in the street. Chris (my husband) is much better looking than Brad C., by the way. Zolani is handling all our business back in South Africa; we’ve even employed some seamstresses to carry out my designs, and I am in the process of setting up a shop here. Americans do love a bit of an African vibe.
But the best part of the year?
It seemed that the Christophersen family would be getting another addition. And in true Chris fashion, he chose to announce it to the world by sending out a group email that said,
Hey everyone, just to let you know, I knocked my bitch up! BAM.
So maybe those happy Hollywood endings aren’t so far-fetched after all?
Turn the page to read an excerpt from Jane’s story,
FINDING YOU
PROLOGUE
The day of my mental breakdown was a Wednesday.
And when I say “mental breakdown,” I don’t mean the kind that celebrities have when they check into a luxury spa for medicated mud wraps and Mojitos. I’m talking about the other kind. The messy kind.
It was a normal Wednesday. An unspectacular, uneventful, run-of-the-mill, not Monday, not Tuesday, but Wednesday. There was nothing special about the day.
So why was I feeling like this? Like what, exactly?
Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?
Because I couldn’t quite put my finger it. The feeling wasn’t fully formed yet, but it had gripped me nonetheless. Embedded itself like an arrow in my back or a virus in my bloodstream—invisible, but deadly.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
A mild pressure in my solar plexus. A slight heaviness in my head and a feeling of total disconnectedness. Everything around me screeched that I did not belong here, and suddenly I felt like an alien in my own home.
I rubbed the sticky sleep from my eyes and glanced around my room. The chair in the corner that Mother had insisted on having reupholstered in Toasted Granola Sunrise Suede and the walls she had insisted I paint in Mystical Song of the Grey Dove looked odd. (Side note: who the hell is coming up with the names of colors these days, anyway?)
I climbed out of bed apprehensively, stalked over to my bathroom, and looked at myself in the mirror. My features were the same—large and distinct. Olive complexion, long black hair, that “signature” mole on my cheek that I’d always hated, and then there are my eyes—one dark brown, one light hazel.
But somehow everything looked different. I looked less like myself and more like someone else I didn’t know. If that makes sense?
But of course it doesn’t make sense. Because nothing about this so-called “normal” Wednesday was making any sense at all (hence growing suspicions of imminent mental breakdown).
Perhaps I was still asleep and dreaming. That was surely the only possible explanation for these feelings.
I pinched my cheek. Nothing.
Splashed water on my face. Nope.
I stood in the strange bathroom, looking at this strange person in the mirror. Her name was Jane. Plain Jane Smith. Dr. Plain Jane Smith.
Well, that’s my name now; it wasn’t the name I was born with. But that had nothing to do with the way I was feeling, did it?
A soothing cup of tea was surely the antidote that would rid me of these feelings. I walked into the kitchen, turned on the kettle, and waited. I felt out of place here, too.
Tea—one bag.
Sugar—zero.
No milk in sight.
I stirred the liquid that I was pinning my hopes of normality on and sipped. It tasted bitter. Did it always taste like this?
The so-called soothing tea only seemed to intensify the feelings and gave rise to a humming anxiety, which crept slowly like a growing evening shadow.
What was going on with me? I could phone my friend Lilly. But what would I say? “Help! I think I might have been transported into the Twilight Zone.” (Wait, would Lilly even be my friend in that dimension?)
What the hell was going on?
But nothing had changed, really. I’d just graduated and had started my new job. But no surprises there. It certainly wouldn’t be the thing shaking me to my very core. The job had been planned for, organized, and it was inevitable—I was going to be taking over my father’s dental practice.
It would be my birthday in a few days, but birthdays came along every year. Again, nothing out of the ordinary.
Drive!
That always cleared my head. I got dressed and brushed my teeth for precisely two minutes—no excuse for bad dental hygiene, even in the face of a total nervous meltdown.
I climbed into my car and started driving up and down the once familiar suburbs. Then I veered left, away from the little houses and toward the city.
The mall. With shops and people and breakfast. That would surely make me feel normal again.
It was early, so most of the shops were closed and the mall looked like an empty school hall: depressing. Like it was waiting for kids to rush in, and without them was just a sad shell of what it had once been. A washed-up carcass on an empty beach.
The pressure in my solar plexus was back. The feelings intensified, so I got out of my car and walked. I walked as fast as I could.
Past the banks, the hardware store, and the shop where I’d bought the exorbitantly overpriced scented candle that I had absolutely no use for but purchased anyway since the shop attendant had been so nice and I’m a people pleaser and can’t say no. I passed a coffee shop that had just opened its doors to a single solitary customer in need of their early morning fix.
And then…I saw it.
I stood outside Flight and Travel Center, looking up at the electronic display of all the holiday specials. And there it was. At the very top.
Greece.
A special.
Almost sold out.
Buy now. Complimentary beach bag and sunscreen included. *Terms and Conditions apply.
And that’s when the mists of confusion started to evaporate and the picture finally came into focus.
This was about my name. This was about my job. And this was definitely, definitely about my birthday. This was about the day I was born and the circumstances under which I was born.
I slumped down against the wall and pulled out my credit card. I clutched it tightly and waited for someone to open the shop so I could buy the only thing that could furnish me with the answers I’d been seeking my entire life.
UN-ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My high school principal once told me I wouldn’t amount to anything. So it’s no thanks to her that I wrote this book.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Watson is an award-winning writer of romantic comedies. Burning Moon won a Watty Award in 2014. Jo is an Adidas addict and a Depeche Mode devotee.
You can learn more at:
Twitter @JoWatsonWrites
Facebook.com/JoWatsonwrites
Also by Jo Watson
Burning Moon
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