Love Like the Movies

by Victoria Van Tiem

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Kensington.”

  My breath hitches. Not Ellie.

  It’s Shane.

  I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

  “Hello?”

  “How’d you get my number?” Seems like a logical question. I never gave him my number. I’ve talked with him on Facebook. Well, I guess I did call him that once.

  “Ellie, she—”

  “You talked to her? She’s supposed to be here.” I sit up a little straighter. “Is she okay?” What if she was in an accident? Maybe they’re at the hospital.

  Shane chuckles softly. “I’m afraid she’s otherwise engaged. Dinner date with Rand. Poor girl.”

  “What?” She’s not dead. She’s standing me up.

  I’m gonna kill her.

  “Yes. So, I’m afraid she can’t make it. Of course, it would be a tragedy to have you sitting all alone at the symphony. Who would see you in your new yellow dress?”

  I knit my brows. “I never told you what color my dress was.” I don’t think. I know I told him what I needed the dress for. I mean, that was the whole reason for the shopping day, but he didn’t see it, and I didn’t tell him. Why is he calling instead of Ellie?

  “I bet you’re sitting at the bar with a drink in front of you, but you haven’t touched it.”

  I look at my full drink. My stomach hits the floor. What the hell? I glance around then look over my shoulder, trying not to be obvious.

  “And now you’re searching. Wondering . . . could it be? Is he here?”

  Holy shit. He’s saying Rupert Everett’s lines from the end of My Best Friend’s Wedding. He’s here. He has to be here. Shane, not Rupert Everett. I stand and sweep the lobby.

  “And then suddenly, the crowd parts and . . .”

  I look toward the door, scanning the faces of people in suits and gowns, and then, oh my God. My gaze fixes on a man about twenty yards away. He’s in a dark suit, with rumpled hair, and he’s holding a phone to his ear. He’s walking toward me. A cocky grin spread across a scruffy jaw. He’s frickin’ gorgeous.

  “Sleek, stylish, and radiantly handsome.” He rolls the Rs like in the movie. Our eyes are locked. “And he comes toward you, with the moves of a jungle cat.”

  Oh my God. The grin on my face is ear-to-ear. I can’t believe he’s here. In a suit. All dressed up. He stops in front of me and clicks off his phone. God, he even smells good.

  My mind scrambles for what to say. So much for losing myself in the symphony and forgetting my drama. Instead, I’m swimming in it.

  His tie catches my attention. It’s the one I bought for him. I left it with his stuff in the conference room yesterday while he was in Clive’s office then forgot about it.

  “You can hang up now, Kensington.” His smile softens.

  Oh. I laugh, and slowly pull the phone down to click it off.

  I swallow. This is dangerous. This time, it’s not him I don’t trust. I should run. Just turn around and make tracks, but I can’t seem to move. “You’re late.”

  “You’re stunning.” He’s shaking his head, a soft smile on his face.

  The next line is you’re forgiven, and I have, he’s apologized, he’s explained, but I’m not ready to say the words, pretend or not. I feel my face flush. “It’s not exactly the Pretty Woman dress, I switched to—”

  “It’s better.”

  My eyes narrow with a slow grin. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s on the list. Number two. Pretty Woman.”

  I tilt my head. “We already did—”

  “The opportunity presented itself, so who am I to argue?” He shrugs. “And I think you’re missing something.”

  No way. That was the line, I think you’re missing something. It’s the moment where Edward and Vivian are leaving for the opera. I shift my weight to one leg, the shock of seeing him replaced by the thrill of anticipation. I know what’s next.

  From behind his back he produces a rectangular jewelry box. My eyes are fixed on the blue case. I look from the box to him and can’t hide my smile. I’m giddy. This is too much.

  Shane’s brown eyes are beaming. He nods for me to go ahead and holds the box out in one hand, with his other positioned to open it. “Don’t get too excited, it’s not worth a quarter of a million like in the movie.”

  But I am excited. I lean in, my hand splayed across my collarbone as he slowly opens the lid. It’s . . . it’s . . . oh my gosh. I laugh. “It’s candy? A candy necklace?” It’s the kind where little colored disks are threaded along a stretchy cord.

  “Symphony snack,” he says with a crooked smirk. His nose crinkles. “Cost a cool quarter. We can totally keep it.”

  He completely played me. “I’m not wearing that,” I say pointedly, still grinning. My cheeks are starting to hurt.

  “You have to at least take it.”

  I know he’s going to snap it shut as soon as I reach in. Just like in the movie. And I can’t wait.

  I look up and see an older couple, dressed to the nines, has stopped and taken an interest. The woman nods for me to go ahead and smiles enthusiastically. I reach in slowly, moving my hand so my fingers are hovering almost inside. I narrow my eyes with determination, glance once at Shane, and then make my—

  Snap!

  I jump. The woman whoops out a loud laugh, drawing curious glances from others as they pass. I smile at her. Then at him. She wraps her hands around her husband’s arm, and flashes me a fresh smile before they turn for the auditorium. This is pretty great.

  “In case I forget to tell you later . . .” My voice cracks with the sudden rise of emotion. Tears dot my lashes. “I had a really good time tonight.”

  “WOULD YOU RATHER GO BACK in?” Shane asks as we walk along the canal. We left at intermission and have been strolling around the man-made waterways of downtown Indy at a leisurely pace.

  “No, this is nice.” I glance sideways at Shane, who looks a bit chilly, since I’m in his suit coat.

  We’ve walked down one side of the canal, crossed, and now are almost back to where we started. I’ve filled him in with all the Pretty Woman trivia I know as we circled around. Like how Richard Gere improvised the jewelry box snap. It wasn’t part of the script. And Julia’s infamous laugh was so captivating they had to keep it in. It was real. A movie moment that’s enduring and real. It doesn’t get any better.

  Bridges cross over every block or so, and paddle boats tied along the edges make a soft slapping sound as they rock against the concrete banks.

  Shane bites into a disk from my candy necklace, freeing it from the elastic cord, and glances my way. We’ve both been quiet for a few minutes. I twist my wrist back and forth so my bracelet’s charms strike my skin with a calming, repetitive jingle as we walk.

  A small voice from somewhere inside whispers dark warnings. I’m pushing things too far. I may not be able to pull back. But, right now, I’m not the person who cares what that voice is saying. I’m not even engaged. I’m in my early twenties, in love in a movie.

  And this, too, is real.

  “He won’t make you happy, Kensington.”

  Is that what he’s been thinking about? I push my hair off my face and look away. I watch the flux of people now leaving the theater. The symphony must be letting out. The valets are busy collecting tickets to retrieve the patrons’ cars. Taxis are lined and ready. I should go. But I’m not ready for this to end.

  I wasn’t ready the first time either.

  We haven’t mentioned our argument from my engagement party. I’m not sure you can even call it that. I’ve been thinking about it, though, and this time, I’m better prepared to respond.

  My voice is calm and steady. “You don’t get to swoop into town after forever and . . . and declare my life isn’t good enough, Shane.” I stop and regard him. “Just because you’re the original lost boy and you don’t want to settle down, doesn’t give you the right to judge those that do.”

  �
�I’m not a boy.” Shane’s voice drops. “And I’m not lost anymore.”

  I start to walk again, not sure what to say.

  Shane’s looking at me. “What makes you think I don’t want to settle down? I do. The difference is, I won’t settle.”

  I meet his gaze, but only briefly. “I’m twenty-nine, almost thirty years old, and someone that my family happens to love, I love, who’s never lied, and hasn’t left me, wants to marry me. And I want a family.” I look out over the water, and quietly, almost to myself, ask, “So what should I be waiting for exactly?” Swallowing hard, I wait. I can’t believe I asked that.

  Shane takes a step forward and turns, stopping me with his hands. Warm copper eyes level to mine with intensity. “Me. You should be waiting for me.”

  His words stop my heart. There’s no misunderstanding that. I can’t breathe.

  Shane pushes the hair from my cheek and lifts my chin. He’s only inches away. I’m not moving. There’s no way I’m moving. He’s leaning in, eyes still holding mine.

  I feel my lips part in anticipation, and then I feel him. Shane’s lips. On mine. So light, the sensation is a whisper. He kisses me with deliberate care. Soft. Slow. Intoxicating.

  I’m reeling. My heart is beating in my ears. My hands are splayed across his chest, set to push him away, but . . . I’m not pushing. His hands thread through my hair and pull me in, deepening the kiss. The scratch of fresh stubble nips my cheek. His taste is both familiar and new. Tart and sweet dance on my tongue. Oh my God, I want . . . I . . . break away.

  I gotta go.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kenzi Shaw: The Edge of Reason

  “ALL BY MYSELF” DOESN’T need to be blaring from the stereo, I’m humming it. An empty bag of chips and an almost empty bottle of wine sit next to me on the couch. Unlike the opening of Bridget Jones’s Diary, I do have messages, six of them. Three from Ellie, two from Shane, and one from Bradley, none of which I want to listen to.

  I’ve changed from my gorgeous yellow dress into my comfy Victoria’s Secret pink. Some secret, it’s just sweatpants and a hoodie. The hoodie’s up with the strings cinched so tight there’s only a small opening to see out of and pour wine into. I feel better in here. I have no idea why. But I plan on staying like this for a while. My phone’s ringing again. I wonder why poor Bridget didn’t have a single call.

  “I’d call you, Bridget.”

  I finish my drink and head for the fridge, certain that Bradley has me well stocked with sweet wine. See, another example of Bradley being nice. Guilt grabs me by the throat and throttles me.

  Shane kissed me.

  I didn’t exactly stop him. Why didn’t I stop him? Me. You should be waiting for me.

  I open another bottle, pour a glass, and snatch up my phone. The one person who was supposed to call, that I expected a call from, didn’t bother. So yeah, I’m calling Tonya. Very sound reasoning.

  The recorded greeting starts. Blah, blah, blah, leave a message. I knew she wouldn’t answer. “Hey, Tonzy. It’s me, weren’t we supposed to talk today? You can’t call me back?”

  I push off the wall, the phone wedged inside my cinched hoodie, and slip-slide across the hall in my fuzzy socks. With each word I pick up speed. “You know what? A coffee is not an apology.” I turn and head in the opposite direction, gliding like I’m on ice skates, one hand out for a semblance of balance. “I mean, really, how could you do that to me? And not say I’m sorry? You messed around with my boyfriend, lied to me about it, and basically broke us up.”

  I shake my head, blinking back tears as I slide back through the living room, performing a drunken Ice Capades to the mental tune of “All by Myself.” And thank God I am. All by myself, that is. I can only imagine what this looks like. “So yeah, I think I at least deserve an ‘I’m sorry,’ don’t you? Not that I’m going to accept it.”

  I’m circling the coffee table, spewing every random thought that pops to mind. Tears freely fall down my cheeks. I know the message beeped, but I keep going, doing crazy eights, blabbering into the phone, stopping only for slugs of wine before starting up again.

  The if onlys are bursting open like kernels in an air popper. If only I hadn’t left the party that night. If only Tonya hadn’t gone. If only Shane hadn’t kissed her.

  I stop.

  If only I hadn’t kissed Shane back.

  My hand falls away from my ear, the phone dangles from my fingertips. My heart’s heavy with grief and guilt.

  My legs give way and I crumple to the floor beside my phone. Clicking it off, I let the thought settle. Tonya kissed Shane and told me he cheated with someone. That’s why I broke up with him. He never told me it was her or just a stupid kiss. She never said a word.

  I kissed Shane back tonight. My eyes widen. I’m no better than either of them. Was it just a stupid kiss? Am I telling Bradley? Am I breaking up with him? Warm tears run down my cheeks.

  Oh my God, what am I doing?

  There’s a knock at the door. It’s after midnight. Shane doesn’t know where I live. Bradley’s not home till Monday night, which is now tomorrow night.

  Another knock.

  Go away. I wanna be all by myself.

  More banging. “Kenz? Open up.”

  Somehow I manage to get myself to the door. Peering out from my hoodie hole into the peep one, I make out Ellie’s face.

  “Ellie?” I’m actually glad to see her.

  “Kenzi, are you okay? I’ve been calling. Let me in.” She knocks again.

  “She’s in there.”

  Wait, who’s with her? I’m desperately trying to angle my eye to get a better view of the hallway. “Who’s with you?” I can hear her talking, but all I see is a distorted Ellie, talking on the phone. She has gigantic fish lips.

  “I’m with Rand. Shane said you ran off, are you going to open?”

  “You’re with Rand Peterson?” I like to say his name. “Rand Peterson?”

  It reminds me of The Wedding Planner scene where Jennifer Lopez is drunk and can’t get into her apartment. She’s reading off the names and clicking all the buttons.

  “Rand Peterson? Do you know Nancy Pong? If you ever need to borrow sugar, I can’t help you, because you don’t know me.” See? I’m doing my own movie moment. I don’t need his stupid list.

  “Kenz, let us in. Shane wants to know if he can come by, if you’re okay.”

  Oh, hell no. “Is he on the phone? Tell him . . . tell him . . .” My mind scrambles for the line in The Wedding Planner when Matthew’s character came back banging on her door. I slide my legs out in slipper splits, gripping the doorknob for balance while I think. Ellie and Rand are saying something, but it’s muffled.

  “Oh! Tell him it’s simple. I love Bradley and he loves me. So, besides Shane’s tux measurements, that’s all I need to know. Please . . .” Go away.

  But I don’t want him to go away. I also don’t want his measurements.

  “Kenz, what the hell are you talking about?” More banging. “He really wants to come by. Can I give him the address? Please?”

  “No. Don’t!” I slide down to the floor and land with a thud. “I’m fine. I’m Fantastically Inebriated and Numb Everywhere.” Thank goodness, ’cause that’s gonna leave a mark.

  It takes at least three more of “Yes, I’m okay,” and a promise to call her in the morning before they finally leave.

  After a while, I pull myself up and search through my DVDs for Bridget Jones’s Diary. Finding it, I pop it in and curl up on the couch. My face is tear stained, my head’s spinning from the wine, and my whole world is upside down.

  In my mind, I see my future daughter with blond curls. She’s waving a sign, firing me. Wiping my eyes, I sing quietly along to the opening credits, but change the lyrics to “I’m gonna be all by myself.” The screen goes blurry from more tears. Shit, I am all by myself.

  “I’d still call ya, Bridge.”

  BOTH SHANE AND BRADLEY HAVE called me again this morning. And my mom. St
ill haven’t listened to any of the messages, but I am calling Ellie back. I mean, she did come all the way over here to make sure I was okay. I didn’t even know she seriously liked Rand Peterson. I realize suddenly that my head’s been so far up my own ass, I haven’t really asked her much of anything.

  I dial her number and wait. The phone’s on the third ring, and I’m rubbing at my hip, which has a light purple bruise from my drunkards-on-ice debut last night. My head’s fine, surprisingly. Maybe wine is the way to go.

  “Kenzi?” She’s whispering.

  “Hey, girl, sorry.”

  “You’re okay?” I hear her moving about her apartment. “Shane called again, wanting to know if I’d heard from you.”

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask in a whisper.

  “What?”

  “Ellie, why are we whispering?”

  “Rand’s here.”

  “What? Rand Peterson!” I shout into the phone.

  She shushes me. I whisper back, “He stayed? You guys?”

  “I know, I just . . . I like him, Kenz.” I can hear the smile in her voice.

  “So, any truth to the shoe-size theory?”

  She giggles. “I can’t talk right now.” I hear rustling. “But you should really call Shane. Okay? Call him and call me later. I need to know what happened.”

  You and me both.

  “Okay, later, Ellie-bell.” I click off the phone. There’s no way I’m calling Shane. There’s a heavy ache in my chest. What would I even say?

  Clicking the voice mail button and speaker, I decide to at least listen to the messages. Ellie’s voice comes through first.

  “Kenzi, Shane just called wanting to know if I talked with you. Where are you? What the hell happened? Call me back.”

  I delete and let it roll on to the next one. It’s Ellie again.

  “Kenzi, answer your phone! I’m starting to get worried. If you don’t call me back soon I’m coming over there.”