This Is My Brain in Love

by I. W. Gregorio

  Jos’s face lights up. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  The first featurette we watch is an interview with Susan Zirinsky, the TV producer who partly inspired Holly Hunter’s character, Jane. It turns out that Jane’s daily crying jags—the ones I’d just chalked up to Hollywood overdramatization—were real.

  “I often have these moments when I don’t think that I’m the right person for this job, and that somebody who’s smarter should be doing it,” Zirinsky says in the interview. “I’d like to say that I grew out of these thoughts when I turned fifty… but I didn’t.”

  I’m not sure if this is reassuring or crushing, coming from a woman who’s now president of CBS News. All I know is, for a second, it’s pretty nice to not feel alone.

  JOCELYN

  Watching bonus features is definitely my jam—in fact, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t think of it myself—but eventually I have to take a bathroom break. Afterward, I maybe linger a few seconds too long in the hallways to look at pictures of baby Will, cradled in the lap of his sister, who looks about two years old. The photo album confirmed that his dad is definitely white. I can tell by the pictures on the stairway—a steady march of festively clothed portraits—that the Domenicis are the type of family to send out tastefully designed holiday cards each year. I bet they’re on thick cardstock, not like the flimsier photo paper ones my Big Uncle sends out to his more prominent business associates, complaining about the cost every time.

  When I get back from the bathroom, Will is flipping through the remaining extras.

  I blink as I sit down. “What? There’s a bonus ending?” Priya would freak out if she knew. “We have to watch that.”

  The alternate ending is introduced by James L. Brooks, the film’s director. He explains that when they first gave test screenings of the movie, it did really well, except that everyone wanted a more satisfying resolution to the romance, so they reshot a reconciliation scene at the airport between the producer, Jane, and the pretty-boy anchor, Tom.

  “Hoo, boy,” I say as I settle back into the couch. “This is going to be good.”

  While I was in the bathroom, Will made another batch of popcorn, which he brings in a ginormous bowl that he puts between us. It’s a bit of a balancing act, and I move my right leg a little bit farther to the right to steady the bowl, just as Will does the same with his left, and our knees touch.

  Who knew your knee had so many nerves? My toes curl at the contact, and I remember what it felt like to hug him, how warm he was.

  Next to me, Will has gone completely still. He doesn’t move away, but he keeps his eyes focused on the TV, where Tom has just thrown himself in Jane’s cab.

  Holy mother of God, William Hurt and Holly Hunter can act. There’s a grainy unfinished quality to the cut, a rawness that triggers a tightness in my chest as the characters argue and fight and ultimately kiss in a way that’s angry and vulnerable and frightening and hot enough that I can feel something unfurling in my belly.

  I take a deep breath and try to calm my hormones.

  The room is so quiet that I can hear Will’s breath hitch a little, but I don’t dare look at him because I can feel my face flushing. The place where our knees touch feels like it’s generating enough energy to power the city of Utica for the next decade.

  Finally, after approximately four decades, the characters on the screen break their lip lock, and Jane grabs Tom’s head, shakes it a bit, and tells him, “I could kill you.”

  “Yes, you could,” Tom mumbles.

  The line is so good, I have to make a joke about it so I don’t cry. “Nothing says I love you more than whispering sweet homicidal nothings,” I say.

  Will turns to grin at me. I smile shyly and intend to go right back to watching the scene and listening to James L. Brooks’s genius commentary, but I can’t. I’m transfixed by Will’s lips, the nearness of them. The air between us feels like a live thing, vibrating with tension.

  And that’s when I break down and make the cheesiest, tropiest move ever: I do a kickass classic arm stretch, ending up draped over Will’s shoulder with my head nestling into his very, very nice bicep.

  “I’m so glad you’re not an asshole,” I sigh, the words traveling straight from my hindbrain to my mouth.

  I have the best pickup lines.

  WILL

  One minute I’m watching deleted scenes, stressing out over everything: Should I have gotten Jos her own bowl of popcorn? Is this just a friendly movie night, or is it a date? If I make a move, will it ruin things forever? The next minute, Jocelyn is leaning into my shoulder, and I don’t think I have ever been more present, or more alive, in a single moment. Ever.

  For a split second, I wonder if she’s feeling light-headed and just needed to lie down. But her eyes are open and fixed on the screen. She’s smiling faintly, and when she looks up to see what I can only imagine is a completely flummoxed expression on my face, her grin gets wider, and she says, “I’m so glad you’re not an asshole.”

  Me too, Jocelyn. Me too.

  It takes me a few minutes, but right around the time that my left arm falls asleep I realize that I can make a move, too. I wiggle my arm out from under her and slide it around her shoulders, pulling her in to what can only be described as a Grade A, 100 percent bona fide cuddle.

  It feels like when you’ve been playing outside all day in the winter, and you’ve got snow inside your socks, and your snot’s frozen in your nose, and you come inside your house and your mom has hot chocolate already made for you with pastel-colored mini marshmallows, and fresh warm clothes that she’s just run through the dryer.

  It feels like when you’ve been working on a story for weeks, and there’s this one source who you really need who isn’t returning your e-mails, and there’s a huge gap in the narrative where you have nothing to show for your research, but suddenly, the day before your deadline, the person responds and gives you exactly the information you need to deliver a kickass piece.

  It feels warm. It feels true. It feels right.

  This Is My Brain on Tension

  JOCELYN

  James L. Brooks is a legendary director, but I’ve got to admit I barely register the featurette on his career due to my brain being on a continuous loop of: “He likes me! He put his arm around me and we’re snuggling! Holy shit, I think this is now officially a real date, not a non-date! OMG, Priya is going to. Freak. Out.”

  At the end of the night, we still haven’t really said that we like each other, but it seems pretty clear to me. This is uncharacteristically optimistic, I know, but it’s not like I can’t think positively. I just prefer not to, to avoid disappointment.

  When we’re out of extras, I rack my brain for how to further confirm my hypothesis that he is into me. Honestly, though, the longer we stay glued to each other like this, the more I feel like I’ve met the burden of proof.

  “Did you like it?” I ask, though what I’m really asking is, “Do you like me?”

  “I thought it was awesome,” he says, which is a satisfactory answer on all counts. “And I was thinking…” Will swallows, twice, and the edge of his cheek sucks in like he’s biting the inside of his mouth.

  I hold my breath, not wanting to say anything that will mess up my data collection.

  “… well, I was thinking how I’ve never watched When Harry Met Sally…, but my dad’s always talking about what a classic it is. Have you seen it?”

  Have I seen it? How am I supposed to answer that question, without lying, in a way that doesn’t make him think that I’m a psychopath? Also, the fact that he chose a rom-com definitely supports my hypothesis that this is a date.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it,” I say. “It’s one of my favorite movies. But I’d love to see it again with you.”

  Will’s smile transforms him into another person. It’s not that he’s normally a sourpuss, but before I’ve only ever seen him smile politely, or grin enthusiastically. The way he looks now, beaming like he can’t help it? I
t makes me feel like a freaking revelation.

  “All right.” Will stands up, tidies up the couch cushions a bit, and holds his hand out to pull me up. “When Harry Met Sally… next Wednesday. It’s a date.”

  “Yes.” I reach my hand out to seal the deal (and confirm the results of my scientific method). “A date it is.”

  The air is as thick as butternut squash soup on the drive back to the library. After we pull into the now-empty lot, Will turns off the car, but neither of us moves to get out. With the engine turned off it’s so quiet I can hear the squeak of leather as he turns in the seat to face me.

  It’s in that silence that in a flash of panic, like a switch flipping, my confidence evaporates. All of a sudden I’m certain that I’ve read Will all wrong. Maybe he’s going to turn to me and say, “Jocelyn, I think you’re getting the wrong idea.”

  I’ve been waiting all night for this moment, when all of our plans run their course, and we’re alone and done with any activities or distractions, and there’s nothing else between us but air and words and potential.

  Honestly, I’m terrified. Because now’s the moment that Will’s going to make his move, but if he doesn’t, if this opportunity passes us by, I know that I will never have the nerve to create another one.

  WILL

  The entire drive back to the library I have a buzzing under my skin that’s almost unbearable, like that moment after you get stung by a mosquito where you feel a vague tingling but can’t see the welt or feel the itch yet. I feel as if someone’s bottled me up and shaken me, but I make myself concentrate extra hard on the drive, as getting into an accident would be a less-than-optimal barrier to my endgame.

  We’ve both moved our chess pieces onto the board, and I am convinced that I have a chance, as long as I don’t trip over myself getting to checkmate.

  By the time I turn off my car and face Jocelyn, I’ve rehearsed a hundred lines in my head and discarded them all, starting with “I’m so glad that I got to work with you” (too formal; also, I should not remind her that I literally work for her), swinging all the way to “I think I’m in love with you” (which maybe comes off a bit too strong) to “So, was this a date?” (vaguely whiny and desperate sounding) to “I think we should take this relationship to the next level” (a little too on point to sound spontaneous).

  I’m still trying to process what I really want to say other than “Jocelyn, I really like you,” when I realize that almost a minute has gone by since we parked. With the air-conditioning turned off, the air stills and thickens. As seconds pass I watch Jocelyn’s face morph from excitement to nervous anticipation to an emotion I never, ever want to see on her face again.

  Fear.

  It takes me a second to realize that the thing she’s afraid of is this unspoken thing between us, and another to understand how easily I can address it.

  “Jocelyn,” I blurt out, because I can’t stand to think of her being afraid. “I really like you.”

  Her eyes widen, her breath catches, and the frown that was just beginning to form flips into a watery smile.

  “Oh, thank God,” she whispers.

  Then she starts to cry.

  For as long as I can remember, my mother has impressed upon me the importance of my words. “Remember, Will, your words have weight, and the capacity to harm.” Like I said in my interview at A-Plus, though, being thoughtful can be a double-edged sword.

  Simple questions like, “What do you want to do?” stump me. I think about what I actually want to do, of course, but then I worry about whether the person who asked the question really cares about what my desires are, or whether they are just being polite. If that sounds exhausting, it’s because it is.

  All this is to say that I am not known for speaking before I think. Which is why it’s so amazing for me to realize that with Jocelyn, it’s the best thing I’ve done all night.

  “You took so long to say anything, I was sure you were going to tell me I was barking up the wrong tree,” she says, laughing through her tears. Tears of relief, I realize.

  “Nope, the rightest tree in the forest,” I say, which doesn’t make any sense, but I’m feeling kind of giddy, like my heart is beating so fast and so inefficiently that it can’t get blood to my brain. My lungs can’t seem to pull enough air, and I don’t know where to look, or what to do with my hands. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that I was starting to have a panic attack. I finally decide to stare at Jocelyn, even though it kind of hurts my brain to, as if I’m a circuit that’s overloading. There’s something I need to tell her: “I’m sorry it took me so long to get my act together and tell you how I feel.”

  “No, it’s okay,” she says, grabbing a tissue and swiping at her eyes.

  “I mean, there shouldn’t be a double standard,” Jocelyn continues. “It shouldn’t always be the boy making the first move. I could’ve told you.” She squeezes the tissue in her fist, and her voice is kind of nasal when she says, “I really like you, too.”

  My chest tightens, then it swells. All the emotions from the past hour, from the past week, month—from my lifetime, really—seem to surge through my body at once. And I understand why Jocelyn was crying.

  JOCELYN

  So, my vision of my reaction when a boy finally (FINALLY) said that he liked me did not include actual tears. But Will doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve turned into a snot factory. In fact, his eyes are kind of glistening in the streetlights, too, which quite possibly means that we are made for each other.

  I feel like I’ve been lugging around this crush for so long, trekking through deserts and scaling mountains of feeling, so much feeling. And now I feel almost weightless.

  Here’s another metaphor: I’ve been holding back my affection for Will for weeks now, but it’s been building up day by day like water beating up against a dam. And now there’s nothing keeping my feelings back anymore.

  Will holds his palm out to me again, and I shiver at the tingle that goes down my back when our fingers touch. This time he puts his other hand over mine, and I’ve never felt so safe, so protected, and then he curves his wrists open, leans down, and I swear to God he kisses my palm tenderly (that’s the only word to describe it) like we’re characters in an Austen movie.

  As my cold, angry heart melts, I realize: I am so gone for this nerd.

  If my life were a CW show, this is the point where a croony song by Ariana Grande would start playing. If it were an arthouse flick, it would maybe break into an animated riff where line drawings of Will and me would take flight to blandly inspirational piano music.

  But my life is barely Instagram-worthy, let alone Hollywood-ready, so instead Will and I just sit holding hands like the chickens we apparently are for what seems like eons. In my peripheral vision I see a jogger run by the parking lot with a running stroller, and a car pulls in to dump some books into the after-hours return box. When the stillness becomes unbearable I move my thumb so it brushes over one of his fingers in the briefest caress, and I hear Will’s breath catch, see his lips widen. His hand spasms as if he’s been shocked, but he doesn’t move. I don’t move. It’s as if we’re both afraid the moment will shatter if we try anything else.

  But you know what? Screw fear.

  “Can we just kiss now?” I ask.

  Despite the fact that my voice sounds like I’ve lost a war with about a billion tons of pollen, Will doesn’t laugh.

  “Yes, please,” he says fervently, and he leans in. I tilt my head slightly to the right the way I’ve seen on screens big and small, digital and projected. And because Will is suddenly overwhelmingly close, impossibly real, I close my eyes to protect my brain from exploding from sensory overload as my mouth finds its target.

  Will’s lips remind me of the flour-covered mochi rice cakes my mom sometimes brings home as treats from her Chinatown runs. They’re soft but firm, and warm in a way that makes my whole body sigh, that makes me want more, and suddenly it makes sense to me why books always use food metaphors when the
y describe kissing, and desire, and love. All of a sudden I’m ravenous for Will, and this is just with a chaste touch of the lips that would almost certainly still qualify a movie for a PG rating by the Motion Picture Association of America.

  When it all gets to be too much—I haven’t really gotten the knack of kissing and breathing at the same time yet—I break away and finally open my eyes. Will’s looking at me wide-eyed, and I’m surprised to realize that I know him well enough by now to guess what he’s thinking. So I know what I can say to help him relax.

  “I had to catch my breath,” I explain. “That was almost too amazing.” Then I lick my lips, and his eyes get heavy lidded as he stares at my mouth, and I can hear his breath hitch as I move in for round two.

  I’m not sure where to put my hands, so at first I just keep my left in his, and my right on my leg. But as my hunger deepens, as we try our damnedest to actually meld the atoms in our faces together into a single molecule, my hand creeps up to touch Will’s thigh. His very well-toned thigh. He groans, and as his mouth opens, I do the thing. The French kiss thing that I always told Priya sounded gross as hell, because spit.

  In reality, French kissing is actually not too bad, which may explain its popularity.

  Will is certainly a fan. And if I thought that lips were incredible, tongue is mind-blowing. It’s like, you’ve had this body part your entire life, and it’s a nice enough organ, one that allows you to experience both wasabi peas and chocolate peanut butter ice cream. You use it every day, and maybe you start taking it for granted a bit. I mean, it’s not as if the tongue is something you need to pay attention to, or maintain, like your fingernails or hair or God forbid your bladder or bowels.

  But for the first time I’m realizing the tongue is a muscle. It can move. And no one ever talks about how much it can feel.