Better Than the Movies

by Lynn Painter

  “That’s good.” Wes cleared his throat and said, “If I tell you something, you have to promise not to ask me more than three questions.”

  Oh God. What could he possibly want to say that I wasn’t allowed to give him the third degree about? “What are you talking about?”

  He sighed, and I could hear a TV in the background. “Just promise, Buxbaum, and I swear you’ll fall asleep smiling.”

  I didn’t know why, but something about Wes saying those words made my stomach dip. I swallowed. “Okay, I promise.”

  “Okay. So when we were playing basketball earlier, Michael mentioned your look.”

  “What did he say?” I kind of shouted it as I sat straight up in bed. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t remember his exact words—”

  “Come on, Wes, you’ve got one job and it’s—”

  “—but he essentially said that he could see why you’re so popular.”

  Oh my God. I glanced at Fitz, who was curled up in the corner on top of a crumpled Barnes and Noble shopping bag, and I hoped it wasn’t all about my look. “What did he say, exactly?”

  “I already told you that I don’t remember his exact words, goofball. But the general sentiment was that he gets it. You’re no longer Little Liz.”

  “Oh.” I flopped back down onto my back, conflicted. A tiny part of me was uncomfortable with that. Like, before I straightened my hair and put on a cookie-cutter outfit, he couldn’t understand how Wes could be interested in me? When I looked the way I liked looking, it was inconceivable to him that Wes would find me attractive? That kind of stung.

  I pictured Michael and told myself not to get hung up on it. The bottom line was that he had noticed me. “Did he say it cute, like, ‘Ooh, dude, I totally get it now,’ or was it more matter-of-fact?”

  “We were playing basketball. He was panting and grunting.”

  “You’re terrible at this.”

  “No, you’re just a weirdo.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” I glanced toward my window, where all I could see in the darkness was the side of his house. It was a little surreal that I was talking to Wes like he was a friend, when he’d always been my neighborhood nemesis. “There was plenty of time when you were walking with me to the hospital.”

  “I was distracted by your Potato Head face and the concern that you were going to pass out from lack of blood.” He cleared his throat. “As soon as the image of your ginormo-nose left my mind, I remembered to tell you.”

  I tried to picture him on the other end of the phone. Was he still fully dressed, or was he wearing adorable pajamas and snuggling with his dog? “Where’s your room?”

  “What?”

  I sat up in bed and crossed my legs. “Total random curiosity. Your house is outside my window, and I just realized that I’ve never been upstairs, so I have no idea what side your room is on.”

  “Put the binoculars away because my room faces the back. You’ve got no shot of a peep show.”

  “Yeah, because that was what I wanted.” My mind instantly conjured the image of his half-naked body in the practice gym. When he’d taken off his shirt and I’d nearly swallowed my tongue. You know, while also bleeding out.

  “And I’m not in my room. I’m in the living room, watching TV.”

  I got up and walked over to my window. My bedroom was the only one with a window on the side of the house, and when I looked down, I could see the light glowing out their living room window.

  “I can see your light.”

  “Such a creeper.”

  That made me smile. “What’re you watching?”

  “I think the proper line is ‘What are you wearing?’ ”

  I couldn’t stop smiling—that was so incredibly Wes. It was weird how talking to him was so easy—way easier than texting with Michael. I wasn’t sure if it was because I knew Wes better, or perhaps it was because Wes knew me better. He knew I wasn’t cool—he’d always known that—so maybe that was why it felt so relaxed.

  I didn’t have to try.

  I said, “Maybe if I cared it would be, but I’m actually curious about what you’re watching.”

  “Guess.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, looking out at the side of his house where there were flowering bushes moving in the breeze under his lit living room window. “Probably a game of some sort. Basketball?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Okay. Is it a movie or a TV show?”

  “Movie.”

  “Hmm.” I grabbed my beanbag and slid it in front of the window. I felt like I needed to be looking at his house. I plopped down and asked, “So, I need to know. Did you select it, or did you just happen to stop by when remote-flipping?”

  “Remote stop-by.”

  “Hm. That complicates things.” Mr. Fitzpervert jumped onto my lap and put his front paws on my chest so I would scratch his head. I approved of the paisley bow tie that Helena must have selected for him, since I’d left him tieless when I was in a hurry that morning. “Um… Gone Girl?”

  “Nope. But decent guess. I thought Emily Ratajkowski was brilliant in that flick. Her scene with Affleck is still embedded in my brain.”

  “You’re disgusting.”

  There was laughter in his voice as he said, “I’m just messing because I knew you’d know what I meant. My little Libby is just so easy to get riled up.”

  I ignored his comment, the incorrigible boy. “Well, the book was amazing, even without Miss Ratajkowski’s assets.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Okay.” I tried thinking about what would make Wes stop and watch. “Um, maybe The Hangover?”

  “Nope.”

  “American Pie?”

  “Not even close.”

  “In what era,” I started, wondering if maybe I had him pegged totally wrong, “did this cinematic masterpiece come out?”

  “I feel like you’re assuming that I only like boob movies.”

  “Um.” His assumption about my assumption was correct, but now I was having doubts. The more I knew about Wes, the more he proved my preconceived notions wrong. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”

  “I’m watching Miss Congeniality.”

  “What?” I almost dropped the phone. “But, Bennett. That’s a rom-com.”

  “Yup.”

  “So…?”

  “So, I stopped because it looked funny.”

  “And…?”

  “And it is.”

  “I love that movie. What channel?”

  “Thirty-three. Wait—your parents still have cable too?”

  “Yes. My dad is afraid to cut the cord because he isn’t sure if he’ll get all the good boxing matches if we switch to streaming.” I flipped on my TV and turned it to the movie. It was the beginning, where Sandra Bullock’s character was eating steak with Michael Caine at a restaurant. “The thought of losing them terrifies the man.”

  “It’s soccer for my dad. He’s convinced that all you can watch on Hulu are movies and NBC shows.”

  That made me smile. Wes’s dad was a super-nerdy college professor who I never would’ve pegged as a fan of anything athletic. “Do you think we’ll be technology-challenged when we’re old too?”

  “Oh, for sure. You’ll probably be one of those old people who doesn’t even have a TV. Every day will be the same. You’ll play the piano, drink tea, and listen to records for hours, then take the bus to the movie theater.”

  “You make aging sound incredible. I want that life now.”

  “So do you sing when you play?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve always wondered. When you play the piano, do you sing?”

  He’d “always” wondered? Did that mean he’d thought of it often? When we were kids and I practiced with the windows open, he used to howl like he was a dog and it was hurting his ears. I guess I hadn’t realized he knew I still played.

  I hadn’t heard him howl in a lot of years.

&nb
sp; “It depends what I’m playing.” It seemed incredibly personal, sharing this with him, but it also didn’t feel wrong. Probably because I’d known him so long. I glanced over at the piano book sitting on my desk. “I don’t really sing when I’m doing scales or warm-ups, and I definitely don’t sing if I’m playing something super challenging. But when I play for fun, look out.”

  He said around a laugh, “Gimme a song that makes you belt.”

  “Umm…” I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Sharing private things about myself while sitting in the dark made me feel… something. Some kind of way.

  Maybe I was just feeling introspective, because—out of nowhere—I realized that my life for the past few days had felt different. I was suddenly living this stereotype of a high school life. I’d gone to a booze party, and the following night I’d loaded into a car with a bunch of people to watch a high school sports game.

  And my love interest had texted me.

  Not only that, but I was talking on the phone to the boy next door as if it was a thing.

  Those things were normal, but not for me.

  And it was fun. All of it. Even with the vomit and the bloody nose. And it kind of made me wonder if I’d been missing out. Most of the time, I preferred staying home and watching movies. That was my happy place. Joss had her softball friends that she went out with, and even though she always invited me, I always chose to stay home with my rom-coms.

  But now I was questioning that decision.

  Wes jerked me back out of my head. “ ‘Umm’ is not an answer, dipshit.”

  “I know, I know, I know.” I laughed and admitted, “I actually pretty much turn into Adele when I play ‘Someone Like You.’ ”

  “You do not.” He was full-on laughing now. “For real? That’s a big-voice song.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I pulled the blanket from my bed, lifted Fitz from my lap, and wrapped us both up in it. “But when no one’s home, it feels amazing to totally shatter glass with my pipes.”

  “I would pay money to hear that.”

  Fitz gave me a deep-throated growling meow and ran up my body, jumped off my shoulder, and escaped from my room. I said, “You’ll never have enough.”

  He made a comment, but I didn’t hear what it was because I got distracted by the fact that his living room light went out. Was he still in that room? Was he getting comfy on the couch? He didn’t sound like he was walking. “How come you turned off the light?”

  My hand went to my mouth out of habit—that was a nosy question to be embarrassed about—but then I remembered it was just Wes. I could say these unfiltered things to him because he didn’t care. Wes Bennett knew what a mess I was underneath it all, and there was a little bit of joy in knowing he saw the real me.

  Freedom.

  I would never ask Michael why he’d turned off his light (if he lived next door). That would be a total creeper move.

  “I knew you were staring in my windows, Buxbaum.” Wes did a deep chuckle thing that made me laugh too. “I never would’ve guessed someone so uptight would be such a pervert.”

  I stared out at his dark window. “I’m not that uptight, for the record.”

  “I will say that you’ve been pretty cool about the disasters that have befallen you since you started hunting Michael.”

  “Um… thanks? And I’m not ‘hunting’ him. I’m just trying to…”

  I blinked—what exactly was I trying to do? Michael was it—the guy. Just like in the book we were reading in Lit—The Great Gatsby—he was the green light across the bay, the symbol of the dream, the cohesive-thread-come-full-circle love interest that my mom had written into all of her scripts. I guess I was trying to put the happy ending on my script, so to speak. I said, “I just need to know that happily ever after really exists.”

  He was quiet for a minute, and then he said, “I think your cat is out in my yard.”

  I was grateful for the change of subject. “It isn’t Fitz. He never goes outside.”

  “Smart cat—my dog would probably use him as a chew toy.”

  “As if Fitzpervert would let him.” I looked back out the window and tried to see a cat, but all I could see was a dark yard and the white flowers on my mother’s bushes. “So where are you? Did you go to bed, or are you sitting in the dark like a complete Patrick Bateman?”

  “Oh my God, you’re so obsess—”

  “Will you just shut up and tell me?” I was laughing—hard—and it made my nose throb a little. “I need to go to bed.”

  “And you can’t sleep until you know where I am. I see you.”

  “So delusional. Just forget it.”

  My face literally hurt from smiling, and out of nowhere I wondered what things were going to be like with me and Wes when our deal was over. Would he go back to only thinking of me as his weird neighbor, only noticing me when he felt like messing with me? Would we return to just being classmates who didn’t particularly like each other?

  The thought of that made my stomach get a little heavy.

  I didn’t like it.

  He laughed and the lights flashed in his living room. On-off, on-off. “I’m still here, Liz. Just messing with you.”

  “Okay, well, good ni—”

  “Your turn.”

  “Huh?”

  “Flash your lights. It’s my turn to know where you are.”

  Fair was fair. I leaned over and flicked on my desk lamp, wondering if he was going to walk over to the window in order to be able to see up to my room.

  “So that’s your room, huh?”

  Apparently yes. “It is.”

  Could he see me? I didn’t think so—my beanbag was pretty low—but I still felt exposed.

  “Wow.” He let out a low whistle. “Not gonna lie, there’s something about knowing that that is where Mrs. Potato Head sleeps. I mean, damn, you know?”

  I leaned forward and waved into the darkness. “Damn, indeed. Good night, dipshit.”

  He gave me a deep, rumbly chuckle but didn’t say anything about the wave. “Good night, Elizabeth.”

  Instead of going back to bed, I went over to my dresser and grabbed the pink photo album. Talking about happy endings and staring out at my mom’s favorite bushes had given me the mom-feels.

  Although, lately everything had been giving me those.

  I spent the next hour looking at pictures of my mother; her wedding photos, shots of her holding me when I was a baby, and the funny surprise takes my dad liked to snap when she hadn’t been expecting them.

  When I got to the photos from one of the neighborhood picnics, I squinted and smiled at the group shot. My mom had been dressed in a paisley sundress and pearls, while everyone else looked like shoeless summer slobs. So on-brand for her, right?

  My eyes scanned to the front row, where we kiddos—probably age seven at the time—looked eerily similar to our current selves. Not in appearance, but in expression. The twins were looking away from the camera with their mouths wide open, clearly up to something. Michael was smiling like a perfect little model, and I was beaming at him instead of looking at the photographer. Joss was making an adorable little smirk, and Wes—of course—had his tongue all the way out.

  Something about that photo album made me feel good about the present, but I was getting too tired to analyze it. Also my Potato Head nose was aching. I put away the pictures, shut off the light, plugged my phone in, and went back to bed. But just before I fell asleep, I got one more message.

  Wes: Make sure you add “Someone Like You” to the Wes and Liz playlist.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “I’d rather fight with you than make love with anyone else.”

  —The Wedding Date

  “Good morning, sunshine.”

  I grunted and went straight for the Keurig. I adored my father, but the sight of his bright-eyed, smiling face peeking out from behind the newspaper at the breakfast table was just a little too much. My eyes didn’t want to be open, and I definitely didn’t want to engage in
chipper morning conversation after being up all night with a throbbing nose.

  “How’s the honker?”

  I smiled—that’s what Wes had called it—and hit the button that made the water warm. “Sore, but I’ll survive.”

  “You work today?”

  “Yup—I’m the lucky opener.”

  He closed the paper and started folding it. “Did you fill out the dorm paperwork I sent to your email?”

  Crap. “I forgot. I’ll do it today.”

  “You have to stop putting it off. If you’re old enough to go to college on the other side of the country, you’re old enough to fill out a few forms.”

  I sighed. “Got it.”

  File that under Another Thing Liz Was Avoiding. I was dying to go away to school and get started at UCLA. I was even looking forward to the actual studies. Classes on music curation wouldn’t seem like work, would they? But every time I thought of living there, I got this huge ball of dread in my stomach that had nothing to do with California and everything to do with leaving the only place I’d ever lived with my mother.

  And the few times I’d allowed myself to consider the reality that I would no longer be able to just toss on my running shoes and see her at the cemetery, my vision instantly blurred with tears and my throat felt like it was closing.

  So, yeah. I had some issues to resolve there.

  He gave me a dad look. “Quit procrastinating. The early bird gets the better dorm room, Little Liz.”

  “Hey. Speaking of that.” I put the pod into the machine and closed the top. “Was I a nice little weirdo when I was a kid?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Come again?”

  I hit the button, and the Keurig started whirring. “Wes said that back in the day, I was a nice little weirdo, and I just don’t remember it that way. Is he right?”

  My dad’s face split into a wide smile. “You don’t remember it that way?”

  “Not at all.” I stared at the coffee as it spat into my cup. “I mean, I maybe wasn’t supercool, but—”

  “You were definitely a strange little kid.”

  “What?” I looked at his grin and was torn between laughing and being annoyed. “I was not.”