The Falling in Love Montage

by Ciara Smyth

  “I am, but don’t change the subject. I’m pretty sure you’ve described them as ‘sexist schlock’ before. I remember because I’d never heard a person say the word schlock in real life.”

  “Whatever. Like horror isn’t totally sexist? Oh, here, why don’t I stab all these women with my phallic weapon while they run around in tank tops with their nipples showing.”

  “Please don’t say nipples in front of your father.” Dad shuddered.

  “Yeah, I regretted it as soon as it was out.”

  “Let’s move past it.”

  I waited for him to say whatever he’d come up to say. He fiddled with a necklace on my dresser instead of looking at me.

  “You could come with us?” Dad said hopefully.

  I plumped up a pillow and nestled it behind my head.

  “I’m kind of swamped here.”

  “I really want you to get to know Beth better. You have to get involved somehow.”

  “Do I, though?” I mused.

  I knew this wasn’t the only reason he’d come up, though, to convince me to go do wedding stuff. He had to know that was a lost cause. There was something else.

  “I got an offer on the house,” he said eventually. I felt the wind knocked out of me. The house had only been on the market two days. Only one person had been to see it that I knew of. We didn’t even have one of those signs from the estate agent yet.

  “We’re not in any hurry. I put an offer on the flat and it was accepted, but it’ll be a while yet before everything’s sorted. We have until August.”

  My dad, who had decided to get engaged and set the wedding date less than three months away, absolutely had a warped sense of what was and was not a rush.

  He waited, perhaps for me to say something that would let him off the hook so he didn’t have to feel guilty.

  “I hate this,” I said.

  He really didn’t know me at all.

  For a minute it looked like he was going to say he was sorry but instead, he tapped the dresser a couple of times, sighed, and left. Pathetic.

  I sat on the bed and stewed for a few minutes, listening to Dad tramp down the stairs and out the front door. I hadn’t lived in this house my whole life, but most of it, and I couldn’t remember the parts from before. I’d known I’d have to leave sooner rather than later; I was the one who’d made those applications to a university in another country, without a second thought of staying home. Back then I’d thought this place would still be here when I needed it. Instead of moving on, it felt like everything behind me was being wiped out, as though I had conjured it into being and when I wasn’t looking it all disappeared.

  The doorbell rang and I groaned because I was the only one home to answer it. Whoever it was, they weren’t invited. Part of me hoped it would be Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’d run off and join them. Give up this life and focus on . . . I had no idea what their craic was.

  “Oh Jesus,” I said when I opened the door. “What do you want?”

  Oliver rolled his eyes and threw my top at me. I didn’t quite catch it and I had to peel it off my face.

  “It was in with our dry cleaning,” he said. “Some people would say thank you.”

  “Some people would burn this just because you touched it,” I said, but I threw it on the back of a chair instead.

  “Are you going to invite me in or what?” he said, looking over my shoulder into the house. “I want to see how the less fortunate live.”

  “Everyone is ‘the less fortunate’ to you,” I said, but I let him in.

  He took in the cluttered, cozy living room I’d grown up in, with its knickknacks and colorful throws everywhere.

  “So they live in chaos.” He ran a finger along the back of the sofa and pretended to inspect it for dust. “How sad.”

  “Weak.”

  “Whatever. What are you up to anyway?” He looked around the room as though it would give him a clue.

  “I was watching a film, and I’d like to get back to it,” I said.

  “I could watch a film,” he said. “If you made me a cup of tea or something.”

  I thought about booting him out, but something about him coming around with my top in the middle of the day, in the middle of the summer holidays, made me feel like I’d be kicking a puppy. An obnoxious puppy who would pee on your bed and chew on your shoes. Or maybe refuse to chew on your shoes until you bought expensive designer ones.

  I made us two cups of tea while Oliver inspected each of the cupboards until he found a packet of biscuits. I stared in disbelief.

  “Are you forgetting how much vodka you’ve stolen from me?”

  “Oh yeah.” I had forgotten, actually. “Here, hold these a second,” I said, giving him both cups of tea. He held one in each hand and the packet of biscuits in his teeth.

  “Good boy.” I patted him on the head and gestured for him to come upstairs. He tried to complain when he realized I was making fun of him, but he had the packet of biscuits clenched between his teeth so all he could do was let out a muffled protest and follow me.

  After setting the tea down in the windowsill, Oliver jumped backward onto the bed and made himself all cozy in my pillow nook.

  “What are we watching? I have to tell you I’m not interested in your sex tape.”

  With great effort, I pulled a pillow out from behind his back and hit him with it before settling on the bed myself.

  “Tea, please, pervert.” I held my hand out.

  “I said I’m not interested and you think that’s perverted? You sure think a lot of yourself.”

  “Do you ever give over?” I sighed. “We’re watching Never Been Kissed.”

  “Ah, your biopic.”

  “I thought I was slutty? You can’t have it both ways.”

  “Sure I can,” he said, tearing into the biscuits. “I see an opportunity and I go for it.” He stuffed a biscuit in his mouth and got crumbs all over my bed. Was this what being straight was like? A boy in your bedroom making a mess? Not for the first time, I thanked God I was a lesbian.

  An hour and a half later we had completely demolished the biscuits and the premise of the film.

  “Like, come on. Just because he knows now that she’s not a student does not make it OK that he was into a student, right?” I said, incredulous.

  “Probably not. I mean, he must have been going home at night, to his adult girlfriend, thinking, I fancy my student. That’s not normal.”

  “Exactly, and then he has the cheek to be mad at her?”

  “Let’s not gloss past the fact that her adult brother is bucking a different student.”

  “Oh hold on. Look. She’s waiting for him now on the pitch. I wonder if he’ll come and kiss her?” I said sarcastically, pretending to hide behind my hands.

  “The suspense is killing me.”

  “I’d be so impressed with this film if he doesn’t turn up at the end, she goes home, and a couple of weeks later she starts going out with a guy who doesn’t get a hard-on looking at students in period costume.”

  The guy ran out onto the pitch and we both booed the screen loudly.

  When it was over, Oliver sprawled out on my bed.

  “That was terrible. Did Ruby tell you to watch it?”

  “Why? What do you mean?” I said. Did he know? I’d die if Oliver knew about the falling in love montage. I’d never hear the end of it.

  “She’s really into these. I’ve seen her sing along to My Best Friend’s Wedding at least twice already this summer and she’s only been here a few weeks.”

  “She mentioned it. I thought I’d check it out.”

  “What’s the craic with you two anyway?” he said, but so casually it sounded distinctly uncasual.

  “Are you asking if my intentions are honorable?” I joked.

  “I’m not expecting miracles,” he said. “Just, you know, what’s the craic?”

  “I like her,” I said lightly. But I felt my cheeks betray me by heating up. “It’s not serious, though
. It’s fun. Summer fling. You know.”

  “Sure,” he said, drawing the word out slowly, as though he was giving himself time to think of his next words. “I think that’s good. She’s had a tough time. She needs something fun, I think.”

  I thought about the panicky sound of her voice when she got that call from her mum. The weird thing she’d said about her having to stop her gymnastics lessons. The fact that her family had abandoned her here to begin with.

  “What do you mean she’s had a tough time?”

  Oliver narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak and then he closed it again.

  “Ask her yourself; it’s not a secret.”

  “If it’s not a secret, then tell me.”

  “No. It’s her business, not mine.”

  “Now you have ethics?”

  “What’s the big deal? I mean, I’m surprised you don’t already know. Haven’t you asked her why she’s staying with us? Or do you two not talk a whole lot?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  “Nope,” I said. “It’s all the nonstop scissoring. It really requires too much concentration to talk.”

  I was dying to know, but talking about family stuff was one of the harbingers of doom. I mean, it would be fine if Oliver told me—that was like a loophole—but if I asked Ruby then I’d be breaking a sacred vow (no, that’s not an exaggeration), and what if she started asking about my family?

  “You wouldn’t tell her about my stuff would you?” I said. I’d never talked to Oliver about my mum but everyone at school knew anyway. It’s a small town.

  “Watch you don’t trip over your own hypocrisy,” he said. “But no. That’s your business.”

  Maybe his ethics weren’t so terrible.

  “She likes you too, by the way. I can tell,” Oliver added.

  I looked back at the screen and bit the inside of my cheek so he wouldn’t see me smile. The films you might like list on the screen looked a lot like Ruby’s movie list for the montage.

  “The Proposal?” I asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  I pressed play and I decided to ignore the terrifying thought that crossed my mind: it was kind of nice having Oliver to talk to.

  12.

  I quickly developed a routine. After my visit with Mum in the morning, I’d either watch montage movies or hang out with Ruby in the afternoon. We decided to do at least one official montage thing every week, but in between, we went for coffee, got ice cream on the pier, or walked along the strand, dipping our toes into the water. Ruby stopped to pet every dog we saw. It was kind of sweet. Every time Dad asked me to do something for the wedding, I shrugged super apologetically and said I had plans with Ruby. I wasn’t going to pretend to have a vested interest in floral arrangements, the band versus DJ debate, or party favors (personalized mini bottles of artisanal gin—have you guessed my dad is a massive hipster yet?). Though I did helpfully suggest bottles of “fairy dust” for the children, which was a miniature corked bottle full of glitter.

  They loved that.

  They did not think ahead.

  You see, there’s an evil little imp that lives inside me that rubbed its hands together in glee, imagining Dad and Beth trying to siphon iridescent glitter into tiny jars. They’d be covered in the stuff for weeks.

  It’s the little things that make life worth living, you know?

  I tried not to, but I couldn’t help comparing being with Ruby to being with Hannah. Hannah knew everything about me and although that sounds good in theory, in practice it meant there was no getting away from the mundane, crappy parts of life. We talked so often about Mum and her diagnosis and how I felt about possibly ending up like her. No wonder we never had sex. It was better this way. Even if sometimes I wanted to tell Ruby something real, I wouldn’t break my new rules; that would be like waving at the apocalypse and saying, sure, come on in, would you like some tea? Even the day Mum said my name. It was small and stupid because she’d forgotten again a few minutes later, but I had desperately wanted to tell someone who would know what it meant to me and there wasn’t anyone left in my life who would understand. But it was better this way.

  I said that already, didn’t I?

  Unfortunately, by the time we’d reached week three of me skipping out on everything wedding related, Dad started taking bookings for the Rob Clarke Guilt Trip Express and buying a ticket was not optional. So I agreed to the onerous task of cake tasting.

  I mean, OK, there were worse things to have to do. I had managed to avoid looking at different types of table settings, after all, but it annoyed me that he was trying to make me be a part of this. Like he decided to “forget” the fact that I did not exactly give my blessing to this unholy union and if I ate enough vanilla butter icing then maybe I’d forget too. Still, because I’m basically a saint, I agreed to meet him in town. I was sick of looking at his “sad face” whenever I said I was too busy to do things like pick colors for organza chair covers.

  The bakery was so painfully hipster I was embarrassed for Dad. He tried way too hard. The walls were subway tiled with botanical drawings as decor and everyone who worked there had a manky beard and a slouchy hat.

  “What do you want to try?” Dad said, gazing up in wonder at the chalkboard menu.

  “Is there an elderflower and cyanide sponge?” I asked.

  “We have elderflower and gin,” a beardy man in his twenties said, wiping his hands on his immaculate apron. I did not believe he did any actual baking.

  “How fucked up can you get on this gin cake?”

  The man frowned.

  “Saoirse,” Dad warned. “Ignore her. She’s seventeen. Hormones or whatever.” He smiled apologetically at the man. They shared a “kids these days” kind of laugh.

  The shame hit me first. It prickled under my skin, roiled in my stomach. He’d put me in my place so he could buddy up to some guy he didn’t even know.

  Then came the rage. Me making a harmless joke was embarrassing him, but he wasn’t mortified by his arse-kissing attempt to be bros with beardy douche?

  Fuck that.

  “My dad’s marrying someone new after locking my mum up in an old people’s home ’cause she got sick,” I said brightly. “New mommy wants to get hammered on the cake so she doesn’t have to wonder if he’d do the same thing to her.”

  Dad pulled me by the sleeve to a table while the man picked his jaw up off the floor.

  “What is wrong with you, Saoirse?” Dad hissed.

  “I have no impulse control?” I replied, like I really wanted to figure out the answer to this question with him. “No, wait, it’s that I don’t have any fucks to give? I’m all out of fucks, that’s it.”

  Dad shook his head and looked at the roof. That was his “silent prayer for patience” look. Don’t know who he was praying to; if he really wanted help, he should have been looking the other direction. Only Satan could help him now.

  In spite of his shame, he still managed to order a tasting menu of different cakes, including whiskey and ginger, Earl Grey and lavender, and strawberry and thyme. We didn’t speak while we waited. I texted back and forth with Ruby, who was spending the day with Jane getting facials. Dad was also glued to his phone. Probably googling to see if he could grow a big enough beard in time for the wedding. When the cakes arrived, it was a different server. I was pretty sure the first guy was afraid of us now.

  The cake bites sat between us for a second. Dad put his phone down. Reluctantly I followed suit.

  “Do you really it see it that way?” he asked. He didn’t look directly at me.

  I shrugged. I waited for him to say that it wasn’t like that. To say something that would make it all better. He didn’t say anything.

  I picked up the cake that looked most normal, a sponge with thick, creamy frosting. Dad took the one that looked more like a sticky loaf of bread with something drizzled all over it. We each took a bite.

  I watched Dad’s face contort like I was watching my own in a mirror. I snatc
hed a napkin and spat the barely chewed-up bite of cake into it. Dad copied, but he glanced over his shoulder nervously first in case his heroes, the beardy men, were watching.

  “Christ alive,” I said. “What did yours taste of?”

  “Grass?” Dad said, confused. “Yours?”

  “Medicine.” I looked at the little list of what we’d got. “I think I got aniseed and saffron.”

  “Do you think they’re all this disgusting?” Dad asked, inspecting the platter with a wary expression.

  “Yes.”

  We looked at each other. A silent understanding passed between us. His mouth said, “I can’t eat another one of these,” but his eyes said, Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to try all of these cakes without boking your ring up.

  “That one,” I said, pushing a gray-looking one with purple flowers on top toward him.

  He responded by nudging one with green flecks toward me.

  Challenge accepted.

  13.

  SAOIRSE

  Why are you in my phone as “Sex God”?

  SEX GOD

  Oh yeah. I forgot about that.

  SAOIRSE

  I’m changing it to something more appropriate.

  I added a GIF of a girl rolling her eyes hard.

  SATAN’S SHRIVELED LEFT NUT

  Actual footage of the ecstatic sex face of my many lovers.

  I sent a GIF of a girl looking through a magnifying glass.

  SAOIRSE

  Actual footage of your date when you take your clothes off.

  SATAN’S SHRIVELED LEFT NUT

  Both can be true, sweet Saoirse. Lower their expectations then blow their minds.

  SAOIRSE

  It’s working! I want to blow my mind out right now having this conversation.

  SATAN’S SHRIVELED LEFT NUT

  Why are you looking me up anyway? Can’t get enough of my great chat?

  SAOIRSE