Page 15

Low lighting, color saturated. Dance Dance Revolution. High angle, watching Romy’s and my feet swipe across the squares. Blur effect to show that, yes, I’m pretty drunk. The swipes will be beautiful, though, to show my inner peace amid the chaos.

Romy says, “I. Can’t. Believe. You. Didn’t. Tell. Me. ABOUT. VALERIA. TOUCHING. YOU!” perfectly to the beat.

Low, dark lighting. Ghostbusters game. Over-the-shoulder shot focused on the silhouettes of Romy and me as we sit in the machine. There’s a Game Over sign adding reds and greens and blacks to accent the frame, but it’s blurry. The theme music is still playing softly in the background. Intimate, shut off, peaceful. I’m close enough to smell that she’s radiating the soft lavender scent of her shampoo.

Romy says, “You know, there’ve been rumors ever since she stepped on the scene that she plays for our team.”

I say, “Really?”

Romy says, “She only brings this one other actor dude to premiere events and is never seen with him otherwise, vehemently supports L.G.B.T.Q.+ causes, and if you looked at a photo lineup of her style and the way she carries herself…”

Bright lighting, back into the hustle and bustle of the D&B’s floor. Romy, Wyatt, and me on Mario Kart. In my movie I clearly hate our faces, because now I’m doing an angle shooting inward, just slightly, to capture profiles of all three of us. Low angle this time. Really oversaturate the color because I’m wasted and feel like I’m in Candy Land or some shit. So wasted that I definitely can’t even map out the shots anymore.

“I want to cry, Romy,” I say as I slump in the plastic Mario Kart seat. I lost, badly. “I don’t even remember what she was wearing.”

The space between Wyatt’s eyebrows creases. “What are you guys talking about?”

Romy sits up straight, maybe a little less wasted than me but not much. “Your boss’s client. Valeria Sullivan.” Romy pulls out her phone, shows Wyatt a photo of Valeria looking goddess-like in a white suit and Converse, making manspreading the hottest thing ever. “It’s, like, the gayest thing on the planet.”

Wyatt squints. “The suit?”

Romy throws her hands up in a faux praise Jesus gesture. “Wyatt! The suit! The sneakers! It’s gay.”

“Is it, though? Can’t she just be wearing a suit?”

Romy swings her legs out of the machine just to face Wyatt head-on. “Look, Het Boy, she exudes woman-who-loves-women energy. It’s not something I can explain. It just is.”

“Steven’s never said anything about her personal life, but we’d have heard…”

I’ve slid so far down into the machine, I might slip into the pedal area. My throat is genuinely clogging up, and I have no idea what emotion is happening. “Ugh, Wyatt, you don’t get it! Can Valeria just top me already?” I think I’m even using that term correctly this time.

When our game ends, Romy helps me to my feet. “Such a gentlethem,” I whisper to Romy. She smiles.

The actual transition to getting back into a booth at the Dave & Buster’s restaurant area is beyond me. I just know that, well, we’re back there. Wyatt has placed a glass of water in front of me as well as a plate of bread. Romy nurses a water too, but she’s with it enough to be on her phone. Yet another moment in my life to curse being five feet three inches: no alcohol tolerance in sight.

“Wyatt,” I say as I rip a piece of bread into more aesthetically pleasing pieces, “virginity sucks. Like first I just have to, like, get with a guy, and I’m twenty-four and haven’t done that, but now I have to have a whole new kind of sex I haven’t had. I’m, like, a double virgin!”

“Virginity is a social construct,” Romy drawls. “You can’t have a new one for every type of person or you’d have, like, fifty virginities.”

I try to give a dismissive flick of my wrist, but it comes across as more random hand-waving. She can rant to me about social constructs when we’re both sober.

“So you don’t want to get with guys right now?” Wyatt asks.

“No. But who’s there to be with? Romy’s too cool for me, Rachel Brosnahan isn’t Jewish, what are Tinder, and I’ll never see Valeria again!”

I lay my head on the table. It’s sticky and smells like grease. I’m not sure if I’m craving mozzarella sticks right now or if I want to throw up. Romy looks about as uncomfortable as I feel. She opens her mouth to speak, but Wyatt cuts her off.