Page 18 of Take 2
“Blurry and cut off is the only way I’m showing up on your Instagram anyway.” Ryan sends me all three pictures.
“Having only pictures of myself makes me look like a narcissist.”
“That’s actually a valuable trait in Hollywood, but most of your pictures are of coffee, your MacBook, and piles of paper.”
“I’m going to be cancelled for my excessive use of paper.”
“Fact.” He holds out the bow tie, and I take it with a smile.
As I complete the ritualistic knotting of the bow tie, I ask, “Are you ever going to learn to do this yourself?”
“Nope. I have a wife to do it for me.”
“Lucky you.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” He kisses me and proceeds to help with the spread.
I post the pictures while Ryan pours the champagne. I tag @annasbroadwaydreams in the caption and do my best to look casual as I lean my elbows on the counter. “Anna was crying about us not going to her premiere.”
“She’s such a diva.”
“I mean, it’s kind of a big deal.”
“I know.” His shoulders slump. “What are we supposed to do? It’s not my fault we live in an apartment that costs more than a house in Wisconsin would.”
My hands tremble as I open a block of gruyere and put it on the cutting board. “It’s not my fault either.”
“Babe, I know.” He hands me the cheese knife. “It’s California’s fault.”
“Well, you chose to live here.”
“You chose to live here, and I chose to live with you.”
The steady rhythm of slicing helps keep me calm. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Long distance would have been hell.”
“We would have figured it out.”
He puffs out a breath that’s something between a laugh and a scoff. “Even being here in-person, I hardly ever get time with you. Different time zones and rare FaceTimes would not have worked.”
“Ryan …”
“I’m not starting a fight.”
“You are, though! Jesus, Ryan. You knew I wasn’t moving here for a vacation. You always said I was going to succeed because I work my ass off, but the reality of that sucks. I don’t know what you want from me.”
“Well, school and writing weren’t actually supposed to be the only things you worked hard at.”
My hand slips, and I cut my finger. “Cono!”
“Bella!” Ryan grabs a napkin and pulls my hand away from my face where I’ve put the cut fingertip between my lips.
“It’s not a big deal.”
He holds the napkin around it, squeezing my whole hand in his. “Wish you used Spanish in bed instead of swearing over injuries.”
“Mom didn’t teach me sexy Spanish words, obviously.” I sniffle and wipe underneath my eye before the tear poised at my lashes can slide down.
A finger pushes up under my chin, forcing me to make eye contact. “Bella, I’m sorry.”
“I just … I feel like you hate it here, and I don’t want you to resent me for making you move, and—”
“Babe, no.” He tucks me into a hug, and I breathe him in. “I don’t resent you or regret moving here. It’s hard, I’ll admit. Harder than I thought it would be. It’s weird to spend two decades wanting to get the hell out of Wisconsin only to find that I feel out of place elsewhere.”
I arch back to look him in the face. His plan was always to leave Wisconsin, and I can’t help but think it’s less about the location than what he’s doing.
We would have moved anywhere for a football team, and that probably would have been better for both of us.
I can write anywhere. “Don’t you like UCLA? ”
“Yeah, but I don’t know.” He’s on the athletics staff, not playing, which felt close enough when he decided to go that route, but it’s not the same.
Ellen starts joking about the rain on the TV, and Ryan shakes my shoulders. “New rule: no sad crying at the Oscars either. No betting, no crying.”
“Just champagne and sex.”
“Exactly.”
“Can I cry if Her wins best picture?”
“I would be deeply concerned if you didn’t.” His steps force me backward to the living room. “We’re missing Ellen’s roast of all the nominees.”
“I do love you more than movies.” It sounds like I need to convince him, and I shouldn’t. Not after four years. Not after vows and uprooting our lives together.
“I know.” He kisses me and sits me down.
Deep breath. It’s the Academy Awards. No bad feelings. Hollywood’s biggest night and my nerdiest. That can fix anything.
Ryan offers me an effervescing flute and sits before tapping his against mine. “Happy Anniversary, Bella.”
“Are we even going to celebrate the date we got married?”
He leans back and wraps an arm around me. “There aren’t going to be billboards and commercials and stuff all over the place to remind me of that date, so probably not.”
The Academy Awards were always important to me, and the addition of our own happy milestone being attached to it is perfect.
I clap for Lupita Nyong’o’s win and roll my eyes so hard they might fall out when Her wins original screenplay. “It was rigged! Apple rigged it because it’s a love story about Siri.”
Ryan covers my mouth and looks around with wide eyes. “Bella, don’t say things like that. They’re always listening.”
Anna comments on my Insta post, calling me a thirst trap and asking if I always write in a cocktail dress and heels.
Ryan sees it and laughs. “I’ll send her the messy bun and hoodie pictures to disillusion her.”
“You better not take sneaky pictures of me like that when I’m working.”
“Absolutely, I do. You’re beautiful when you’re focused.”
“And sexy when I’m excited.” I bob my eyebrows. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Who’s been telling you you’re sexy?”
“My husband.”
“Damn it, you’re married?”
I wiggle my ring finger at him.
“Should have known a woman like you couldn’t stay on the market. Let me guess, you met him while you were yachting in the Mediterranean?”
“So close. It was a college bar in Madison, Wisconsin.”
He bites his lip. “Only you could make the words ‘Madison, Wisconsin’ sound sexy.”
“Madison, Wisconsin,” I say with over-dramatized heat.
“Stop it, or I’m going to make you miss it when Her wins best picture.”
“Maybe you should start fucking me just in case Her wins.”
“Preemptive consolation?”
“Mhmm.”
It’s worth it to miss finally being right about best picture. Yachting on the Mediterranean can’t possibly have anything on how I spend the eighty-sixth Academy Awards.