Page 21 of Take 2

Chapter Eighteen

Seven Years Ago

I blink at my reflection. I look the part. Hair meticulously styled into beach waves which could never ever be achieved at the beach. It’s down because that’s prettier, and because it’s too short to be tied up. Stupid move, Mirabelle. Makeup, heels—all set.

“Mira! Come here, come here, come here!”

I exit the bathroom to join James in the living room.

“Look! Diane Kruger is wearing a onesie, too! Depressed shopping resulted in red carpet ready.” He gestures to the navy jumpsuit I have on with its sheer skirt that opens in the front. It’s like a superhero cape but from my waist.

“It’s not called a onesie.”

“Whatever.”

The back of my hand brushes over the skirt in slow motion. Everything has been in slow motion. “Hers was probably a little more expensive.”

“That means you’re smarter. Anyway, yay for sad impulse choices working out.”

“Glad one did.” I tuck my hair behind my ear, but it falls back into my face.

“Your hair looks great.”

“Then I need you to snap a picture before this”—I wave at my face—“all falls apart.”

“It’s not going to fall apart, but okay!” He goes to the kitchen and comes back with a flute. “Offer is still on the table to fill this properly.”

“No thank you. I cannot do bubbly today.”

James’ eyes narrow into a schemey expression, but he hands me the empty glass. I put my lips to the rim to get some lipstick on it and pose for a few pictures like I’ve already finished drinking it.

“Thank you.” I take my phone from him and take a very deep breath. Turning off airplane mode is going to be rough. “Um. I need a real drink before I can do this.”

“Vodka?”

“Sure.”

“You know it goes well in champagne. Splash of lemon juice, and you’ve got a French 75.”

“James, the only bubbliness I can handle today is you.”

“I’m honored.” He goes back to the kitchen and returns with two rocks glasses. “Cheers.”

The sip burns my throat, but that works today. “Okay, here I go.” I sit on his couch and turn off airplane mode. The notifications make me want to vomit. I try to clear them without looking, but I’m pretty sure I’d notice if ‘Ex-husband Ryan’ was in there.

Air burns my chest as much as the cheap vodka. I put the glass and phone down and lean my eyes onto the heels of my hands. No crying, no betting. No crying, no betting. But the tears are unrelenting, and I’d bet they’re going to keep up until tomorrow.

“ Mira ge,”—James sits next to me and lays a hand on my knee—“we don’t have to do all this.”

“I do. If they don’t see me okay today, there’s going to be a fucking Midwesterner invasion here tomorrow, and I can’t deal with that.”

“Oof. Thank you for your sacrifice of taking some hot pictures.”

A laugh slips through my lips as I sniffle. “It would have been five years today.”

“The timing of that landing on the Oscars is so unfortunate.”

“No, it’s not the date. It’s the Academy Awards. No matter the date, the Oscars are—were our anniversary.”

“All right, honey, pro tip. Never align a romantic milestone with one that has personal significance. You cannot have a first date, or get engaged or married, on your birthday, a holiday, or the fucking Oscars.”

I turn my face toward him and lean my cheek on my fist. “We also met on my birthday.”

“Jesus! Did you get married on Christmas?”

“No.”

“Okay!” He brushes imagined sweat from his brow. “We’re safe to enjoy that then.”

“I can’t make any promises on being particularly festive this year.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen me Christmas. You know how Buddy decorates the department store in Elf? ”

“Yeah.”

“So, it’s like that, times four. We’re going to put the tree here…” He continues to explain his Christmas decor plan, but it washes over me. We’re doing this. Because this is our apartment now.

The only home I’ve ever had outside of the one with my parents was with Ryan.

I thought living together would be the same as me always spending the night with him in Madison, but I was wrong.

Living together was different. It was harder.

It was so freaking hard. I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do despite how hard it was.

But I failed at marriage. Ryan was probably right.

It wasn’t what I was willing to work hard at.

I wash the thought down with vodka.

In a group text with my parents and closest friends, I send the best picture and a ‘Happy Oscars’ note.

For those who would wonder and judge without reaching out to me, I post it to Instagram.

Should I feel guilty that Anna will see that?

Maybe. She’d be glad I’m not in terrible shape, but this is probably too far a swing of the pendulum.

Hopefully, she’ll see it for the charade it is.

Not that I want her to know how heartbroken I am.

“And you still won’t let me see a picture of ex-hubby?” James asks.

“Nope.” Back to airplane mode. I’ve done the thing. People can stop worrying. I don’t want to talk about it.

“Don’t want me judging you for your poor taste in men?”

Don’t want you drooling over my gorgeous ex is more like it.

“Didn’t you say there was a ‘no crying at the Oscars’ rule?”

A wipe of my cheeks dampens my fingers. Didn’t even realize it this time, but I’m not surprised. “The rules have changed this year. Usually, the rules are: no betting, no crying, always champagne, and always sex.”

“So, did you pick the onesie because, fuck it, I can’t get laid anyways, might as well cover the lady bits? Or to prevent having sex? Because you’re adorable and all, but it’s not gonna happen with me.”

Real laughter feels like an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. “Maybe both. But not to prevent sex with you.” If I wanted to, I’m sure I could maintain the tradition of Oscar night sex with Ryan. But I do not want to. I mean, I want to, but that would be a terrible idea.

We already did the goodbye sex. How I still have tears to cry, I don’t know.

My stuff was packed. We were in that horrible silence, unsure how to say goodbye.

I didn’t really know why, since it was fairly easy to decide we had to.

I knew he had been miserable, and I hated being the reason he put himself in that situation, but when I suggested we split, I thought he’d fight me on that idea.

Instead, he agreed without much hesitation.

“I wish we had met when we were older,” I said.

“Like in our seventies? Eighties?”

I couldn’t smile, even if I was amused. “Like our thirties.” We were too young. People say that kind of thing, but when we were in it, we didn’t believe it. We didn’t care. We were going to be the exception to the crap-chance-of-success rule. We were too young and so stupid.

“Ah, but then we would have missed out on the glories of teenage and early-twenties sex.”

He was trying to lighten the mood, but my mouth went dry. “Actually, I think a woman’s libido peaks in her thirties.” Why the fuck did I say that?

I met his gaze, and his jaw twitched. “Well, lucky for the guy who meets you in your thirties.”

My eyes stung. Words tried to make it to my lips but turned to ash. Ryan wouldn’t be there for my thirties. He didn’t even make it to my twenty-third birthday. Our story would one day be considered our adolescent romance.

Not like I planned on being celibate for the rest of my life, but voicing that I would be with someone else someday broke me just a little bit more than I already was.

I didn’t want to be with anyone else. I wanted the man in front of me whom I couldn’t manage to live with anymore without us both being unhappy.

Without me, he wouldn’t have to stay here. He wouldn’t be tied to my dreams that suck so much time and energy from both of us.

The moment moved at glacial speed. It was agony, and there was only one way I could conceive to lessen the pain. “I like to think I’ve been pretty decent for the past four and a half years.”

His eyes closed slowly, and he took a breath before opening them. “You’ve been more than decent.” He examined me a moment, no doubt looking to see if his desire was mirrored in me.

Apparently, it was.

He closed the distance between us in three long strides.

I threw my purse on the floor. His hands scooped under my ass, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. The wall pressed against my back, and Ryan was everywhere.

One hand in my hair. The other stripping off my clothes.

His chest crushing my breasts was the sweetest ache, and the throb of him between my legs erased everything else.

When I dug my fingers into his back and he squeezed my hips, there were no rings on either of our hands.

Another sip of chilled vodka goes down, so I can blame my tearing up on that.

“Sorry if I missed it, but will you no longer be Miranda Rights Sheridan soon?” James asked.

“No. I hadn’t changed my name yet.” A crazed cackle scrapes out of me. “I wasn’t even married long enough to change my last name.”

“That’s a good thing. It would be a pain in the ass to change it back. And a divorce is required on your resume around here. You got it out of the way early. You’re such an overachiever!”

I don’t know if I’d survive still living out here if it weren’t for James. “I am so glad you’re the only person at CalArts crazy enough to approach a crying stranger.”

“Some might say it’s because I’m attracted to drama, but I’m glad it worked out.” He squeezes my hand. “Now, since all the Oscars rules seem to be going out the window, I think betting should be back on the table.”

“Fuck it. Why not? What are we betting on?”

“All of it! Every award. Lock in your guess before the envelope is opened. If you’re wrong, you drink.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I should warn you I am terrible at guessing these things,” he says.

“So am I.”

He hops up to his feet with a smile. “I’ll get the bottle then.”

All I know is that Neil Patrick Harris is a gift to the planet, Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) can’t possibly fit on the damn trophies, “Everything is Awesome” is a fortuitous song for us to dance like idiots to, and by the end of the night, I cannot even pronounce “eighty-seventh Academy Awards.”