Page 31 of Take 2
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Four Years Ago
J ames opens and closes every cabinet and drawer as loudly as possible. “Where do you keep anything in this kitchen?”
“Honestly, the only things I can find on the first try are coffee mugs and stemware.”
“That tracks.” He unearths a cutting board from I don’t know where, but I guess it’ll never be there again, so it doesn’t matter. “Go get ready!”
“I am ready.”
“Oh, Mira, I’m sorry. You must not have known. Today is the Academy Awards.”
I cock my head to the side. “Vampire Academy has awards?”
“No, the other Academy.”
“Police Academy?”
“Nope.”
“Oh! Is it the one with the gold statues of that guy?” I snap a few times. “What is his name again?”
“Olaf, I think.”
“No, that’s not it. Oliver?”
“Otto?” James offers.
“Orion! I know I’ve heard it called the Orions.”
“That’s the one! And you must wear a dress for the Orions.”
“Orion sounds like a snob.”
“He absolutely is.”
“So how about”—I rest my chin on my hands and bat my eyelashes—“we watch Magic Mike instead?”
“Okay, Mira, here’s your problem.”
“I mean Magic Mike XXL!”
“Here’s your list of problems.” He enumerates with his fingers. “You sound desperate if you come out of the gate with that. You leave yourself no room to up your bid. And I know why you really don’t want to watch it, except I only know half, and I want the other half.”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “So you’re like really determined to watch the awards?”
“Yes. It’s tradition.”
“Okay, but when I said, ‘watch’ Magic Mike, I meant hang out with the cast of. But I’ll just tell them not to come over.
” I unlock my phone to send a fake message to no one.
Actually, I pop my phone into airplane mode.
Several well-meaning people are likely to think they need to reach out to me today, and I don’t want it.
“We picked the dress together.”
“That was under duress.”
“I don’t care. Go put it on.”
I stomp to my bedroom in a bigger tantrum than I ever threw as a teenager.
My bedroom is small, as is everything else about my apartment, but it’s mine.
All by myself, for the first time ever. My closet is pathetic, and it doesn’t help that I keep all of my Oscars dresses.
I just can’t bear to part with them, even though it would feel weird to wear them again.
They are mementos of the days they were purchased for.
That section of my closet is like a scrapbook—even of the things I’d rather not remember.
The dress is entirely too pretty for this year. I should save it for another year, but I don’t have another good option and James will guilt-trip me. So, I slip into the silver lace bodice and A-line silk skirt. This is fine.
James will notice if I accidentally on purpose light my apartment on fire, right?
He whistles a catcall when I come out. I curtsy and roll my eyes. “Happy now?”
“I will be …” He drags out the last word like it’s a pitch pipe and he’s cueing me to break into the musical explanation.
Jimmy Kimmel is already starting his opening monologue.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say for the millionth time.
“Bullshit, there isn’t.” He hands me my flute, and I suck back half the contents at once. “But first, pictures.”
We snap a couple of individuals and a selfie of the two of us. I send them to my assistant, Kristen, to post, and James makes a snarky remark about having to post his own social media content like a peasant. As if he doesn’t claim my assistant as his own half the time.
“What happened at Lisa’s party last year?” If I’d kept a tally of how many times he’s asked me about this, it would look like Dantès counting the days he spent in Chateau d’If in The Count of Monte Cristo .
“Nothing.” I refill my glass.
“Isn’t there a rule about always telling the truth on this our high holiday?”
I hiss out a laugh. “Not remotely.”
“Well, I think always the full truth should replace always sex. It’s only fair.”
“I disagree.” I drop onto the couch, and he perches on the armrest.
“There must be rules, Mira. What would our tradition come to without rules?”
“Okay, I’ll go have sex then. Reinstate that rule!”
“Will you, though? I don’t think you have since last year’s Olivers.”
“It’s not like I have to tell you every time I have sex.”
“But you do.”
An innocent yet coy smile rises on my face. Or I hope so. I don’t know if such a thing exists. “I stopped telling you everything.”
“Or you stopped having sex. You got rid of Nick right after that.”
“We had already discussed that. It was coming.”
James proceeds to pace in front of the TV, holding an invisible pipe to his lips. “The evidence! You have been a grumpy workaholic for the past year.”
“I object!”
“Overruled!”
“But I’ve been a grumpy workaholic my entire life.”
He purses his lips. “But it’s been … different this past year.”
“Maybe just because we don’t live together anymore.”
“That would certainly make you grumpy, but no. You were excited about Lisa’s move, happy as a Wisconsinite with cheese fondue—”
“I hate you.”
“But then you disappeared for a while. When you returned”—the imagined dramatic score is a silent figure between us—“you went right back to vodka and proceeded to suck for an entire year.”
“If by sucking you mean I had my debut film release, brought you to those parties, wrote two more, and sold one, then yes. Sorry I sucked this year.”
He steeples his fingers. “I have a theory.”
“That Coco is going to win animated feature?”
“That’s not a theory, it’s a guarantee.”
“But alas, we’ll never know because we’re having this conversation instead of watching the Olafs.” As much as I was trying to avoid watching, it’s preferable to this interrogation.
“A certain new smokin’ hot star client of Lisa’s also disappeared that night.”
I take in a deep breath and let it flap my lips with a very attractive sound on its way out. “Can we not refer to Preston Greene as the smokin’ hot star client? Please.”
“Exhibit B: you don’t seem to like him very much. Which is suspicious for a Midwesterner who is nice to everyone.”
“I told you, he was a pretentious dick.” It’s not a lie. The conversation I had with Preston that night couldn’t have set him lower in my esteem if he’d tried. An auspicious start to what will no doubt be a lifelong rivalry.
“Funny you should mention dick.”
“Oh, God.” I drop my face into my hands.
“I think … you broke your never have sex on Oscars day rule, and you are upset about it. Hence the sex strike.”
“I do not know this Oscar you speak of.”
If another man leaned on the armrest this way and got so close to my face with such intense eye contact, the moment would be riddled with sexual tension. “I can banter all day, cheesehead.”
“Fine by me.”
He drops the bad cop act like a DJ with a beat at a club, opting instead for the whiny toddler method. “Tell me, tell me, tell me.” This version is much more convincing. He should have started with it.
“Okay, fine. You’ve broken me. I had sex with Preston Greene.”
He groans and flops down onto the couch. “You’re full of shit. That was too easy.”
“Easy? Do we need the replay? I’ve denied it for a year, and you didn’t accept that. I admit to it, and you also don’t accept it. There are really only the two options.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You are far too mysterious for a girl from Wisconsin.”
I shrug.
“Or maybe you just want to have this conversation for three hours, so we miss the Oscars.”
“Why ever would I want that?” My voice is saccharine.
“Because you don’t want to see Preston Greene there.”
“You caught me. I’m a petty, jealous bitch.”
“I love that about you, but if it affects your enjoyment of Hollywood’s biggest night, we need to examine.”
“Haven’t you done that already, Inspector? ”
“The lack of available information is appalling! IMDb or Wikipedia an actor and you can find out what his mom’s first job was in high school. Screenwriters just get: Was born. Wrote movies. ”
“Because no one cares about us. As Robert Downey Jr. explained when he presented best original screenplay with Tina Fey, writers are sickly little mole people.”
James snickers. “Preston Greene is certainly not—” He narrows his eyes at whatever my face does. “Anything you’d like to tell me?”
“Nope.”
“Are we making bets?”
“I don’t think so.”
Not only can I not make an unbiased prediction, but it would also be somewhat uninformed.
In the past year, I took a sharp turn from my position as a creative who would focus only on my art and not on the business (that’s why I have Lisa!), to stalking all industry news.
I don’t want another Preston Greene to pop into the scene and catch me unaware.
So, I should be able to predict all the awards, but for the first time in forever, I haven’t watched all the movies nominated for my most anticipated award.
The screenplay was available, but I didn’t read it. I didn’t watch the roundtable. I didn’t see the movie. Because I am, in fact, a petty, jealous bitch.
As Nicole Kidman presents the award for original screenplay, I stop breathing. When Preston Greene wins and hugs the bombshell next to him, I feel James’ eyes on me. I sniffle and wipe my eye before tears can fall. “I just really love Greta Gerwig. It should have been her.”
Is it suspicious that the champagne is hitting my bladder right now? Maybe. Do I care? No. I’m not watching this speech.