Page 5 of Take 2
“I wouldn’t think The Hurt Locker would be your favorite kind of movie,” he says.
“It is a great film.” A few rapid blinks clear the tears that were threatening to make a fool of me. “More importantly, this is the first time a woman has ever won best director. And it’s for an action-packed war movie! This is monumental.”
Bigelow doesn’t even have time to get back into the audience before she has to come back out to accept the award for best picture. My heart is going to explode.
“Some people think she rode James Cameron’s coattails to get here,” I say. “She was only married to him for two years, and I wish there wasn’t any drama to shadow this, but holy crap, she just beat him for the two biggest awards!” I sit there, awestruck, as the show comes to an end.
Stephen and Cece leave the second it’s over. Morgan starts cleaning up despite my protests. And I sink back against the couch to let the eighty-second Academy Awards settle into me. Since Cece isn’t here to complain, I tie my hair up into a bun.
Ryan leans on the armrest, looking at me like I’m way more interesting than I am. “You’re really into this.”
“I want to be there someday.”
Movies are an escape, but the world in which they’re made is almost as fanciful.
The glamor, the lights, the cameras. And award shows are the one time people in the background get to experience it.
I wouldn’t want it all the time. There is no envy in me for the actors.
But to have some spotlight every once in a while would be a cool Cinderella-esque experience.
“Are you going to cry when you win one?” Ryan asks. “I’ll host my own watch party, bow tie and all, and tell people I know you.”
I laugh through my nose. “It’s not likely to happen.”
“Why not?” His tone is serious, as if this isn’t a pipe dream with a one-in-a-million chance of coming true. I don’t know if he’s the most optimistic person I’ve ever met or delusional.
“It’s really freaking hard,” is the expert summary I come up with.
“Aren’t you going to work really freaking hard for it?”
“Well, yeah but—”
“Then you’ll do it.” He stands, and I rock myself up to my feet to walk him to the door.
I follow him outside—freezing my ass off for the second night in a row—and see the sporty car I hadn’t noticed when he arrived. Yeah, that completes his hot jock thing pretty well. “Let me know if you want to get together or if you just have stuff you want to email me to—”
“It might not work out … you helping me with English.”
The words pop me. Unreasonable expectations I didn’t realize I was harboring whoosh out of me in a gust. “Oh. Okay.” Honestly, I’m surprised he stayed this long.
Hollywood’s biggest night is my nerdiest night, which should only be witnessed by people securely attached to me.
Not at all appropriate for new acquaintances.
It’s not like I even know him, but it still feels wrong that this is the end of my time with him, that we only got a short scene together.
“I’d like to spend more time with you, but studying wouldn’t work out.”
My eyes dart up to his. “What?”
“You’d distract me. Dinner would be nice, though. I’d say a movie too, but that sounds cliche, except it’s you so …”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I promise I won’t even try to make out with you at a movie. I’m sure you need to focus.”
My mouth goes dry. “Would you want to make out with me when I’m not hyper-focused on a movie?”
He smiles and steps closer to me. My heart jumps into my throat as I look up at him.
His lips meet mine in a soft embrace. Rather than being shocked into a rigid stiffness, I melt.
I wrap my arms behind his neck, and his lips part mine while his hands slide up my back.
He tastes like champagne. That feeling of tiny bubbles effervescing fills me up.
When he pulls back, my lipstick tints his smile. “See. I’d get no work done around you.”
“Don’t underestimate my nerdiness.” I brush my thumb over his lip to remove my makeup. “Or my anxious perfectionism.”
“I guess it’s worth a shot. But either way, dinner?” I nod, and he bites his lip. “I’d kiss you again, but I already feel terrible for keeping you out in the cold. Go inside.”
“I’m not cold.” It’s the truth. In his arms, I’m perfectly warm.
The next kiss is short and sweet. He rubs his hands up and down my arms. “Yes, you are. I’ll text you later.”
“Good night.”
“Good night, Bella.” He gets into the car, and I turn to go back in.
Inside, Morgan is sitting at the counter with two full flutes. “So, The Hurt Locker . Wow.”
“What? Oh, yeah.” Best picture winner should be the only thing I can think about for at least twenty-four hours, but the memory of Ryan’s lips on mine has wiped my brain of anything else.
“I’m kidding. You just spent way too long saying good night to Ryan.” She waves me to sit in front of the other glass. “Tell me everything.”
For the first time since I can remember, I don’t watch the post-show interviews. I mean, I will. Later. But my phone pings with a message from Hot Football Player Ryan, thanking me for having him over, and I can’t help but think magic might not be exclusive to movies.