Page 14

Thirteen

Looking me up, then down, Professor Ellington gestures a hand toward the one other chair in her office.

My butt throbs with the look of that hard wooden seat. “Um, I think I’ll stand.”

Her dark brows knit and her forehead wrinkles. “You look ruffled, Miss Fairchild.”

“I was almost crushed by a truck. About my paper?—”

“A truck? Did you say a truck?”

“Yes. It was a Ford, I believe. Not that it matters. I’m sure any truck could have done the job.” I clear my throat—my nerves are getting to me.

“Do you need a doctor?”

“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Just a few cuts, bumps, and bruises. A car salesman fixed me right up. I’m fine. I just—” I swallow. “Professor, did you get my notes?”

Ellington huffs out a breath. “Your bullets with time stamps and notes on dead wives haunting their husbands? Yes, I got them. Are you sure you don’t need medical attention? ”

“I’m sure,” I say as my knee bites with a sting. “I’m also sure there’s more to that haunting account. There has to be a whole backstory I haven’t heard yet. I’m not done asking questions about that one.”

She nods, and yet it feels like more of a head shake. “Frances?—”

“Just Fran.”

“If you want an A in this class, your research must be legitimate.”

I step toward her desk, and for three seconds, I consider sitting—but my behind tremors with an ache at the same moment, reminding me that sitting is a terrible idea. “My research is legitimate. I believe in my theory.”

“You believe in fictional stories? There is a reason they call it fiction, Miss Fairchild.”

“Yes, the story is fictional, but the tactics and situations of the story can bring love and joy into our lives. If we lived every day?—”

“People do live. People don’t sing karaoke because of a romance film. They do it because they’re drunk and stupid.”

“But what if they did it to connect to another person? That’s why I did it.”

Ellington sighs. “So. You will continue with this research topic?”

“Yes.”

“Then, you have been warned, and I wish you good luck, Miss Fairchild.”

Rosalie sits on our living room couch while I lay my head in her lap, a hot water bottle beneath my bum and a bandage on my left knee.

“Do you think you’d be like this if you’d grown up with parents who loved each other?” she asks, trailing her fingers through my hair fanned over her crossed legs.

“I really don’t know, Rose. Doubtful. I believed one thing because of my parents and then was introduced to a completely different truth.”

“That’s because there are multiple truths out there,” she says. “Not just one.”

“I know that.” Now. That’s the whole reason for my romance film obsession.

The Hunters. I’d never known marriage to be anything but misery and fights until I met them.

They’d been married twenty years when I first walked into their home.

Twenty —and yet, there was still flirting, affection, gifts, and grace in their home.

They were so kind to each other. Until I spent a week in their home, I believed happiness like that in marriage to be a Hollywood lie.

A fairytale. A fib the media told people to steal their money while sedating them into a couple of hours of lighthearted bliss after a dreadful day at work.

What I did not realize until meeting the Hunters was that love like I’d seen on the screen existed in real life.

“So, he helps you up off the ground,” Rosalie says. “Then what happened?”

“I might have told him that my butt hurt—a lot.”

Rosalie’s eyes widen. “Well, that’s not exactly a romcom moment.”

“No. But I was in shock and pain. So much pain, Rose. I wasn’t prepared to play along with any scene.”

“You mean you were feeling real, actual feelings, and you stated those feelings? Huh. Isn’t that crazy? ”

I peer up into her face, pinning her with my stare. “What are you saying?”

Her fingers return to their caressing. “I’m saying that sometimes we don’t get the full truth in those scenes. Like throbbing tailbones.”

“They can’t be lies, Rose.”

“They aren’t all a lie. I’m not saying that.

I’m saying it’s okay to have real feelings though.

” Rose grew up in a house with parents who adored each other—just like the Hunters.

It was after I met the Conrads that I came up with the whole romcom remake plan.

There were relationships—the kind that I once thought only true on the screen—out there, existing in the world.

And Hollywood had basically provided a formula on how to obtain one.

The year I met Rosalie—at age nineteen—I was working and saving money for college.

I thought about the Hunters. I knew a love like that was out there.

I believed in the gift of true love—movie-like love.

But it was after Rosalie and I moved in together, and after I met her loving parents, that I started planning out how to obtain my own love story.

I’ve studied romcoms and other romance movies.

Last year, my first year of college, I started planning my remakes.

With my eyes closed, I listen to Rosalie’s breathing while words tumble out of me. “Anyway, I invited Paul to Callum’s game tomorrow.”

“Wow,” she says, and I open my eyes to see her expression. She blinks, one brow angled up. “Well, that’s interesting. Putting your two beaus in the same vicinity.”

“While I am not ready to rule Callum out?—”

“Of course you aren’t.”

Of course I’m not! I’ve never had my insides so jumbled as I do when in the presence of Callum Whitaker .

I swallow. “But he says he wants to be friends. Just friends. He even told me I could use the other ticket for a date.” I sigh. “I can’t let this opportunity with Paul pass me by. Can I?”

I wait for Rosalie’s response, but she’s pensive. She doesn’t say anything. So, I’m left to my own devices. Yes, I like Callum. But another remake literally fell in my lap today. I can’t ignore that either.

“So,” I say. “My plan is to ask Callum all the soccer questions I can and impress Paul with all my athletic knowledge.”

“I see,” Rosalie says. “A little She’s the Man ?”

“Only I’ll be impressing him as me—a woman,” I say. “Not a man and not an athlete.”

“But didn’t you say you didn’t feel attracted to Paul?”

I bite my inner cheek. She has a point, but I’m not going to let that very valid argument win out. Oh no.

“No, I said Fran with bloody knees and a hurt tushy wasn’t attracted to him. I am certain a sane, ready-to-mingle Fran will be fascinated with Paul, who literally saved her life.”

See? My point is valid too.

Rosalie sighs. She is not a believer yet. It’s okay—I’ll convince her. I always do.

“Now, hand me my phone.” I hold out my hand, unwilling to move my head in her lap and my hot water bottle bum pillow.

Rosalie strums through my hair while watching 10 Things I Hate About You . Seriously, how has she not seen it yet? She is so lucky she has me.

And I text Callum.

Me: Bringing a date to your game.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Oh yeah? Interesting. Superstar Doug?

“You have to change his name in your phone, Fran. What if someone else—someone like, oh, I don’t know, your date sees that name?”

I hug my phone to my chest. “Please stop your spying, ma’am. This is a private text message.”

“You’re lying in my lap. Privacy is not something you’re privy to right now.”

“Eyes on the screen, ma’am,” I gripe, and wave an arm toward our television.

The hair strumming comes to a quick halt. “Stop calling me ma’am, Frances!”

I don’t give in to her taunting. Nope, I just text Callum Hot Lips Whitaker right back.

Me: Not Doug. But it’s a very interesting story. I’m bringing a man who saved me from being CRUSHED by a runaway truck today!!

“It wasn’t a runaway,” Rosalie grumbles.

“Seriously.” I press the face of my phone into my stomach. “You need to watch Kat Stratford get her heart broken and leave the texting to me.”

“Fine, then you need to be a grown-up and sit on your end of the couch.”

“Fine!” But I don’t move until Rosalie pushes me. Yep, she shoves me right off her lap and up into a sitting position. At least I am still on my water bottle.

Scooching myself and my bum pillow to the end of the couch, I lean against the opposite end and toss my feet into Rosalie’s lap before returning to Callum’s text.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Whoa. Are you kidding? I don’t know you well enough to know if this is real or not.

Me: Okay—not runaway. But I was saved from being squished like a bug today.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Fran! Are you okay???

Me: I’m sore. My left knee is scraped, and my back is beyond tender.

I spare him the small detail that the back I’m talking about is my backside .

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: You need a doctor.

His concern melts me. Callum is a friend. I’m reminding myself.

Me: I’m okay. Really. And now I have a date. So, it’s GREAT.

Me: PLUS!

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Plus?

Me: Plus, it was like a scene from a movie.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Right. The movie thing. Did the girl in the movie get as hurt as you?

Me: No way. OUCH.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: You’ll have to tell me more about this movie theory one day.

Me: I’d love to. But not tonight. Tonight, I have questions.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: Shoot.

Me: Why no hands?

Me: How many players?

Me: What do you do as an attacking player?

Me: What is off-sides, and why is it illegal?

I ask question after question, and Callum answers. And with each answer, I have a new question. We text until the movie credits roll and Rosalie tells me goodnight.

I’m excited for the game tomorrow. I’m excited to see him.

Callum Hot Lips Whitaker: I’m off to bed. I’ll see you and your date tomorrow.

That’s right… Paul. I almost forgot about him.

Whoops.

Now… in which movie does the girl completely forget about her date?