Later, after several cups of coffee, they still hadn’t come to an agreement about the film, but theyhadmanaged to get into a heated argument about their favorite directors—Wes Anderson for her, Danny Boyle for him—and at least ten other film-related topics. Mae was in the middle of a rant about the lack of female directors when he leaned over to kiss her. Surprised, she pulled away, made a final point about how the statistics are even worse when it comes to women of color, and then kissed him right back.
It was never something that was meant to last, and that suited Mae just fine. Garrett lived in the city and was just at his family’s sprawling farmhouse for a couple of months before heading off to Paris, where he planned to study French cinema at the Sorbonne.
“In French,”he said that first night, and she knew then that he was all wrong for her. But his smile was dazzling and his hair was tousled just right and his taste in films was so ridiculously nostalgic that she was already looking forward to spending the next six weeks arguing with him. Which is pretty much what they did.
“You just like him because he’s cute,” Dad says. “But he has the personality of a croissant.”
Mae tilts her head to one side. “Do croissants have bad personalities?”
“I don’t know. I was just trying to think of something needlessly fancy.”
“How can a piece of dough be—”
“You know what I mean,” Dad says, rolling his eyes. “So what did he say?”
“The croissant?”
“No, Garrett.”
“He says it’s impossible to make a great piece of art if you haven’t really lived.”
Dad snorts. “And I supposehe’sreally lived?”
“Well, he’s been all over the place. And he grew up in the city. Plus, he’s going to the Sorbonne next year.”
“Trust me,” Dad says, “there are as many idiots there as everywhere else in the world.”
“Look, he’s not totally wrong,” Pop says more gently. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned after twelve years at the gallery, it’s that sometimes art isn’t a matter of skill or technique. Sometimes itisabout experience. So maybe you’ve got some more living to do. But that’s the case with everyone, whether you’ve grown up in a big city or a small town, whether you’re going to school in Paris or not.”
Mae nods. “I know that. It’s just…”
“It’s hard,” Pop says with a shrug. “It is. But the hurt and rejection and disappointment? It’ll help you grow as an artist. And it’ll all be worth it when you finally get it right. You know that as well as I do.” He nods in the direction of her computer and gives her a small smile. “So what do you say? One more screening for old times’ sake?”
This time Mae relents, opening her computer before she can chicken out again. When she first showed them the film last fall, they were eating popcorn and joking around and bursting into spontaneous applause at some of the shots. But now the three of them watch in silence, and when it’s over, nobody says anything for what feels like a very long time.
Finally, Mae turns to where they’re both sitting on her bed, and they raise their eyebrows, waiting for her to speak first.
“The good news,” she says, “is that I don’t know what I’d do differently.”
“And the bad news?” Dad asks.
She shrugs. “I don’t know what I’d do differently.”
“You will,” Pop says like it’s a promise, and for a second, Mae can almost picture him as he once was, a struggling painter whose first show sold only two pieces, both of them to a young art professor who happened to be walking by, and who—as he always likes to say—was lured in by the brilliant yellows and greens but stuck around for Pop’s baby blues.
“And in the meantime,” Dad says, “I guess you’ll just have to do some more living. Which works out pretty nicely with this whole going-off-to-college thing.”
“I guess so,” Mae says, trying not to think about the course booklet on her desk, all the film classes she’ll be missing out on because of the math and science requirements, the hours she’ll have to spend writing essays on World WarII and Shakespearean sonnets and behavioral psychology, when she could be learning how to be a better filmmaker.
“But before all that,” Pop says, “maybe you could set the table? If we don’t eat soon, your nana is going to have my head.”
Dad laughs. “Unless you’re still not over the Silverware Drawer Debacle of early June…”
“You’re the worst,” Mae says, but she doesn’t mind. Not really. In fact, she feels lighter already. The film is behind her now. And everything else is still ahead.
The travel company isimpressively unhelpful.
“All bookings are nonrefundable—”
