He looks up at me after wiping the counters down. “TheNeverEnding StoryorThe Princess Bride?” he asks.
I make no effort to hide my horror. “Huh?”
He’s unfazed by my reaction. “You heard me, don’t try to squirm out of it. It’s happening. We’re watching an old movie, but because I’m nice, I’m letting you choose which one.”
I can’t say I’m amped to see either of those movies. For one thing, I’m pretty sure a disproportionate amount of my childhood anxiety can be traced back toThe NeverEnding Story. I had a teacher in elementary school who used to put it on during the last few minutes of class, when we’d finished our work. Sometimes she started at the place we left off last time, sometimes she went too far back, and we had to rewatch parts of the movie. Either way, I swear to God, we watched that movie for the whole damn year and never got to the end of it.
What was up with that dog-thing floating in the sky? Was that even real, or did I hallucinate it?
Either way, I’m not voluntarily doing that to myself again.
“I don’t likeThe NeverEnding Story,” I say, “and I think I’ve seenThe Princess Bride.”
Connor’s brows rise and his head shoots forward. “Youthinkyou’ve seenThe Princess Bride? Bullshit! There’s no way you’ve seen it if youthinkyou’ve seen it. Trust me, you’d remember it. It’s a classic.”
I sigh heavily. Connor ignores it and riffles through the pantry until he finds the popcorn. He puts a bag in the microwave and looks back at me when the machine starts whirring. “We need to add popcorn to the shopping list. If we’re watching movies every night, we’ll need to stock up.”
Connor tips the popcorn into a bowl when it’s ready and dims the lights in the living room. “You’re going to love this movie, I just know it.”
“Fifty bucks says I hate it.”
“Nah. No deal,” he replies without giving my bet the consideration it deserves. He flops back onto the sofa, sitting in the spot next to where I usually sit, and shrugs regretfully. “Can’t do it. It’d be morally wrong of me ’cause I know you’re going to love it.”
I take a second to consider my seating options. I haven’t lived here long, but every time I’ve sat on the sofa, I’ve sat in the same spot. My seat is open. It would be weird to move to a different seat now.
Plus, he has the popcorn.
The movie starts, and so does Connor’s gleeful commentary. “Watch this,” he says as a girl on horseback canters across a sweeping green field, “it’s my favorite part!”
Fuck me sideways, we’ve barely even made it through the opening credits.
On the screen, a gloriously blond and blue-eyed pair with unnaturally clear skin fall in love with businesslike speed. All that happens is that the girl—who really is very beautiful—asks a farm boy to do things for her. Every time, no matter the request, his response is the same: “As you wish.”
The first time he says it, it’s neutral and polite. The second time, there’s lingering eye contact. By the third time, they’re madly—and to my surprise, believably—in love.
I have to hand it to the writer. It’s one of the quickest and sweetest ways I’ve ever seen characters develop chemistry. To think, some dumbasses waste their time writing thousands of words to achieve the same effect.
From there, it’s a rollicking adventure that sees the lovebirds torn apart, and the beautiful girl lined up to be married to a king. An evil king, naturally. There’s sword fighting and swamps. An exceptionally revolting oversized rodent, and a giant I didn’t think I’d like, but find I don’t mind. A bit of torture that I think is questionable because, judging by the lack of X-rating or nudity, the movie is meant to be kid-friendly.
The entire time the movie plays, Connor enjoys himself. He warns me to listen out for jokes before they happen and laughs uproariously when they do. When he laughs, his eyes glisten and crease at the corners, and his lips splay open, showing his teeth. His laughter is soft and melodious, a gentle ripple that flows out of him and does something strange to the atmosphere in the room. It takes the staid Monday night air and makes it giddy.
After a while, it becomes impossible not to laugh too.
Not that I’m laughing at the movie. I’m laughing at Connor.
Or maybe I’m laughing with him. I don’t know.
When the movie ends, he looks at me smugly. “You loved it, admit it.”
“Hated it,” I correct. Unfortunately, I’m having trouble wiping a smile off my face.
From there, we devolve into one of the most ridiculous conversations I’ve had in my life. Basically, Connor throws quotes from the movie at me, and when I laugh at what an idiot he is, he takes it as a sign of victory. Naturally, it makes me double down, so he doubles down too.
The end result is both of us panting and wheezing with laughter, popcorn spilled all over the floor, and the clock on my phone telling me it’s past midnight.
Later, in bed, soft shades of blue dance around my room, throwing glimmering tones on the ceiling. I feel strange. Not bad strange, just not usual. Full, almost, but not too full. Full like I’ve eaten the perfect amount of exactly the right thing. It’s odd because it’s been hours since dinner.
I lean back against my headboard and sink into it. That feels strange too. It takes me a while to register what the feeling is, but eventually, I do: I’m comfortable.
