“Where’s the fun in that?”
“This is how every true crime documentary starts,” I muse sadly. “With a silly girl who doesn’t ask enough questions, following a handsome man who doesn’t give enough answers.”
“So now, I’m handsome?” he teases. “I thought I was just ‘okay.’”
I sigh and shake my head. “Completely missing the point.”
He opens the door to the car and helps me in, then walks around to his side.
When he starts the engine, the heaters kick on immediately, blasting warm air that tickles my exposed skin. “Comfortable?” he asks.
“For now. Ask me again when I’m stuffed in your trunk.”
“I’d never do that,” he promises solemnly. We pull out and start driving before he adds, “… All that blood would ruin the upholstery.”
The conversation flows easily between us while we drive. Like the night at the oyster bar, I think again to myself that it’s beyond strange how natural this feels, how comfortable. Almost like we’ve been doing this our whole lives.
Or, no, wait—it’s like we’ve beenwaitingto do this our whole lives. As if every moment that preceded this, every good or bad thing either of us has ever experienced, was just to set the stage for this conversation. To give us the stories we’re sharing and the jokes we’re making. To shape us into the kind of people we’d need to be to inhabit this moment, this space, this feeling.
It feelsfated.
Twenty minutes breeze by. Suddenly, Bastian looks at me. “Close your eyes,” he orders.
“What?”
“Close your eyes. I don’t want you to see where we’re going yet.”
I hesitate. Given the pre-existing serial killer accusations, Bastian is really pushing his luck here. But then, against my better judgment, I close my eyes.
A moment later, I feel his palm cover them gently. His fingers are warm against my skin. “Keep them closed,” he murmurs asthe car turns left, turns right, and then cruises to a gentle stop. “Alright. Open.”
I open my eyes.
The Music Box Theatre stands before me. It’s an Art Deco wet dream. Beautifully vintage, gorgeously neon. It looks like it stepped straight out of the 1930s and decided to stay.
But it’s the signage that really makes me swoon.
TONIGHT ONLY:
A PRIVATE VIEWING OFCASABLANCA
FOR ELIANA HUNTER
“Bastian…” I whisper. I’m not sure what else to say besides that.
He’s watching me, not the theater. “Number two on your list, if I remember correctly.”
My throat closes up and tears stud my eyes. “How did you?—”
“I know a guy,” he says simply. Then, softer: “Come on. Movie starts in ten minutes.”
He gets out and comes around to open my door. When I step onto the sidewalk, my legs feel unsteady. Bastian’s hand finds mine.
“You okay?” he asks.
I can only nod again. I’m not quite ready to speak just yet.
Together, we walk toward the entrance, toward Bogart and Bergman.
