The guy finally looked up, took my card, processed it with a machine that made concerning noises. "Theater three. Down the hall, last door on the right."
Emily was already at the concession stand. "Gummy bears?" I asked.
She turned and smiled—acknowledging the fact that I knew her favorite. I'd seen her eat them during study sessions, picking out the red ones first.
Medium popcorn, Coke for her, Sprite for me. The bearded guy moved slowly, scooping popcorn into a red-and-white striped bag. Emily stood close, her shoulder brushing mine.
This was nice. The kind of date we used to have before everything got complicated.
"Liam Moore?"
I turned.
A girl from my anatomy class stood near the entrance, holding hands with another girl I didn't recognize. Olivia something. Front row. Always asked too many questions.
"Hey, Olivia."
"I didn't know you were into French cinema." She looked genuinely surprised.
"First time. Emily wanted to see it." I gestured toward the poster.
"Salt of Tears is supposed to be really good." She squeezed her girlfriend's hand. "We're seeing the documentary next door."
"Cool. Enjoy."
They walked past us toward the other theater. Fingers interlaced. Completely comfortable. Natural. Like it was nothing.
I watched them disappear around the corner.
That could be me and Alex.
Walking into a theater together and holding hands in public. Not hiding. Just... being. It wasn't that big of a deal for them. But it was impossible for me.
"You okay?" Emily's voice pulled me back.
"Yeah. Fine." I grabbed the popcorn. "Ready?"
She studied my face for a second too long, then took her Coke and gummy bears.
Theater three was smaller than I expected. Maybe forty seats, half occupied. We found spots in the back row, off to the side—the kind of seats where you could see the screen but felt separate from everyone else.
The lights were still up. Previews for other indie films played on screen. Emily settled in next to me, our arms touching on the shared armrest. She opened her gummy bears and popped a red one in her mouth.
"Thanks for this." She smiled.
"Of course."
"No, I mean it." Something earnest in her expression. "You've been trying. I can tell. And I appreciate it."
The guilt hit harder than it should have.
Because yeah, I was trying. But I was also lying to her. About Alex, the closet, and, of course, Saturday night.
"I want this to work," I said.
Lie.
"Me too."
