She tilts her head and studies my face. It’s killing me and giving me life at the same time. “Are you okay?” she asks.
I grab her wrist, because fuck it, and it startles her for a split second and then she sighs, and I like that. “What do you mean?”
I press my lips against the palm of her open hand and watch her eyelashes flutter as she closes her eyes and sways a little. “Your ex-wife just got remarried. To the creator ofThat’s So Wizard, if I’m not mistaken.”
I lower our hands, and I don’t let go of hers. “You are not mistaken in that regard.”
“Well, are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Okay?”
“Do I not look okay?”
“You look like five million bucks. And you’re acting like you have five dollars to your name.”
That can’t be right. I look like ten million bucks and feel like I have five million to my name. That’s more like it. She doesn’t get me at all. I’m not falling for this. This is what she does. She bewitches me. Lulls me into complacency with sad eyes and sexy boots, and then just when she knows she could have me any way she wants me, she metaphorically knees me in the balls anddisappears. “What are you doing here? Did you move back to LA?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
One month.
One entire month.
But she’s here. She must not be married. She must not have a boyfriend. She must not hate me all that much if she hasn’t left yet. “Did you finally give up on Broadway?”
She winces at that. I regret the phrasing, but I can’t take it back. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but sure. Do you have better taste in movies now?”
“Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”
“Do you likeIt’s a Wonderful Life now?”
“Nope.”
She shakes her head. It’s subtle at first, but then I watch as the disbelief blossoms into disdain, which is the usual progression of her emotional responses to me. Five seconds later, I can almost see the fumes shooting out of her nostrils. “You’re a monster.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Curly.” I squeeze her hand and pull her over to the side of the yard.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To the buffet table. To get you something to eat.”
“I had dinner,” she says obstinately.
“Did you eat a meal for dinner, or did you consume one protein bar while getting ready to come here?”
She huffs, and I have my answer. “You don’t know me.”
I do, though. Or I did. I paid attention to her. I remember her. And she always forgot to eat dinner because she was so busy working.
The servers are starting to clear the dinner buffet, but I grab a plate and give them the death stare as I pile food onto it.
“I’m not hungry!” she says. “Oh, more of that roast turkey, please. And cranberry sauce.”
