“Excuse me?”
He holds up both hands. “Hey, whatever you’re into is ne. No argument from me. I just think lm is lm, and that you shouldn’t paste your political views onto a piece of art.”
Jeez. ?is isn’t going well. I take a deep breath and pause for a moment. Maybe this is my fault? I don’t really think so, but I strive to be the bigger person. “It’s not that. I had a bad personal experience, so it’s just … kind of a thing for me. Just not my cup of tea.”
“Oh, God,” he says, resting a sympathetic hand on my shoulder—just the tips of his ngers, actually. “I’m so sorry. I assumed. I’m being an ass. Forgive?”
“Forgotten,” I say with a smile.
“Oh! What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Everyone loves that.”
Is he being serious? I mean, I love Audrey Hepburn, but I just can’t watch Mickey Rooney playing a broadly caricatured Japanese man for goofs and giggles. No thanks. I tell him so. His argument isn’t as strong for this one, but he’s still disbelieving that I’m not singing its praises.
?is is so weird. Our lm mojo is off. Sure, we disagree online (all the time), but it’s all good-natured. In person, it feels so … personal. We go through the classics section, shelf by shelf, but nothing seems to click with either one of us. It’s like we’re two completely different people, and the longer we’re testing each other’s tastes, the less we’re liking each other. I’m starting to sweat in weird places and make awkward irty jokes that don’t land.
?is is not going well.
?e worst part is that he notices too.
“Sometimes they have more stuff in the back,” he nally says after we haven’t spoken in several long, excruciating seconds. “Let me go ask Henry if they’ve gotten anything new in. Be right back.”
Great. Now I’m worried that he’s giving me the slip. ?e rst time I get up the nerve to ask a guy out on a date—a guy I’ve been fantasizing about for months—and it goes hellishly wrong. If he doesn’t come back in one minute, I’m seriously considering sneaking out myself.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s is an overrated piece of uff.”
I freeze. No one’s around. I glance down the aisle in both directions. Did I just imagine that? Or did someone overhear Patrick and me talking from before, and now I’m overhearing another conversation?
“It’s not supposed to be a love story, you know. Which is the ironic thing in this particular situation, actually.”
“Hello?” I whisper.
A DVD moves aside. I’m now staring at a pair of eyes. Someone’s in the other aisle. I move another DVD and reveal more of the face through the wire shelving: scruffy jaw, slow grin, wild, sun-kissed curls. Porter. My hand clenches. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s my day off.”
“And you’re following me around?” I say, exasperated.
“No, you’re following me around. I was in here when you paraded in with Patrick Killian on your arm.”
I stand on tiptoes to peer over the top of the shelves. He raises his head to meet me and cocks both brows, a smug look on his face. My heart starts pounding, big-time. Why does he have this effect on me? Can’t my body just be normal around him?
“How do you know him?” I whisper hotly, glancing around to make sure Patrick isn’t listening. I don’t spot him, so I guess he’s either in back or has own the coop.
Porter casually rests an arm on the top of the video rack. “I’ve known him since we were kids. He thinks he’s a movie snob because his family is one of the local companies that sponsors the annual lm festival. Big whoop.”
Wait one stinking minute. Big warning bells ding in my head. I de nitely think Alex would have mentioned if his family sponsored the festival. ?at’s something you’d brag about to your
lm-geek friend, Forbidden Zone personal-detail restrictions
aside. No way would he keep that from me. ?is is all wrong. But I don’t think Porter is lying, because now I’m remembering when Patrick gave me the lm festival brochure: “hot off the presses,” he said. He got an early copy of it because his dad’s a festival sponsor? It’s still in my purse, and I’m ghting everything not to pull it out and scan the sponsor page for the Killian name.
Inside, I’m quietly panicking that Patrick isn’t Alex, but all I can say to Porter is, “Oh, and you know better.” It’s a weak taunt, but my heart isn’t into it.
“I know that you were right about Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” he responds. “Truman Capote’s novella is about a gay man and a prostitute. Hollywood turned it into a romance. And don’t get me started on Mickey Rooney. ?at was an embarrassing shambles. But…”
“But what?”
“I still think it’s worth watching for Hepburn’s performance. What? Don’t look so shocked. It was my grandma’s favorite movie. You don’t know everything about me.”
