“Remind me whatthis movie is about?” West whispers as the lights go down in the theater.
“How should I know?” I whisper back. He’s holding the bucket of popcorn between his knees, and I wonder if it would be weird for me to take some.No, thinking it’s weird is what’s weird.I grab a small handful of popcorn and resolutely ignore the squirm in my gut. West has a girlfriend. No squirming allowed.
“It’s a musical?” he asks, tilting his head at the screen.
“It’s Bollywood. And no one forced you to be here,” I say defensively. My English professor is offering extra credit to any student who goes to a screening of an old Bollywood film at the Cinemark this semester. West’s not in my class, but he offered to tag along.
He nudges my knee with his. “That wasn’t acomplaint, Jupiter. I’m ecstatic to be spending my Sunday evening watching a three-and-a-half-hour Bollywood film with you. Over themoon. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing and no one I’d rather be with. When I die—”
“Oh my god.” I roll my eyes and knock my knee against his with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. “That’s enough. I get it.”
He holds his knee against mine, refusing to be moved. I breathe slowly through my nose and imagine poisoning every last butterfly in my stomach.
The opening credits start. West leans his head closer and lowers his voice. I have to tilt so my ear is nearly at his lips. “How often do you think about what it’ll be like to see one of your books on-screen?”
“The chances of that are low,” I say. The look he gives me is flat and disbelieving. I bite my cheek to keep from smiling too big. “But I think about it all the time.”
“I knew it.” He sits up with a smug smile and tosses some popcorn into his mouth. “I call dibs,” he says suddenly, his mouth again close enough to draw goose bumps to the surface of my skin.
“On what?” I remove the bucket from between his legs and settle it in my lap in case he’s talking about the popcorn.
“Your movie premiere. I want to go.”
“You’re calling dibs on a ticket to a movie that doesn’t exist based on a book that I haven’t written yet?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. You can come.” I turn sideways and am startled by how close he is, grinning at me like he stole something. “You have to bring the Red Vines,” I say, snapping a piece of licorice between my teeth.
West watches the movement closely. “It’s a deal.”
39
Present Day
I wear thefloor-length black gown, and Daphne wears her white crocheted baby doll dress with long sleeves. “We look like we’re getting married,” I deadpan when she meets me outside the Peacock Theater. My hair is twisted up, and I have enough makeup under my eyes to hide the lack of sleep. I always call in the professionals for red carpets, because it would be a shame to waste all that good lighting on bad glam.
“You should be so lucky.” Daphne loops her arm through mine. “Now, point me in the direction of the silver fox who plays Juniper’s dad.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. I’m a sucker for a salt-and-pepper mustache.”
My hands tremble as I lift my dress and walk toward the red carpet, which is flanked by interviewers and cameras. On the opposite side of the carpet is a holding area filled with hundreds of fans carrying homemade signs. I can’t wait for this to be over.
“No comment about the mustache? And did someone famous get out of that limo?” She cranes her neck to see past acluster of security guards. The crowd erupts in loud screams. “I guess that’s a yes.”
“I called West last night.”
Daphne gives me a sharp look. “Oh?”
“He didn’t answer. It was late. I left him a voicemail.”
She smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from my dress. “I’m sure he’ll call soon. Let’s just enjoy this. Are you excited?”
“Not really.”
“That makes one of us. This is objectively the coolest thing I’ve ever done. Isn’t this the theater where they film a bunch of awards shows?”
