JOHNNY
The dialoguein this movie is a crime against humanity.
“Nobody talks like that!” I gesture at the screen where Keanu Reeves is delivering another line with the emotional range of a park bench. “I may not remember much, but I know that not a single human being on this planet has ever said those words in that order.”
Natalia pulls her knees up on the couch, the popcorn bowl between us. “It was the nineties. Everybody talked like that.”
“The entire decade talked like a bad fortune cookie?”
She throws a piece of popcorn at my face. It bounces off my cheek and lands on the cushion, and she grins at me with zero apology while I flick it back at her.
I could do this all night. Just sit here with this girl and this terrible movie and not care that most of my brain is still a locked room. A week of scattered fragments, a brother’s name, a dog I can almost picture. Not enough to build a life on. But right now, on this couch, it doesn’t feel like it matters.
Outside, the wind has picked up. I can hear the screen door rattling in its frame and the surf pounding harder than it has all week. The windows are black mirrors now, reflecting the two of us back at ourselves, and the beach house feels smaller at night. Cozier. The kind of small that makes you hyperaware of the six inches of couch cushion separating your thigh from hers.
“You need to retire the nickname,” I tell her, reaching for more popcorn. “Immediately. Now that I’ve seen this movie, I can’t take it seriously. The man’s name is Johnny Utah. That’s not a real name. That’s what a nine-year-old names his action figure.”
“Too late.” She doesn’t even look at me. Eyes on the screen, butter on her fingers, zero remorse. “Johnny is locked in. Non-negotiable.”
“He’s the worst undercover agent in FBI history. He just surfs and does skydiving and hangs out. That’s not police work. That’s a vacation.”
“You’re just mad because he’s better looking than you.”
“Is he, though?”
She tilts her head, eyes flicking between me and Keanu on the screen. Takes her time with it, which I’m choosing to find flattering.
“Okay, there might be a slight resemblance. Around the eyes. And the hair.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger, barely a gap between them. “Slight.”
“So you named me after him because I’m handsome. Just say that.”
“I named you after him because you washed up confused and useless. Don’t flatter yourself.”
I bark out a laugh. On screen, another explosion. Another insane stunt. But I stopped tracking the plot twenty minutes ago because Natalia laughed during the skydiving scene and the sound rewired something in my brain.
Now all I can think about is the kitchen. Her mouth on mine four days ago, the soft noise she made before guilt dragged her away from me. And everything since then, the way my hand found hers on our beach walk yesterday and neither of us let go, the way we keep orbiting closer even though we both know better.
Four days, and I can still taste her.
She shifts on the couch, reaching for the remote, and her knee grazes mine through the blanket. The contact is nothing. Accidental. But my blood registers it like a five-alarm fire, heat climbing up my neck and parking itself right behind my ribs.
“I’m making more popcorn.” She holds up the empty bowl. “Want anything?”
Yeah. You. Underneath me. Begging me not to stop.
“I’m good.”
Natalia pads to the kitchen. I keep my eyes on the frozen frame of Patrick Swayze’s face for approximately three seconds before I turn to watch her.
Those sleep shorts are criminal. That’s the only word. She bends to dig through the fridge and the hem rides up the backs of her thighs, and whatever intelligent thought I had left in this skull just vacates the premises completely. She straightens, reaches up for a glass, and the kitchen light catches the pale skin behind her knees, the curve of muscle in her calves from all those morning beach walks.
I should look away.
I’m not going to look away.
The microwave hums to life and kernels start popping, filling the quiet house with little detonations that match the ones happening behind my ribs. Natalia leans against the counter, pouring that cranberry ginger ale she goes through by the gallon, completely unaware that I’m sitting here losing a war with my own self-control.
I’m on my feet before I’ve made a conscious decision to stand. My body just moves, crossing the space between the couch and the kitchen island, drawn by something deeper than logic. My body knowing something before my brain signs off on it. That keeps happening around her.
