A few minutes pass in the quiet. I hear the subtle sounds from the kitchen—the faint clink of a glass being set down on granite. Footsteps approaching with that measured pace that's distinctly his.
When the couch dips beside me, I can't help but look over at him. He’s carrying a bowl of popcorn, steam still faintly rising.
I hadn’t realized I'd been hoping he'd come back.
He looks strange, balancing the bowl of popcorn on his knee, the expensive cushions adjusting to accommodate him, the scent of fresh butter wafting between us.
He sits on the opposite end, leaving an ample amount of space between us—enough to maintain that invisible boundary he draws around himself.
His presence changes the atmosphere of the room, like someone just adjusted the lighting or turned up the volume on something I can't quite identify.
I don't look at him directly again. I don't need to.
I can sense him there in my peripheral vision, tall and composed, probably sitting with that perfect posture.
We settle into watching in comfortable silence for several minutes. The movie continues its familiar rhythm, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan navigating their complicated dance of email romance and real-world antagonism.
On the screen, Joe Fox is explaining his "American family" to Kathleen.
Then Arthur murmurs, so quietly I almost miss it, almost to himself, "Catherine loved that line."
His voice carries something I rarely hear from him—a softness, a vulnerability that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.
I smile, even though the moment on screen isn't particularly funny. "She had good taste."
There's a beat after that. An opening. I take it.
I tilt my head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. "Can I have some popcorn?" He looks down, then shifts closer, setting the bowl between us—close enough that I can reach.
He's watching the screen, but there's something distant in his expression, like he's seeing more than just Meg Ryan's perfectly tousled hair and Tom Hanks' earnest charm.
"It does take a special kind of woman to marry you," I say, my tone light and deliberately teasing.
I add a playful wink.
He turns to give me a flat look, those dark eyes narrowing slightly in that way that would probably intimidate most people. “That's enough,” he says. “No more commentary.”
But there's no heat in it. No real edge or warning.
And he doesn't move away.
If anything, I catch the corner of his mouth twitching, like he's hiding a smile and not doing a particularly good job of it.
For Arthur Dupree, that's practically the same as laughing out loud.
I adjust how I'm curled up on the couch, so I can more easily look at his face.
The bowl is still between us. I dip my hand in and grab a small handful.
Our shoulders don't touch. Our legs don't brush.
But the space between us feels different now. Charged in a way I don't examine too closely.
And the movie plays on.
