“What’s your favorite kind of movie?”
“Promise not to laugh?” I ask.
“That depends.”
I clap my hands over my face. “Romantic comedies.”
Between my fingers, I watch as he leans the broom against a chair and takes a step toward me. One finger at a time, he pulls my hands from my face. “Romantic comedies,” he says, “are entirely underrated.”
“Right?” I feel my whole face lighting up. “It’s like, just because they’re marketed toward women and end with a happily ever after, they’re somehow silly or frivolous.”
“I’m always game for a good HEA.”
I sigh. He even knows the lingo.
“Stay right here,” he says. “Pick any seat you want.”
As he races up the aisle, I settle on a row in the middle of the theater and even choose the exact middle. I squeeze my hips past the armrests of the tiny old seat. I’m not squished exactly, but I just barely fit. A gold star-shaped plaque on the wooden armrest reads 13P, and the one next to mereads 13Q. It’s such a small detail, but I want to remember these two seat numbers forever. I think about Cynthia and her husband, and I wonder which seats they sat in on their first date.
The houselights dim, and it’s actually a little spooky in here by myself. And then the screen comes to life with intro studio music playing. Malik runs back down the aisle and flops down into 13Q.
“Which movie did you pick?” I whisper. I feel immediately silly, because it’s just us and I can talk as loud as I want.
“Well, I almost chose my favorite,” he says, “which isThe Princess Bride, which we keep on hand for annual anniversary showings, but then I figured maybe we should watch one I hadn’t seen. So we could expand my education.”
“Next time we have to watch your favorite,” I tell him.
“In which category? Sci-fi? Horror? Suspense? Bollywood? Comedy?”
“You’re into Bollywood?” I ask. I’ve only seen a few on TV, but to say I like what I’ve seen would be an understatement.
“Strictly the classics,” he says. “I don’t do remakes.”
And then the opening scene starts before I can ask for more details. We see the back of Drew Barrymore’s head as the camera pans down to reveal she’s standing on a baseball mound as she narrates. “You know how in some movies they have a dream sequence, only they don’t tell you it’s a dream? This is so not a dream.”
“Oh my gosh!” I squeal. “Never Been Kissed! Drew Barrymore plays a journalist—well, technically a copy editor—who goes undercover at her former high school. You’re going to love it.”
“We’ll see,” he says. “I’m kind of annoying to watch movies with. At least according to my sister. She says I find a flaw in everything. But we had this one on hand for a Drew Barrymore marathon.”
“Just watch,” I tell him.
We’ve held hands. We’ve kissed. And still my stomach is spinning in circles when I hold my hand palm up on the armrest—the universal sign to oh-my-gosh-please-hold-my-hand-already!
It takes as long as it takes Drew Barrymore to show up to school with her fresh makeover in her outlandish white fur outfit before Malik’s hand inches closer to mine and our fingers finally intertwine.
We sit there and watch the movie—the whole thing. I quote along to a few lines before I can catch myself, and I don’t even get up to pee because I’m scared I’ll somehow ruin this moment and it won’t be the same when I return.
After the credits roll, I let out a big, unstoppable yawn.
“Just one last thing,” Malik says. “I just have to show you one more thing before you turn into a pumpkin.”
I yawn again, but I nod. “Okay.”
He takes me back through the employee staircase we initially went up, and then he leads me to an even narrower staircase. Before he opens the heavy metal door, he reaches for a brick sitting on top of the doorframe.
He grunts as he opens the heavy door and holds it for me as I step out onto the rooftop. Carefully he wedges the brick in place to stop the door from swinging shut.
“The best view in Clover City,” he says.
