“Is thatorange?” asks Beck. “Sorry about the lack of luxury, kid,” she says to me. “We’ll get you in the fancy black car on the way home, but for now it’s this.”
“Why does it matter?”
Beck shakes her head. “It’s all about the shot. Black car service dropping you off for your fairy-tale date is romantic. A yellow cab is iconic to the location. A neon-orange minivan…is a neon-orange minivan.”
I shrug. “It’s better than walking twenty-plus blocks in these heels.”
When we pull up to Z Café in our neon-orange minivan, it’s still pouring—a short and sudden summer shower that fills me with nostalgia. Humid steam rises from the grates on the sidewalk, and commuters dash into the subway entrance on the corner with newspapers held over their heads and the occasional umbrella.
I turn to Beck. “This is a lunch place.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Perfect for nighttime filming.”
Zeke holds an umbrella out for me as I step out of the orange cab. “But what about all those people and the waitstaff?” I ask as I peer in through the window to find the restaurant bustling.
“Actors,” Beck says simply. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you reality television isn’t real?”
While we’re standing under the canopy, a sound tech checks my mic, and I get a glimpse of Henry sitting at a table in the middle of the restaurant. His dark brows pull together as he pops his knuckles and takes a deep breath. He’s the kind of good-looking that doesn’t even feel real.
“He looks nervous,” Beck says to Wes just far enough away that I’m pretty sure she thinks I can’t hear.
“He’s been wound up since this afternoon. Mommy issues. You know how it goes with these guys. Seeing family stirs shit up.”
When I walk in, Henry stands to greet me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He grips my elbow before I can pull away and whispers, “You look stunning.”
The cameras are close on us, and I can’t help but look up every time a crew member moves.
“Is this how you do all your dates?” I ask.
He chuckles. “Yeah, first my date meets my mom and then the camera crew acts as our chaperone for the night.”
My mouth splits into a grin. “Your mom was…”
He reaches under the table and takes my hand. “Intimidating.”
“You said it. Not me.” I smile, my brows raising. “She’s an icon.”
“To me, she’s just Mom. Your turn,” he says, quick to change the subject. “Tell me what your dad was like. And I want to hear about your mom too.”
My face falls at the mention of them. Instinctively, my hand sweeps over the locket around my neck, but I keep forgetting that I swapped it for a black choker. Just for one night.
“You don’t have to,” he adds quickly.
I shake my head. “No, no, it’s—people don’t usually just ask like that. They’re usually scared to bring it up…or that I might cry.” I laugh, but it sounds more nervous than I mean it to. “You just caught me off guard is all. My mom—well, my stepmom is great. She’s driven and career-focused…Actually, she reminds me a lot of Lucy—your mom, I mean. My mom was a little wild. Dad would always say he didn’t know where she got it from, because her parents were, like, die-hard country club people. She grew up going to all-girls schools. She and my dad met in high school when she was trying to steal a tape from the Blockbuster where he worked.”
Henry gasps through a laugh. “No! What movie? Did she get away with it?”
I smile, and I know that it is scientifically impossible, but I wish I could have been there. I’ve heard the story so many times, but I’ll never know what the store looked like or if Mom was wearing cherry lip balm or if Dad’s uniform shirt was tucked in. I want to know every small, little detail. The meaningless ones that died with them. I swallow back the tears I can feel building. “Pretty Woman, and sort of,” I say. “He bought her a copy and wrote his number on the back of the receipt.”
“Whoa. Your dad had some moves.”
“He did,” I say. “He really did. He, uh, died when I was a senior in high school.”
He bites down on his lip, like there’s more he might say if it weren’t for the cameras. “Again, I’m—Do you hate when people say they’re sorry? I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “I feel bad for people mostly. No one ever knows what to say or how to talk to me. It’s like dropping a bomb on any conversation. The ultimate mood killer.” I laugh a little. “I wonder if my dad would just love to know that even though I’m twenty-two years old, he’s still crashing my dates from the grave.” I dated very rarely in high school, and Dad was never the type to be overbearing, but he did always ask for the license and registration of every car I got in whether it be friend or a date.
At that, he laughs and I can feel the tension deflating a little. “Well, if he’s anything like you, I’m sure he was great.”
