Rory sits down on the couch as well, way on the other end so we could fit three more people between us. I wish he was closer, butI’m glad he’s not. It reinforces the friendship boundaries and how neither of us have any notion of blurring them.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call from Blake. Rory sees the name on my screen, and I find myself worrying that he might think a guy is calling me. “It’s my best friend, Blake,” I tell him. “She lives in New York.” I emphasize the “she” a little too vigorously.
“Take it,” Rory says, looking as happy as I feel that my best friend is checking in. Shooting him a grateful look, I hop into my room and listen as Blake drops some big news. She’s scaling back to work part-time to have more time with her baby. It’s a shocking turn of events, as she’s been on partner track at an investment bank. I’m frustrated that she feels like she has to make this kind of trade-off, when her husband doesn’t. Blake says she’s happy about it, and it’s hard to tell if she’s lying to me or lying to herself. When she turns the conversation onto me and my London adventures, I ask if I can call her back tomorrow, as I’m currently in the middle of watching a movie with a friend.
“A male friend?” she inquires, curiosity piqued.
“Yes,” I say, feeling myself blushing, only because the insinuation is so incorrect. “But it’s not like that.”
“Of course not,” Blake says all too knowingly. “Now go get back to him. Call me tomorrow.”
With a surge of gratitude that our long-distance friendship is still holding up, I return to the sitting room and reclaim my spot on the opposite end of the couch from Rory.
“I’m almost done watchingThe Holiday,” I say, resuming the movie from the spot I left off at in the bathtub. “Is that okay with you?” I pull the tartan blanket over me and wrap my free arm around one of the throw pillows.
“Cool beans,” Rory says. I’d venture to guess that rom-coms aren’t exactly his cup of tea, but he has that go-with-the-flow vibe that makes me think he’d be up for any kind of movie. “What’s it about?” he asks.
I pause the movie so I don’t miss the iconic scene where Cameron Diaz’s character leaps out of the cab that’s taking her to the airport and runs through fields of snow and mud—in high heels, no less—back to the quaint English cottage where she’s reunited with her gorgeous British beau, played by Jude Law. Even the first time I watched the movie, the ending wasn’t exactly a surprise—their eye contact gives it away throughout the whole movie—but there’s something wonderfully comforting in being able to predict an ending. Maybe because it never happens like that in real life.
I gawk at Rory. “You’ve never seenThe Holiday?”
“Is that a criminal offense?”
“Essentially, yes. I forget you’ve been living under the rock called Kalamazoo.”
“Kalamazoo isn’t a rock,” Rory defends. “There’s a lot going on.”
Holding in a sardonic rebuttal, I just tell him that I’ll start the movie back at the beginning so he can get the full experience. Partway through, I ask for his critical review. “So, what do you think?”
“It’s not bad,” he says, unconvincingly.
“Rory,” I implore, “tell the truth.”
It doesn’t seem like he’d be able to lie even if he wanted to. “It’s just,” he says, pausing as he searches for a diplomatic answer, “I’m not the biggest chick flick fan, I guess.”
“Chick flickis a demeaning and stereotypical label,” I shoot back. “Why do we need to pigeon-hole love stories as being gender specific?”
“That’s a good point,” Rory says, but it still feels like he’s holding something back.
“What?” I ask expectantly.
“Nothing.” Then after a short pause, he keeps going, seeming to decide that he can trust me with what he really thinks. “I just—I think a lot of guys don’t like these kinds of movies because of the unrealistic expectations they can give women. It’s a pretty impossible standard to live up to, to be honest.”
I feel attacked before remembering that he’s certainly talking about Emily, not me. “We don’t expect guys to be exactly like the movies,” I refute. But as I say it, I feel the untruth on my tongue. How obsessed was I with Alexander precisely because I thought he was delivering me a cinematic love story? “Okay, well maybe just a little.”
“It’s a lot of pressure for guys to have to bethis,” Rory goes on, gesturing to the screen, where a misty-eyed Jude Law is paused in an impossibly handsome frame, looking adoringly at Cameron Diaz as she arrives back on his doorstep. “The grand gestures, the sappy speeches, the animal sex. Women get conditioned to think that’s what love is. And then when their real-life relationship doesn’t look like that—when it’s regular day-to-day life without the intensity of a ninety-minute film—they think there’s something wrong. Something missing. So they break up with you over Cracker Barrel hash browns, and then you find yourself in London trying to change into the person they want you to be.” He grows suddenly quiet, fidgeting on the sofa, like he’s trying to find a comfortable position. “Okay, sorry. End rant.”
“Rants are allowed,” I say quietly, taking it all in. I’m disliking Emily more than ever. But I also want to defend the movies.Defend my outlook. “And you’re right, rom-coms aren’t real life,” I say. “But they do represent the best of what real life can be when you find the right person.”
“I don’t know,” Rory says. “I think movies represent the impersonation of love, not the real thing. They make it seem that once the heart palpitations and butterflies and goose bumps are gone, the love is gone too.”
“Well, that’s not wrong, is it?” I say, thinking about how those symptoms have foretold all of my past breakups.
“I think itiswrong, though. Love isn’t fireworks or adrenaline, is it? It’s the stuff that’s still there after the spark fades.”
The notion frightens me terribly. “But the spark doesn’t have to fade!”
“It does, though,” he says. “That’s just the natural progression. Or at least the sparkchanges. And that’s not a bad thing. I think love can get better with time. That it’s supposed to. But movies say the opposite. That the very best moment is some exhilarating first look or first kiss or first night in bed. The box office makes money from selling the love-at-first-sight cliché, even though the screenwriters and actors must know it’s complete garbage.”
