For one wild second, I think about running. My jaw locks so tight I taste copper. I dig my nails into my palm until I’m sure I’ll draw blood. I do not look at him, but I do. Again. And again.
Jake is talking now, something about the previews, but I don’t hear it. I can’t stop cataloging every movement Thomas makes—the way he leans in to the woman, the shape of his hands, the perfect square of his jaw as he turns to glance up at the projectionist’s booth. His date touches his arm and he laughs as a pulse of pure, hot jealousy shoots through me.
Why am I here? What am I doing?
I pretend to listen as Jake cracks a joke about the “thousand-dollar popcorn” and pops a kernel into his mouth with a waggle of his eyebrows. He tries to drape his arm around my shoulder, but I flinch, and he acts like he didn’t notice. The house lights dim, the room gets impossibly quiet, and the first preview begins.
I keep my eyes on the screen, but I can’t concentrate. Does Thomas know I’m here? Somehow, although we haven’t madeeye contact, I think he does. There’s an animal instinct to him, and when he turns his head slightly, I think that he senses me.
I tell myself I’m being foolish. I tell myself to focus on the movie, to be present, to at least enjoy the entertainment. But every time Thomas shifts in his seat, I catch the movement in my periphery, and it’s like my whole nervous system lights up.
I try to imagine myself being intimate with Jake: his hand in mine, his mouth on my neck, his body pressed against me in the night. I try to make it real, but my brain keeps swapping him out for Thomas, and the idea makes me dizzy with shame and hunger.
The movie’s title card hits, and a chorus of explosions fill the theater. Jake leans in to whisper, “This is going to be sick,” his breath hot with artificial butter and the metallic edge of Red Bull.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
My heart is beating too loud. I want to disappear, or be seen, or both at the same time.
I watch Thomas out of the corner of my eye, and he never once looks back.
It’s almost worse than if he did.
The movie is onlyten minutes in when Jake starts with the handsy bullshit. He slides his arm around my shoulder like we’re the B-list version of a homecoming king and queen. It feels bad because his hands are icy, even through the fabric of my blouse,but I can deal. But then he starts to squeeze my shoulder. Not gentle or exploratory, just hard, grabby, and weirdly methodical. Like he’s reading instructions off a website. What the fuck?
He leans in, lips so close to my ear I can smell the faint tang of beer—he must have chugged one in the car on the way here. “You’re so pretty, Andie,” he breathes, and then, as if that were the secret password, his palm migrates straight for my left boob.
I freeze. Not because I like it, but because my body goes pure possum when touched without warning. I stare at the screen, willing the next explosion to drown out my embarrassment, and try to pry his hand away. Instead, he pulls me closer, and his thumb starts to trace circles, not even in the right spot, just around and around the upper curve of my chest.
“Jake,” I hiss, keeping my voice low, “not now.”
He’s so focused on copping a feel that he doesn’t notice the motion three rows down. But I do. I see Thomas stand, all fluid motion, and start making his way up the aisle toward us, balancing a cup and a tray of candy in one hand. His date doesn’t notice, staring at the screen, rapt.
Then Jake squeezes my boob harder, and I literally let out a pained gasp as my discomfort spikes. I want to punch him, or bite him, or at least run out into the lobby and never come back. But instead I just look straight ahead, at the massive screen, and try not to suffocate from humiliation.
Thomas passes our row, stops just shy of passing, and turns like he’s about to ask for directions. In a flash, his hand tilts, and an entire large Cherry Coke sails from its paper cup, arcing in an icy waterfall onto Jake’s lap.
The sound is glorious: a cold, wet slap, then the hiss of carbonation as the soda soaks through Jake’s jeans. He lurches upright, clutching his crotch, and yelps, “What the fuck, man!” loud enough that a dozen people turn to stare.
Thomas is pure apology, at least on the surface. “Oh, damn, I’m so sorry,” he says, grabbing a napkin from his pocket and offering it like a peace treaty. But his eyes are locked on mine, blue and sharp and filled with danger.
Meanwhile, Jake snatches the napkin, tries to blot the spreading stain, but it’s useless. The soda has gone everywhere, and the cold must be brutal, because he’s hunched over and breathing through his teeth like he’s been stabbed. To my amusement, his dick is outlined by the damp fabric, and it’s clear he’s got a small cock. Hell, Jake’s an extra small, and put to shame by my lover’s huge tool.
“Damnit,” the boy mutters, still standing. He glances at me, then at the mess, and his face does a weird twist, like he can’t decide if he’s mortified or just mad. “You totally did that on purpose,” he snaps at Thomas, but his voice is too high, too whiny to land.
Thomas just smiles, a cold little curve of his mouth, and says, “No, it was an accident.”
For a second, nobody says anything. Then Jake, in a full-volume stage whisper, says, “Fuck this. Date’s over,” and pushes past me, shuffling sideways out of the aisle, still trying to hold his pants away from his skin.
He leaves behind a damp shadow on the seat, a scattering of popcorn, and the sudden, humming vacuum of his absence.
I sit there, stunned. My pulse is a jackhammer in my wrists. The whole theater is watching, then not watching, then pretendingnothing happened. Thomas returns to his row, his date still oblivious. I can’t decide if I want to kill him, thank him, or both.
I should leave. I should follow Jake out, say something, anything. Instead, I just settle deeper into the seat, set the popcorn tub on the floor, and let the current scene wash over me. The film is a blur of motion and noise and color, but my focus is pinned to Thomas, to the broad shadow of his shoulders, the angle of his neck, the possibility that at any second he’ll turn and look back.
He never does.
But I can’t look away, either.
