Chapter 16 Andrew
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Andrew
“I’m confused,” Grace says, her bewildered focus on her TV screen. “So, this is the first movie, but it’s called Episode IV?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s an Episode III, but it came out after this one?”
“Yes.” I watch her. The way her question feels like it should be followed by a comical head scratch. Or how, no matter how stumped she seems, she can’t seem to peel her eyes away from the movie.
She does this thing where she tugs at the corner of her shirt collar and hooks her chin into it before letting it fall against her chest. She’s the opposite of the casual business attire that greeted me when I met her at her car.
She’s now a loose, more relaxed version of herself in her sweatpants and sleep shirt.
Or rather, my shirt that she’s taken full ownership of.
I noticed a small pep in her step as we walked to her door.
The plastic bag containing our dinner dangled from her fingertips with a slight swinging motion, making me worry that the contents might spill over, but Grace didn’t seem to care.
She just grinned at me while she told me about the ice cream sandwiches she bought over the weekend.
Dessert, she claimed. And now, I wish we could somehow delay it.
Because after dessert, it means the night is over, and that’s the last thing I want.
I wish there could be some way I could freeze time.
Let us live in this moment as if it were infinite.
She pokes her chopsticks at the screen. “So, you’re supposed to watch it backward?”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I explain. “George Lucas started the story in the middle to create an immersive experience to make it seem as if viewers were joining the story at a pivotal moment.”
“You should hold a local Star Wars seminar,” Grace jokes. She rests her chopsticks on the edge of her bowl. A bundle of noodles pools at the end, but she pauses her meal to peer sideways with a teasing upturned smirk before adding, “Why do you know so much about this?”
I shrug, poking at my own bowl of noodles. “I just liked them as a kid. The movies and figurines and all.”
“You mean ‘toys?’”
“Um, excuse me,” I argue. “I believe ‘action figure’ is the correct term.”
“You know, it’s pretty good,” she confesses. “I’ve never really watched these movie things, and it’s pretty interesting.”
I never realized how sexy it would be to find someone who would actually nerd out with me.
And not even half-ass it. I mean fully nerd out without the dismissive comments or deprecatory words, writing me off as some nut job with some weird science fiction obsession.
Her eyes haven’t glazed over with boredom, and she hasn’t requested to change it to something more fitting to her taste.
And suddenly, I want to nerd out with her just the same.
I want to know all the things she loves. The things she obsesses about.
“What kind of movies do you like?”
She’s stirring at her noodles, and she scoops up a mouthful, chews thoughtfully, and considers my question. “I don’t think I have a favorite kind of movie. I watch pretty much anything.”
“But still. You should have a genre or a specific movie that you tend to gravitate to.”
“I guess I used to watch a lot of rom-coms when I was younger,” she explains, still a little unsure of her answer.
I nod, slurping away at my dinner.
“You know,” she continues. “Like the early 2000s movies they don’t make anymore.”
“Like Bridget Jones or Princess Diaries?”
She drops her chopsticks and scoots her butt to face me. “What do you know about Bridget Jones?”
“I have a sister. Remember?” A glitch cuts into our moment.
A nudge to remind us what we are on the surface.
My sister’s best friend. My older sister who would absolutely lose her shit if she found out about us.
Her friend who happens to also be a divorcée and almost a decade older than me.
Not that any of that matters to me, but I know it matters to Grace.
All that superficial outer appearance shit.
She nods, letting the small snag in our dinner settle between us. “Right.”
“We should watch one,” I say, attempting to put us back on track, glitch and all.
“What? Like now?”
I shake my head. “No, maybe…another night.”
She tilts her head, an inquisitive look of interest and curiosity on her face. The corners of her lips tilt upward. A silent demand for my intentions, no matter how innocent I make them out to be.
“What?” I ask when her eyes start to narrow.
“Do you plan on making this a frequent occurrence?”
I shrug. “I mean, we have five more movies to get through,” I say, gesturing to the screen. “Plus a few more sequels and TV shows, etcetera.”
“Do you not have any friends?” she asks, taking a jab at the fact that, after a long day at work, she seems to be the only friend I’m venting to. “Girlfriends?”
I ignore the intentional plural adage to the word “girlfriend” and say, “Uh, no girlfriends, but I have friends.”
“Okay, then why are you here with me and not with them?”
I hesitate before answering. I don’t really know why.
Why I’m not planning another weekend dinner with the few friends I have so I can vent a little, maybe even ask for some advice to work through the commitment issues I’ve suddenly become privy to.
Or even call up my brothers to see if they’d be up for a few beers.
Anything for the company I’m obviously in dire need of.
But when I realize the truth, I don’t really want to hide it.
So, I tell her. “I guess…you’re just a little easier to talk to. ”
“How so?”
“To be honest, the friends I have live kind of far,” I explain. “It takes some pre-planning for us to have dinner. And when we do, it’s never anything like—”
“An impromptu Star Wars marathon?”
I smirk. “Yeah.”
“What about James and Josh?”
“I mean, yeah, I hang out with them, but I don’t really talk to them…”
“You mean they don’t get a special Star Wars course curriculum like I do? I feel so special.”
“Shut up,” I tease. It’s a brief reprieve, making a topic that’s normally heavy a little lighter. A little easier to bear. So I continue. “But they know how much stress my work has been causing me.”
“And?”
“They don’t get why I’m still there after four years, taking my boss’s bullshit every day,” I tell her.
Her smile falls, and I can feel her give me her full attention.
Her presence is so extant and heedful, I know whatever I tell her, it’ll be lasered into her memory.
That’s what she’s doing right now. Making herself the focal point of my woes, letting me tumble them out so she can hold them with me.
“They also tell me I’m still young. That I have a long life ahead of me and I shouldn’t worry so much when I don’t even have a family to worry about. ”
“So, they sort of brush you off.”
I nod.
She rolls her tongue over her bottom lip before clamping her teeth over it. I can see her mull over the words, making sure to get out the right ones. “Look, I don’t want to add fuel to the fire, but why don’t you quit?”
“I—”
“And I know you said you’re paying your dues or whatever, but is it really worth it? And let’s say you move on up and get promoted or whatever it is your goals are. Is this really what you want to be doing?”
I stay quiet, contemplating her words. They don’t sound disparaging or condescending. They sound like they come from a place of true concern. She isn’t trying to brush me off, trying to move on from a conversation she has no interest in. She really wants to know.
“Do you like your job?” I ask, segueing into what drives her to get out of bed every morning. I know I’m answering her question with a question, but maybe this way I can find some answers for myself.
“I do,” she admits somewhat apologetically.
“It’s not an easy job, but it’s incredibly rewarding.
I’ve seen the compassion drain out of a lot of the people around me, and it gets really hard sometimes.
Just today, I saw this college kid almost die from an accidental overdose, and her mom was so scared and worried.
It’s not easy being exposed to all the trauma we see in the ER, but I’m hoping I’m making somewhat of a difference. ”
I never knew work could bleed into your soul like it does for Grace. I don’t go to work to change the world or even make a difference. I go to work to make a living. Working to live. But not Grace. She’s out here trying to do something with her life. Make an impact.
“That’s very admirable of you,” I comment earnestly.
She smiles. “I’m just doing my job.”
“Yet, compared to mine, your job makes you look like a superhero.”
A shy flush blooms across her cheeks, and she averts her gaze to her food, now just the soupy, oily remains of our dinner.
The movie plays in the background as I catch flashing images of blasters shooting red, fiery beams through gusts of smoke.
We watch as I answer the sporadic bouts of questions that slip through Grace’s lips.
I watch as her keen focus on the movie turns into near reverie.
All while the conversation about life and work and meaning falls into the shadows, letting it sit there until we can pick it up later.
Maybe in small doses to make it easier to reconcile.
Hopefully on another night sitting on her living room floor in front of takeout and some movie we can obsess over just the same.
As the night wears on , Grace stifles a yawn and sinks into the soft cushions of her couch, sweetly patting her hand in the empty spot next to her.
Though it’s a weeknight, and we both have work the next day, she doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to kick me out, even as the credits start to roll on the TV and her eyes blink heavily, a reminder that it’s probably time to call it a night.
Luckily, we still have dessert to get to.