Chapter 15 #2
I shake my head again, though it’s not entirely true.
Unfortunately for me, a movie as universally beloved as The Lost Letter is impossible to escape.
Its enduring popularity means it has found a permanent home on cable, playing and replaying on a constant loop, eternally available for those who need a good cry, like a Home Shopping Network for hopeless romantics.
And even if I never turned on another TV again, a certain degree of exposure is inevitable: a flash of the movie poster as I scroll through Netflix; a glimpse of a scene streaming from the back of an airplane headrest, weepy passenger clutching tissues; a clip that pops up on my For You page without warning, punching me in the gut.
I’ll never forget the first time I came across it on TV.
I got sucked in right away, transfixed by the timeless innocence of the love story, as enthralled and captivated as any Letterhead.
And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, of course I came in right at our love scene.
As I watched, I could remember every detail of the day we shot it: the scent of petrichor and hay in the barn, the bite of the muslin blanket against my back, the silky brush of his hair as it tickled my face, the flirtatious comment Ryder had whispered in my ear just before Nate called “Action.” It was too much for me, an onslaught of sensory memory that made all the heartache I thought I’d moved past come roaring back.
I’ve avoided it ever since.
“I can’t watch myself on screen,” is the excuse I give him now, because I can’t say, I can’t watch myself fall in love with you. “Do you watch it?”
There’s a pause. “I’ve caught it once or twice,” he says casually, then immediately takes a long swig of water, avoiding my eyes.
His caginess sets off alarm bells. “You’re being shifty. What aren’t you telling me?”
He keeps up the nonchalant pretense for another few seconds before exhaling a loud breath. “Fine, I watch it all the time. It’s an addiction,” he confesses, palming the nape of his neck self-consciously. “I can recite every line at this point.”
I gape at him like he’s just confessed to murder. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s true,” he says, regarding me solemnly. “You’ve discovered my deep, dark secret: I’m a Letterhead.”
I bark a disbelieving laugh and toss a hunk of the baguette at him. “But why?”
“It’s not as weird as it sounds,” he says defensively, and I balk, casting him a dubious look that says, I’ll be the judge of that, weirdo.
“Filming that movie was one of the best times of my life,” he says simply, his eyes snagging on mine, holding me captive, and my heart squeezes painfully.
“Watching it is like getting to experience it all over again. It’s become like a comfort object for me.
If I’m ever stressed or upset about something, I can turn it on in the background and it just sort of…
calms me down.” He blinks. “I guess that does sound a little weird.”
I envy him, to be able to view our past through such a rosy lens, to not have his memories tainted by the crushing heartache that came after. It’s incredible really, how two people can view things so differently.
I prop my chin on my fist and assess him. “So what you’re telling me is, The Lost Letter is your lovey.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. “I mean, I feel like there’s a manlier way to say it…” he huffs, puffing out his chest.
“And to think you had the audacity to sit here and denigrate the fandom to me.” I shake my head and tsk. “This is deeply concerning behavior. You realize that, right?”
He winces. “You’re not the first woman to tell me that.”
I lift an eyebrow in question.
“Let’s just say some of the women I’ve dated haven’t been too fond of this habit of mine,” he admits, scratching at his scruff.
“I can’t imagine why not,” I say dryly, then remember something and bolt upright. “Wait a minute. Was Madison Masterson one of them?”
He grimaces apologetically. “Sorry.”
“So that’s why she hated me?!” I exclaim, slapping my palm on the table for emphasis and rattling our food containers.
The frigid glares this woman shot me on set could freeze the tits off a polar bear, as my dad would say.
“She was so cold to me when we filmed and I could never figure out why. I chalked it up to professional jealousy because I knew she’d been gunning for my part, but I was legitimately afraid to turn my back on her.
” At least I could finally put this mystery to bed.
“I remember hearing something about the two of you dating, but I never knew what was rumor and what was true.”
More like I blocked out any gossip pertaining to Ryder’s love life to protect my own sanity.
Even after years of practice, I’ve never quite mastered the air of casual indifference necessary to convince others I’m unaffected by him, so ignorance became my best weapon.
When it comes to Ryder, I’ve had to construct an impenetrable force field and guard my heart like Fort Knox.
He winces again. “It’s my fault. I didn’t realize she was the jealous type until it was too late.”
“You don’t say.” I realize it’s petty and vindictive and I’m not proud of it, but I feel the tiniest kernel of satisfaction that I got under Madison’s skin.
Madison and her stupid alliterative stage name.
“Now you have me wondering how many other women secretly want me dead,” I tell him, my mind scrolling through his rumored flings.
He waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t believe everything you read. I’ve barely met half the actresses I’ve reportedly been involved with, and the other half were probably publicity stunts.”
I flinch internally. The topic is a sore spot for me, which Ryder should know better than anyone. I deflect, not wanting to prod that particular bruise. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve spent the last ten years in seclusion. A veritable monk.”
He attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite stick. “Something like that.” His eyes meet mine. “Tell me about this last guy.”
Oh geez. My stomach plummets, all this hastily eaten food suddenly churning in my gut. “Elliott?”
“Elliott.” He repeats it like he’s trying out the way it sounds.
“You really want to go there?”
He raises his eyebrows, waiting expectantly. I guess he does.
My heart bounces like a pogo stick. “What do you want to know?”
“Why didn’t it work out?” He leans in, forearms crossed and resting on the table, his eyes laser focused on mine, and it suddenly hits me: He’s been waiting to ask this.
I squirm on the bench, not loving being the one on the hot seat.
“On paper, Elliott was great. I mean, is great. Present tense.” I rattle off an awkward laugh.
“He’s smart and funny, successful, comes from a solid family.
We got along well. And even though we didn’t have a ton of the same hobbies, it just sort of…
worked. We complemented each other, I think,” I muse, recalling the way he was always game to do the things I enjoyed, like visit the Getty’s latest exhibit even though he “wasn’t an art guy,” and the way I learned to appreciate his love for golf even though I found the sport about as exciting as watching grass grow.
“He’s also really normal, which might make him sound boring, but with how strange and abnormal our lives are, I appreciated that more than I thought I would. ”
Ryder’s listening intently, his expression giving nothing away. I feel a little guilty at his lack of reaction, like I’m not doing enough to sell Elliott’s good qualities.
“Objectively, he’s the best I could hope for, especially considering all the baggage we bring to the table.
I mean, do you know how hard it is to find a guy who’s not intimidated by all this?
Who’s not offended when photographers yell at him to ‘Get out of the way’?
Who’s willing to stand behind me and carry my purse?
” A gust of hot wind blows my hair around haphazardly, and I brush the wisps off my face. “Trust me, they barely exist.”
His eyes glimmer, the sunlight glinting off the water behind him. “You’re not with him now, though.”
This sprawling vessel hasn’t felt small until this moment.
I can’t withstand his penetrating gaze a second longer, so I stand abruptly and cross to the side of the boat, gripping the handrail as I look out over the water.
It’s unnerving, the way he’s always been able to read me, the way he hears thoughts I haven’t spoken aloud.
I can’t just let him waltz back into my life and peer into my soul like this.
This man is so dangerous for me, the exception to every rule I’ve created to keep myself safely in control.
It’s only taken him days to bulldoze through barriers that took me ten years to build.
“What happened?” he says to my back.
I watch a fish flip out of the water, then disappear with a ripple.
The cicadas are droning so loudly, it’s drowning out my thoughts, scrambling the fragile composure I’m desperately clinging to.
It’s so strange to be talking about this with Ryder when I haven’t even figured out how to explain it to my family.
“Nothing happened. Nothing major, I mean. It was more like…” I hesitate, weighing my words. “It seemed like he was waiting for me to grow out of this,” I say eventually.
It takes him a minute. “This, meaning acting?” I feel him join me at the rail, the air shifting as he gets closer.