Chapter 6
TRYING TO DISTRACT MYSELF WITH A MOVIE DATE GONE X-RATED
Andie
Nobody warns you how time stretches when you’re waiting for a boy you’re not actually interested in.
It’s like the universe knows you’re in the wrong place and just wants to punish you for it.
I’m standing outside the Apollo, a movie palace so old it probably hosted vaudeville before talkies, and the wind off the river is slicing through my jeans like I borrowed them from a ghost.
I wish I could pretend that I’m here for Jake, but I’m not. I just wanted to distract myself from the disaster that’s my life. I had not one, but two sexual encounters with Stella’s dad. Oh my god.
So here I am, waiting for my so-called “date.” 7:16 now. I dig into my tote bag for a ChapStick, and my phone vibrates with a text.
“Parking be there in 5,” Jake writes. No sorry, no punctuation.
I stare at the screen, willing it to show me something else, and my thumb flicks, almost on its own, to the photo album.
The Thomas photo glows back at me: his jaw clenched, the ghost of my lipstick on his mouth, his cock lying thick and sated against his thigh.
Oh god, his cock! My mouth salivates while looking at that veiny length, with the sheen of ass sweat and smeared semen against it.
My asshole clenches involuntarily, and then my pussy.
I can almost feel the heat of Thomas’s hand around my waist, and then on my curves everywhere, making me moan aloud.
I hate how much my body betrays me. I hate that my heart is racing now, not because of Jake, but because I can’t stop replaying every second I spent with Thomas Moreland in my head.
I take a deep breath. The air is sharp and damp, alive with thaw and exhaust and popcorn fumes. It stings my lungs, which helps. For a second, I can almost convince myself that the Thomas thing was a fever dream, a glitch in the simulation.
Then Jake arrives, and the daydream is dead.
The jock is exactly as advertised: varsity jacket, hands in pockets, hair styled like he pays people to make it look accidental. His smile is practiced and practiced again; it makes my teeth hurt. “Sorry, the parking in this town is next-level,” he says, like I should give him a medal.
I look at him and feel… nothing. It’s not even disappointment; it’s like when you drink from a can of Sprite you thought was water, and the taste is so wrong your brain blanks out.
Jake’s a very tall, very handsome, completely replaceable carbon-based organism.
I try to remember what it was I saw in him, and my mind comes up empty.
He holds the theater door open for me, which would be sweet if he didn’t check his phone while doing it. I step inside, the warm air wrapping around me like a bath towel that’s just a bit too old.
We get in line at the ticket window. Jake doesn’t offer to pay, just pays for himself and steps aside so that I can get my own ticket.
But honestly, I’m glad because the less date-like this is, the better.
I tap my card, and the girl behind the glass slides a stub through the slot.
Her nails are painted gold and they glint every time she moves.
Jake immediately angles for the concessions stand.
“You hungry?” he asks, already ordering a large popcorn.
I tell myself it’s fine, that I like popcorn, that maybe the carbs will blunt my anxiety.
He pays for the snacks, but makes a show of checking the receipt.
“Total scam,” he whispers. “But I’m happy to share with you, Andie. ”
“Thanks for your generosity,” I say in a stiff voice. Not.
We walk into the theater itself, and the Apollo does not disappoint.
It’s like a fever-dream cathedral: red velvet curtains, gold-flecked walls, rows of cracked leather seats, and chandeliers shaped like inverted wedding cakes.
The floor slopes so dramatically I feel a little seasick, but it’s gorgeous, in a haunted sort of way.
Jake leads us to the far right aisle, “for the best sound,” as if this was a decision made by acoustic science. The seats here are slightly sticky, the armrests chewed and pockmarked by generations of anxious hands.
We’re barely settled before I spot him.
Oh my god, what is Thomas Moreland doing here? While I’m on a date with another man?
Even worse, Thomas is clearly on a date of his own.
He’s three rows down and just off-center, sitting next to a woman so elegant it’s like she stepped out of an ad for diamond tennis bracelets.
Her hair is glossy and dark, her top black with a plunging neckline, her laugh low and melodic.
Thomas is in a button-down white shirt that highlights his bronzed skin, and even in the half-light, he looks like the answer to a question I don’t dare ask.
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 made eye 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 only ten 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.