XIX CJ
XIX
CJ
“You have a decision to make,” I tell Jack with the utmost seriousness. “Choose wisely.”
He sits up straighter, playing along.
I slouch cross-legged, facing him on Brent Chase’s couch. Jack bites the inside of his cheek, and after two months of dating, I know this is what he does when he’s thinking.
“ Romancing the Stone ,” Jack says with a nod, like he’s answering a Double Jeopardy question.
“That was going to be my pick for next week!”
“And look who beat you to it.”
For the last eight Thursdays, we’ve had a standing date while Stuart and Agnes have Movie Club back at my house. Sometimes, I go over to Jack’s, and we order in and take turns choosing a movie. Sometimes, we go out to under-the-radar restaurants or repertory screenings, and Jack brings along a baseball cap and sunglasses just in case. When we’re in public, eyes linger on him, and the Twitter account Jack Felgate Out of Context has posted a few blurry phone snaps of our excursions, but nothing has hit mass media.
And though we’ve spent plenty of time in Jack’s bed, I always end up back in my own. I pull myself out of Jack’s arms before sleep hits so I can be there when Agnes wakes up. I haven’t introduced Jack to her or Stuart yet, so my place has been off-limits for him.
When Jack showed up at my door, I wasn’t sure I really believed he would take the time off that he promised. I trusted that he intended to but felt less confident that he’d be able to see it through. What if he realized he actually missed the parties? What if my life was just too boring—not for me, but for someone accustomed to a series of highly produced outings, one after the next?
Then, weeks became months, and Jack became more... content. He’s lighter on his feet. Like someone has taken a coat hanger out from between his shoulder blades. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I allow blocks of time to go unaccounted for, enjoying each moment with Jack instead of jumping ahead to what the next one will be.
Jack queues up the movie, and I get up to grab the popcorn he popped from the counter. “Stovetop? I’m impressed.”
“What can I say? There’s also a bottle of that rosé we had at the Italian place last week.”
I pull the wine out of the fridge. “You picked this up?”
“Between my very busy schedule of not working and also not working, yes, I managed to get a bottle of wine.” I look across the room at him, lounging in sweatpants that hang low from his hips, and bite my lower lip as I register the way my body responds to the sight of him.
“Well, it’s not like you’re not doing anything ,” I counter as I sit back down next to him.
“Yes, I am very busy,” he says, kissing my forehead and wrapping an arm around my neck. “Had my online UCLA screenwriting class, and then”—another kiss on my neck now—“thought about this. And then I went for a hike.” His teeth catch the flesh of my earlobe, and I reach under the hem of his T-shirt. “Then I thought about this some more.”
“Very busy.” I swing my legs over his lap as he hits play, and he pulls the clip from my hair and runs his fingers along my scalp.
“See,” Jack says about thirty minutes into the movie. “This is exactly it. Making movies with your friends, like Michael Douglas and Danny DeVito did.” He’s brimming with nostalgia for something he’s never experienced.
I scan his face and grab the remote to hit pause. “What’s your dream project?”
“Something like this, to be honest. Something that blends genres, that feels like it’s for adults.”
“So, no superheroes, then?”
He scoffs. “Only if their superpowers are that they can banter like Harry and Sally.”
“Or howl like Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck ?”
“Except in our movie, when he does, he breaks the sound barrier.”
“Our movie?” I ask. “You’ll have to take that up with my agent.”
“I’ll act. You’ll direct. We’ll both produce.”
“Direct?”
“Oh, come on. Who has more vision and ideas than you? Loads of production designers become directors.”
I’ve only ever given half a thought to directing while on set, seeing a shot being framed in a way I didn’t think served the story best, watching rush jobs that didn’t allow gaffers time to light the actors properly, or witnessing an entire department underserved due to bad budgeting. But I’ve never brought the idea home with me. Between making my way in production design and raising Agnes, taking on anything more always feels like too much. It’s fun to joke around like this, but the idea of working with Jack again makes anxiety bubble up in my stomach. The same fears that plagued me on Gatsby bounce around in my head: How would we handle being in a relationship in front of an entire cast and crew? Would anyone be able to take me seriously?
I let the comment lie. “Well, it looks like you found your passion project.”
“This right here is my passion project.” He squeezes my thigh, and my cheeks warm.
“What about you?” He seems nervous for my answer.
“I don’t know if you mean work or us,” I reply, considering what to say next. “But this —us—it’s so much more right and real than I could’ve hoped.”
“Because I’m a fake celebrity type?”
“Because I’ve never had this before. You know, life hardly ever feels like the movies, which has been a great disappointment as a cinephile.” I laugh. “My other relationships have been... pleasantly convenient. Or with guys who seem like they’d be right for me but turn out not to be. But us, and this... meeting you when I least expected it, twice ... that’s cinematic.”
“And you don’t even have to build a bar,” he says.
“And you don’t have to do costume fittings.”
“ I get to be your set piece.” He beams and kisses my temple, and when my phone dings from the coffee table, he passes it to me. A photo from Stuart of Agnes curled up asleep on the couch. When I turn my screen to show it to Jack, he gives me a restrained smile.
“What?” I ask.
“When are you going to let me meet them?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him, honestly. I look down at my hands, interlaced between my legs, Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner so long forgotten that a screensaver has taken their place.
“I don’t want to pressure you. I really don’t. I know that this is a very big thing, for Agnes to know me. But it also feels like... well, they’re over there, and I’m over here, and you and I can’t be together until we’re all together. They’re this giant piece of who you are. And I want—I need—to know all of you.”
“We’re very together.” I shake my head. “But you’re... not wrong. And I want you to meet them, to know that part of me. It’s just...”
“What can I do?” Jack asks with raw vulnerability.
“You’re doing everything.” I run my finger along his lips. I can’t explain it to him because I can’t quite admit it to myself: that bringing Jack home, for me, feels permanent.
I hit play on the movie and move my head to his lap.