Sweet & Wild

by Viv Daniels

  “So you took some time off,” she said snidely. “You spent thousands of dollars taking time off. Now what?”

  “I don’t know!” I screamed. Shit. Could Boone hear us? Mom would just die.

  “Exactly,” Mom said, as if I hadn’t yelled. She turned and started busying herself rearranging the fruit in the bowl on our marble island. “You still don’t know. And that’s what I told Mary Beth Connell. You have no particular aspirations. You have no plans.” She faced me and I saw raw hurt shining in her eyes. “Perhaps I should have been more discreet. But is that a fate worse than death to you, Hannah? To marry a man and raise a child? Is my life such a nightmare in your eyes?”

  Silence hung heavy as smoke in the kitchen. Everything I wanted to say was too tangled up with truths I couldn’t share. Growing up, I thought her life was perfect—that we three Swifts were the perfect little family. But now I knew the ugly truth behind all that perfection. How could I want her life, when I knew its price?

  And maybe when I’d dated Dylan, I’d let myself get caught up in his passions. After all, he was so enthusiastic about his own scientific ambitions—wasn’t it better to play support staff to someone who had real dreams than waste time spinning your wheels on your own? But all it had meant is that I wasted time on Dylan. He hadn’t loved me. I was an ornamental shell, good for advising him on a new wardrobe but not for sharing his life.

  Even when he’d broken up with me, there were no complaints. I was “nice,” I was “sweet,” we’d had “a lot of fun together,” but he didn’t see a future for us. Of course not. He’d seen a future for him and Tess.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Mom,” I said softly, “you know I love you, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I can respect your choices without wanting to make the same ones.”

  “Well, that’s fine, Hannah,” she said coldly. “But you do have to make some kind of choice.”

  Didn’t I know it. The only problem was that every option seemed like the wrong one.

  Twelve

  After dressing in my new jeans, a cute top, and a pair of sandals, I swiped on a coat of mascara and another of lip gloss, stuck some cash and condoms—just in case—in my purse, and sat down at my laptop to check the reactions to my Render review.

  Most of them seemed to be along the lines of “cool, I hadn’t heard of this film” and “sounds great; I hope it’s out on DVD soon.” Well, at least I was clueing in a few hundred new readers to its existence. Then I took a peek at my visitor stats and my jaw dropped.

  Eighty-four hundred new visitors since this morning? That was impossible. Until I checked my trackbacks and saw why. There were posts about Render on the SXSW blog, Fear.net and Bloody Disgusting news, musing that the budget flick was a shoo-in at several major film festivals and linking to my review as an example of the “raves” it had been garnering online.

  A new comment came through, this one from Sam Rowland. Or at least someone calling himself Sam Rowland.

  Hi, Final Girl. Thanks so much for coming to one of my previews and writing up the film. I wish I knew which one you’d attended because I would have liked to meet you in person. I love your blog. To answer your question, RENDER was not written as the first in a series, but never say never, right? If fans want it, I’ll be more than happy to bring back Fatty and the gang. Of course, it’s too late for some of them…

  Yeah, it wasn’t really him. “I love your blog?” Dead giveaway.

  I checked the email address of the commenter: sam@rendermovie.net. Well, anyone could put in any address they wanted, right? Probably just some troll trying to see how gullible I was.

  There wasn’t any more time to think about this anyway. The clock read 6:25, and I had to go out front to meet Boone before he did something crazy, like ring the doorbell.

  “I’m going out, Mom!” I called into the living room as I beelined for the door. She didn’t respond. Probably still mad, which meant it was even better that she didn’t see who I was going out with after I’d trashed her setup.

  Out front, Boone’s truck still sat in the Gardners’ driveway, but my date was nowhere to be seen. Should I just hang out on the front porch?

  I came down the walk to the driveway as if I was just taking a stroll, then realized my options were to pace like a caged tiger or keeping walking down the street and perhaps miss him. This was stupid. I should have just waited inside. I didn’t care if my Mom met Boone—

  “Hey there! Hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” I looked up to see Boone coming out the front door. He was clearly freshly showered and shaved, with new—albeit faded—jeans and a soft, button down shirt with a subtle stripe. The sleeves were rolled up past his wrists, showing off his nicely toned forearms.

  I was not aware that I was a forearm girl until this very moment.

  “You look nice,” I said, and hoped I didn’t sound as surprised as I felt.

  “Yeah, I clean up good, huh?” He smiled. “You look nice, too.”

  “Thank you,” I said automatically. “Did Mrs. Gardner…let you shower at their place?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I told her I was going out.”

  That was kind of her. I don’t think my mom would be keen on letting the handyman get ready for a date at her house.

  “Okay,” he said. “I looked to see what was playing, and I think I’ve got a few options.”

  Right. The movies. We were supposed to go to the movies. I joined him at his truck, where he’d pulled up listings on his phone.

  “You said you liked bloody movies, but I don’t know if you meant action or horror.”

  I stared at him. “When did I say that?”

  “Last week. When you went to the movies alone.”

  I cannot believe he remembered that.

  “Were you just joking?” Boone said. “Because I could totally do a comedy or something. Just no, like, Jane Austen period pieces or whatever, please.”

  “No,” I said happily. “I love bloody. If you’re up for it.”

  Boone grinned. “You’re full of surprises, Hannah.”

  So was Boone. I can’t believe he remembered that offhand comment I’d made, long before he even knew my name. Together, we perused the listings. The problem was, I’d seen almost everything out, either by streaming it early on VOD or Hulu, or going on the first day of release.

  “This one’s good,” I pointed to a listing. “It’s found-footage style.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Like The Blair Witch Project and stuff. Like someone found the video after the fact and edited it.”

  “Look at you, down with the lingo. I had no idea I was out with a horror movie expert.”

  No. He had no idea.

  “And it’s at Town Square Cinema, too. It’s this old restored theater downtown. Really beautiful. Plus they serve beer and wine.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  We hopped in the truck and drove downtown. I loved the Town Square Cinema, but I hadn’t been since I got back from Europe, mostly because it was right across the street from Verde.

  At the box office, we both pulled out our wallets at the same time.

  “Let me,” I said. “You bought the drinks out on the island.”

  Boone frowned. “But I asked you out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So what, you’re going to give me some line about how your daddy didn’t raise you to let girls pay for dates?”

  “No,” he stated curtly. “My father most certainly did not raise me that way.”

  Something in his tone stopped me, and before I knew it, he’d paid for our tickets.

  “Fine,” I said, sticking my wallet back in my purse. “But I’m getting snacks.”

  He laughed and sneaked his hand around my waist. “Great. I like those sour gummy things.”

  “Eww,” I replied with mock disdain. “Popcorn is the only true movie snack.”

  He considered this. “You’re right. Popcorn goes better with beer.”

 
; So we got popcorns and drinks and settled into our seats to watch the movie. The theater was only about a third full, which was pretty common during the summer, when school was out. Since it was my second time, I knew where all the scares were going to come in. I figured this time I could concentrate on studying the filmmaker’s chosen angles and pacing, but soon enough, I found myself caught up in the action of the movie, gasping and flinching along with everyone else in the audience.

  “I thought you said you liked gory movies,” he whispered, after I nearly jumped out of my seat at one shot.

  “I do,” I replied. “I like being scared.” Onscreen, black worms exploded from a character’s face and everyone in the audience screamed, including Boone and me. By the end of the movie, he’d given up all pretense of acting cool, and was holding tight to my arm and squeezing hard at every scare.

  Afterward, we walked out of the theater hand in hand, while Boone peppered me with questions about what we’d seen.

  “I just don’t know why she’d go back in there. I mean, she knew the monster was still alive.”

  I shrugged. “Horror movie characters aren’t known for their excess of brains.”

  “Wouldn’t it be even scarier if they were very smart and still couldn’t figure out a way to escape?”

  “Well yes,” I reasoned. “But then we wouldn’t get to feel superior and like we’d be able to make it out alive where they didn’t.”

  “Is that why people love it?”

  “No,” I said. “I think we just like to be scared.”

  “Are you hungry?” Boone asked. “I’m surprisingly hungry, despite the amount of guts I just saw splattered across the screen.”

  “I could eat,” I said.

  As we walked, I started to explain to him about the tropes of the genre, and I was so involved that I barely realized where we were until he was holding the door open.

  I stopped dead on the threshold of Verde. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” he echoed. “Something wrong?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I mean, no. It’s fine.” I could do this. Tess wasn’t even here.

  We were seated quickly. With school being out, Verde wasn’t the usual mad crush of students, though I definitely saw a few familiar faces from the Canton campus. While I kept an eye out for people—and servers—I knew, Boone was taking in the cool glass ceilings and living trees that lined the aisles between booths.

  “This place is awesome. Like a greenhouse turned restaurant.”

  “Hence the name.” I pretended to look at the menu, though I’d memorized it eight months ago, when I’d come to Verde every day to stalk my half sister.

  Boone glanced at the menu, then closed it and leaned forward over the table. “So how long have you liked scary movies?”

  I shrugged. “Always?”

  “I’ll bet. I’ve never seen you so excited, and, if you recall, I’ve seen you pretty excited.”

  I blushed and kicked him under the table. “It’s just a stupid movie.”

  “Not to you,” Boone pointed out. “You know all the jargon. Found footage and final girl and all the rest of it.”

  It’s just a stupid movie. I swallowed and looked back at the menu.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and I could tell he was leaning back in his seat. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. I took a deep breath, closed the menu and looked up. “I…” Oh, for heaven’s sake, Hannah, just spit it out. Boone didn’t even have a computer, probably. He wasn’t going to out me. “I have a blog. It’s called The Final Girl. I review horror movies on it.”

  “Really?” his eyes lit with interest. “That’s so cool. How long have you been doing that?”

  “A few years,” I said. My chin seemed to tuck into my chest. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

  “Why do you keep saying that?” he asked.

  “Because it is. Everyone has a blog.”

  “I don’t have a blog.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  But Boone refused to accept that. “You obviously like doing it, if you’ve been doing it for so long. Do you get readers?”

  “A few. Well, a lot today. I reviewed this new movie coming out that’s getting all kinds of buzz.”

  “That’s great!”

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “I’m one of the only people who has actually seen it, so people are linking to my review.”

  “That’s great, too,” he said. “You have an exclusive.”

  Thankfully, I was saved the trouble of explaining how little any of that actually mattered as our server showed up to take our order. Boone ordered the burger and I had my regular salmon salad, hold the nuts.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I asked, after the waitress was gone. “I don’t really talk about my blog. It’s just something I do in private.”

  “Would you like to talk about other things you do in private?” Boone asked wickedly. “Or, in our case, not so private?”

  I kicked him under the table again.

  “Okay, one more question, and then I’ll stop bugging you,” he said, holding up his hands in defeat.

  “Fine.”

  “Canton has a film department, right? Why don’t you major in that?”

  I shook my head. “Film studies in college isn’t just watching movies. It’s a lot of theory and history and watching ten-hour-long silent epics of German expressionism.” I’d tried taking a few classes freshman year, but the whole department was filled with beret-wearing snobs who thought horror began and ended with Alfred Hitchcock.

  “So, what you’re saying is it’s like work.”

  “Yes.”

  “Whereas your blog is just fun.”

  “Yes.”

  Boone nodded. “Okay. That’s cool. I was just wondering.”

  Our waitress returned with drinks, and as Boone took a sip of his beer, it struck me that saying I didn’t want to study film at Canton because it was too much like work was a pretty rotten thing to say to a guy who worked on a roof with tar in the middle of summer.

  “I think what I mean is, I didn’t like the film department. I like movies, but I don’t want to be a movie academic or anything.”

  “I totally get it,” Boone said. “I didn’t even go to college, so you don’t have to make excuses to me.”

  “Did you want to go to college?” I asked, taking a sip of my wine.

  Boone looked down into his beer. “There was a time I thought I’d go,” he said. “But my life kind of went in a different direction.”

  “How so?”

  He hesitated, as if weighing his words. “I left home pretty young,” he said. “And I lived on my own for a while.” He glanced up at me, as if checking my reaction.

  I kept my face neutral. “Oh.”

  “I thought a lot more about keeping fed than anything else.”

  “How young were you?” I asked softly.

  “Fifteen.”

  My God, I couldn’t imagine. While I’d been taking cotillion classes and tennis lessons and fancy trips with my parents in the summer, he’d been a teen runaway.

  I reached across the table and covered his hand with my own. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “It was the right choice.”

  “I’m sorry,” I clarified, “for whatever happened that forced you into that position. And also, I’m really amazed at how awesome you turned out despite it all.”

  He smirked at me. “You think I’m awesome?”

  “You know I do.” This time, when my foot found his leg under the table, it wasn’t to kick his shin, but to slide my instep up his calf. He caught my ankle between his legs.

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  A server came by, set down our food and departed.

  “Oh no,” Boone said. “They put the nuts on your salad.”

  They did that a lot, no matter how careful I was when ordering. I started looking around for the waitress, b
ut Boone picked up my plate and headed toward the bar.

  “Stay here. I’ll fix it for you.”

  I sat back against my seat. He remembered the nuts, he remembered the movies. He insisted on paying, even though he must know a couple of movie tickets were nothing to me. My bit of rough was acting very, very sweet.

  “Hannah! You’re back in town!” I was stirred from my thoughts by a big, booming voice. I looked up to see Todd Hamilton standing over me, looking every inch the douchebag I knew he was. Whenever Todd was around, I felt the strange desire to put a blanket over my head. He didn’t just look at you. He licked you with his eyes.

  “Hi, Todd,” I said. “And yes, I live here.” Freshman year, Todd had hit on me more times than I cared to count. Once, he’d hooked up with a girl down the hall from my freshman year dorm room, and when I caught him in our shared bathroom the next morning, he told me he was “willing to make it a twofer.” Yuck.

  “We should hang out.” He leaned on the back of my booth, staring down at me like he could see right down my top. Actually, maybe he could. I tugged on the neckline. “You’re not with that Dylan guy anymore.”

  “No, she’s not,” said Boone. Todd swiveled his head to see Boone standing next to him, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set. There was a fresh plate of salad in his hand. “But tonight, she’s with me.”

  Thirteen

  I’d seen enough movies in my life to know exactly how this would go. Todd, being the douchebag he was, would make some kind of crack, and then Boone would utilize some of the skills he’d learned on the streets and some of the muscles he’d acquired doing manual labor to knock Todd flat.

  Now there’d be a story that might even get the Verde staff to stop talking about that time last year I’d stalked a waitress here.

  “Excuse me,” Boone said, and moved into Todd’s space to set my salad plate down in front of me.

  “Watch it, buddy,” Todd huffed. Uh-oh. Here it comes.

  But Boone just sat down at his own seat, unfolded his napkin and put it on his lap.