Love Like the Movies

by Victoria Van Tiem

  “Definitely, maybe,” Shane says and quirks a lopsided grin.

  Definitely, Maybe is another romantic comedy. Very funny. Mary Kate thought so. I venture back in with a new outfit. It’s a long, deep blue tank dress, with a super-high slit up the side.

  “You’ll like this one, honey. I set the shoes just outside the door.”

  I have no idea which Mary said that. I slip it on. It’s pretty; the material is soft to the touch and it drapes nicely.

  When I come out Shane’s leaning against the chair, sipping his coffee, eyes on me. I have his absolute attention. The weight of his stare makes me nervous, so I look down and smooth the dress.

  “Mercy,” he says, setting his coffee down.

  I laugh. He’s thinking of the song, too. I bet he would’ve brought the soundtrack had he known we’d be doing this one today. I’m still smiling.

  Shane’s eyes are locked in and holding my gaze as he walks over. I’m holding my breath. Newly emerged butterflies are testing their wings, causing an inner flittering sensation. He smiles and speaks low. “This one goes in the yes pile.”

  Warmth shoots through me from head to toe without my permission. I step back, almost knocked over by the feeling.

  Shane turns, holding up a credit card. “I have to go, but . . .” He looks at each of them. “Mary Kate, Mary Francis—”

  “I’m Mary Kate, she’s Mary Francis, remember?” She points to the other lady with a goofy smile plastered on her face and giggles, which makes me laugh in spite of myself.

  “Of course you are,” Shane says in his dry proper accent. “She needs a killer dress, shoes, and all the other intimate bits. I trust you’ll take good care of her?”

  They nod.

  “Good, well, she has my card.”

  There’s an awkward silence.

  “I said, she has my card, and you say . . .” Shane waves as if he’s cueing them. “And we’ll help—”

  “Oh!” They giggle and look at each other. “And we’ll help her use it!”

  “There we go,” Shane says laughing.

  Shane steps my way again, and the women busy themselves with sorting some of the dresses I had tried on, but I notice they’re both still in earshot, obviously listening.

  “Thank you,” I say and smile, embarrassed. “The diversion was . . . nice. I can pay, though. I mean, you don’t have to take it that far or—”

  “I insist. I want to. But I will ask something in return.”

  My nose wrinkles. “I’m not really a prostitute, remember?”

  I see the Marys over his shoulder share a look and a giggle. The corners of Shane’s lips pull up in a mischievous smile.

  “Well, then I guess I’ll have to ask you for something else.”

  I meet his eyes, not moving a muscle, almost afraid of what he might say. What is he going to say? I’m getting married. This is too much. I can’t—

  “A tie.”

  My head throws back. “A tie?”

  “Yes, I believe the beautiful Vivian buys Edward a tie, right?”

  I laugh softly, nodding. “Okay. I will . . . find you a tie.” That I can do. That’s not crossing any lines.

  Shane steps away, but pauses. “So I’m leaving for—”

  “Wait, you’re leaving?” He’s leaving again?

  “The farm. I don’t live here, remember? It’s about three hours out. I’m taking off from here, but I’ll be back late tomorrow, just ring if you need anything.”

  “Oh, right. Right, well, I’m sure I won’t, so . . .” I step back, creating even more distance between us. “And I should have something drafted up soon.” Because that’s what this is about . . . the account.

  Shane nods, starts toward the exit, but then turns and says the movie line loud enough for the Marys to hear. “You’re on your own, I have to go.” He flashes me a smile. “And you do look great.”

  Mary Kate runs after him to walk him out, asking if he’ll be back soon, and God knows what else, probably giving him her number. I watch him leave, in a complete daze.

  Mary Francis looks at me and shakes her head. “If you let that one get away, you don’t deserve him.”

  My stomach clenches. He let me go. “Oh, um . . . we’re not. I mean—”

  “I’ll take him,” says another woman from behind the dressing room door. I forgot she was back there.

  We all laugh.

  Okay, I admit it, I love this. The movie part. It’s all about the movie moments. I’m getting completely wrapped up in it, and I need to rein myself in, at least a little. Because right now, I do feel like Vivian. I do feel special. I wanna chase after Shane and declare, Big mistake. Big. Huge. And I’m not sure how I feel about that. It’s all pretty confusing.

  Gathering a few more dresses, I slip back into the dressing room. But instead of trying them on, I sit on the cushioned stool. Tears completely blur my vision, so I just close my eyes and lean against the wall. I can buy my own clothes, and this movie thing is about Shane’s concept, not me, but it strikes me personally.

  In the movie we sympathize with Vivian when she says, If people put you down enough, you start to believe it. Her words to Edward resonate in all of us, I think.

  Well, they do in me.

  And it’s not always obvious words that generate that feeling. Maybe it’s the lack of them, and the lack of action.

  Not good enough to merit a real conversation. My mom never talking to me about why she thought Shane wasn’t a good influence. Never really talking to me about anything.

  Not worth an apology. Tonya not caring how her actions hurt me. My mom’s excuse of “Well, it all turned out fine, now didn’t it?” That’s not “I’m sorry,” that’s “What does it matter? What do you matter?”

  An inconvenience to love. Blending my engagement party is just one example of doing what’s required, instead of being excited and happy to be doing it. My moments are wrought with guilt because they mean effort and cost on someone else’s part, and I’m made aware of this every time.

  “You okay in there, honey? Do you need a different size?”

  I sniff, wipe at my moist cheeks, then clear my throat. “Um, yeah. Do you think you could find me a yellow dress? Long?”

  She says something about being right back, and I hear her call for help in locating it. In the Pretty Woman shopping scene, it’s not really about the clothes, or how much they cost, or how great she looks. When Vivian leaves the store, she’s not only a pretty woman, she’s a different woman.

  It gets me every time.

  That’s why we root for her. We want Vivian to feel special. We need her to believe this about herself.

  I need to believe this about myself. Maybe I need things to be different.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  How to Lose Your Mind in Five Days

  BRADLEY WAS OUT ON a sales call when I got back to the office. He left a note at my desk saying he’d pick me up at six for the gym. Ugh, I don’t feel like going to the gym, but no way can I bail after missing last night, although after he pulled the whole six weeks’ thing, I could. I sent him a text saying we need to make a quick stop at my parents’ first.

  For some reason I can’t stop thinking about my original art pieces that Shane printed. I just want to see them, run my fingers against the canvas. Feel the raised texture. I don’t know . . . maybe bring them home to display.

  Wrapping up the last e-mails for the day, I stretch my hands and yawn, then jump up and head to the break room to fill my water bottle. I always forget to bring it to the gym. This way it will be in my bag.

  Ellie and Tonya are both sitting at the table. Great. I’m not in the mood to deal with two-face Tonz. I notice the mystery boobs photocopy is missing again from the bulletin board and shake my head.

  “They’re going to put up another one, Ellie-Bell,” I say, nodding to the space it usually occupies and positioning my bottle under the water cooler’s nozzle.

  “I don’t care. I just feel sorry for whoever
that poor girl is,” Ellie says and takes a bite of her salad. She’s trying to balance out our carb load from yesterday and is eating only green and yellow things for the next few days. “I didn’t have time to finish my lunch,” she says, when I notice.

  Tonya snorts and narrows her eyes. “They’ll never run out. One good master copy will keep us staring at copy-boobs for the rest of our lives. Who would get a tattoo there?” Tonya leans back in her chair and tips her head, “Wait, Ellie-belly, didn’t you get a tattoo?”

  Ellie darts her eyes to me as I sit down to join them. I’ve always suspected Tonya, but I could never prove it, so I’ve left it alone.

  “How are things with Shane Bennett’s account?” Ellie asks and takes another bite.

  She’s only changing the subject, but really? Do we need to be on this subject? “Fine. I’m still working on the layout, nothing worth mentioning.” I tighten the cap on my bottle again.

  “I was thinking of getting another tattoo. Maybe a heart,” Tonya says, looking right at Ellie, and points to her own breast. “Maybe, right about . . . hmm . . . here.”

  “So, you and Shane Bennett used to date, huh? He still seems to like you. Don’t you think?” Ellie says in a rush to me, swirling her fork in her salad.

  What is she doing?

  “Well, that explains the skulking around.” Tonya takes a sip of her drink and raises an eyebrow. “At least that’s what I heard.”

  “That’s what you heard?” My heart’s beating double time. My eyes narrow toward Ellie. Once you tell a secret to one person, it’s no longer secret. It’s like lighting the end of an extremely long fuse. You know that eventually the flame will travel the entire distance and then, with absolute certainty, blow up in your face. What did she tell her?

  Tonya leans on her elbows. “So, you and Shane again?”

  “What? No—” The words fly out in superspeed and are laced with snark. “I’m engaged, Tonya. I, unlike some people, don’t sneak around behind people’s backs and lie, pretending to be their friends.”

  Tonya’s face pales. Ellie nods toward the doorway. We all look. Terry from Sales is frozen with an empty coffee mug in his hands. He blinks and holds up his cup as if he’s asking permission. Ellie shrugs.

  We’re locked in a stare down waiting for Terry to leave. My nostrils are flared from my short breaths. It is taking everything in me not to smack her. Ellie’s eyes are wide, and she keeps shoving bites of salad into her mouth, maybe so she doesn’t say anything else. Good call. I may smack her, too.

  As soon as Terry’s out, I’m off. “Did you really think it wouldn’t come out what you did? That he wouldn’t tell me? How could you?”

  Tonya’s lips tighten into a hard line, and without a word, she gets up, opens the fridge, puts her water in the door and slams it. The whole thing rocks from the force, causing the plastic cups stacked on top to wobble. Then without a word she storms out. Unbelievable.

  I glare sideways at Ellie.

  “I only said he went looking for you and ended up helping. That you hung out yesterday.” She opens her mouth and quickly fills it with a forkful of lettuce. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Except it is. The thing about keeping a secret is you’re supposed to keep it secret. Ellie may just have accidentally launched the missile sequence that starts a domino effect of destruction.

  I lean over the table and speak sternly. “What if Tonya talks to Bradley about it and he gets all riled up? They’re close. She might. Then, what if Bradley says something to Shane and gets him all riled up and he bails? We need his account, Ellie.”

  “Kenz, I’m sorry. But I only said you hung out. That’s it, and it was work-related. You’re being paranoid.”

  Am I? I’m not so sure. Maybe that’s what guilt does to you. You wonder who knows what, and you become suspicious of everyone. I take a drink of my water and shake my head.

  How did I even get to this point? Last Sunday, Bradley and I were excited to show off my engagement ring and start planning the wedding. Then boom, Ren’s preggo. Shane’s back, my job’s at risk, and Tonya’s revealed as enemy number one. Add in an insinuated shotgun wedding, shared engagement party, and Mom . . . I don’t even know how to process Mom.

  My head drops into my hands. It’s been five days. Seriously, not even a week.

  BRADLEY AND I STOPPED AT my parents’ on the way to the gym. He’s downstairs talking with Mom and Dad and I’m digging through the closet in my old room, looking for my work from college.

  I dashed straight upstairs to avoid Mom. The Shane conversation cannot happen in front of Bradley, not with everything else going on.

  Balanced on Mom’s stool, I smack my hand around under my Kensington box on the closet shelf. I thought my paintings were underneath, but nope, there’s nothing. Where are they?

  Spinning around, I look to see where she could have stashed them. Climbing down, I push around a few more bins and boxes of scrapbook materials and supplies on the floor. Maybe they’re wedged in between? I still don’t see them. “Hey, Mom?” I jump up and lean into the hall. “Mom . . .”

  Their voices carry up, but they don’t hear me. “Mom,” I say again, trekking down the stairs.

  When I burst into the kitchen, I find Bradley and Dad at the table, Mom pouring Dad a refill on his coffee and Ren standing near the sink. Her long hair’s pulled back neatly in a ponytail and she’s casual in jeans. She nods with a soft smile.

  “Hi. Um, Mom, where’d you move my paintings from college?”

  “What, dear? I’m not sure what you mean.” She barely looks up. “Do you want cream? I bought some of the Irish kind you like,” she says to my dad, then looks to Ren. “How are you feeling?”

  Dad slides his cup out as Mom opens the fridge to retrieve the cream.

  “Hello?” It’s Grayson calling from the foyer. I hear the door click behind him. Since Grayson and Ren live down the street, they practically live here, too.

  “In here,” Mom calls out and pours enough cream to completely change the color of Dad’s coffee. “Ren, you should be sitting. You spend too much time—”

  “Mom, really, we only stopped in for a minute. They used to be under my box in my room. Remember?” The hairs on my arms have raised.

  Grayson pops in. “Hey, Bradley, saw your car. I didn’t get a chance to call you back, sorry. Crazy day. What’s up?”

  Bradley looks at me, then him. “How about I swing by tomorrow for an early lunch?”

  Grayson nods. “Great, yeah, just call me first to make sure I can break away . . .”

  I’m not listening. I’m focused on my mom as she busies herself putting dishes away. “Mom?”

  “What? Kensington . . . my word.” She stops and turns to face me, exasperated, a dish in each hand.

  My shoulders hike. “My paintings?”

  Her face screws up in confusion. “Anything that was yours is in that box.” She turns and places a drinking glass in the cupboard above her.

  “They were under the box. I had like five of them. Think. Did you move them somewhere?”

  Putting another glass away, she spins, a hand already on the next one in the dishwasher. “Well, if they’re not there, I’m not sure what to tell you. And to be honest, I could use the room in that closet, so if you want that box, maybe take it with you? Grayson, coffee? It’s a fresh pot.”

  “They’re gone?” Something coils up inside me. I was already livid, but now this? This is too much. “You got rid of them?” I’m yelling, shooting daggers at her from my eyes. I look at Dad. “You let her get rid of them? Those were from school, my work.” They were pieces of me.

  Bradley looks confused. Dad lifts his hands to show he has no idea what I’m talking about, Ren glances at me and opens her mouth to say something, but then Mom starts in.

  “Kensington, you can’t honestly expect me to keep track of your things from college, can you?” She shakes her head. “Did you want coffee?”

  That’s it?

  I
stumble back a step, speechless. She’s clueless. She doesn’t get it. “Grayson’s awards are still on display in the basement from high school, but my paintings? You threw out my paintings?” Forget stuffing them into a drawer, she trashed them. They’re gone.

  Just like she made Shane disappear.

  Without another word, I dash upstairs, taking two at a time. She didn’t even call and ask. I doubt she ever even looked at them. Hell, she doesn’t even know what I’m talking about. And yet she thought she knew what was best for me and Shane? She had no right. Tears work their way through my lashes. Everything’s blending together in one big mucky mess.

  On my toes, I dig at the base of my box to knock it closer to scootch it out.

  Hauling it downstairs, I pass by the kitchen. Grayson’s talking about sneaking in some golf with Bradley. Dad’s saying something to Ren about the nursery. I don’t stop.

  “I’m going.” That’s all I say. I’m not sure they even heard me. Right now, I don’t care. The box is balanced on my hip as I work the door. I don’t bother with closing it, I just storm to the car. I can hear Bradley behind me as I stomp down the walkway.

  “Kenz? Kenzi!”

  I’m already popping the back when he appears on the porch. He leans inside, momentarily. “Hey, Grayson, I’ll call you tomorrow. ’Bye, all.”

  I slam the trunk and meet Bradley’s confused look with one that says Don’t ask.

  He doesn’t.

  But he should’ve.

  THERE ARE UNSPOKEN RULES TO working out in a gym, a code that everyone adheres to. They’re not posted anywhere. But everyone knows them.

  First, there are the gym-world time zones. Early morning is for everyone, newbies, fitness experts, and the in between. Afternoon is for the diehards, competitive body builders and cardio queens. And evenings are for eye candy. The in-shape A-listers.

  Feel free to stare. You will be stared at. Workout optional.

  Well, I’m still worked up, so this workout’s necessary. Bradley and I arrive a little late because we stopped at my parents. Great, Tonya showed, probably because she booked a session with Troy.