Love Like the Movies

by Victoria Van Tiem

  “More than okay, Ellie-bell,” I mumble to myself.

  “And he said he doesn’t know if he believes her about the pregnancy, like that changes anything. Did you know Bradley and Tonya used to be a thing before you worked here?”

  No. I knew they were good friends, but I never put it together.

  “I’m sure you did, but that’s still no excuse. And then to hook up again? I don’t care if it was when you guys were fighting. She’s a bitch. Oh, your mom called here, too, very ups—”

  The message ran out of time and cut her off. My heart beats wildly as I’m face-to-face, again, with my so-called life. I wipe my falling tears and click off my phone.

  A baby.

  Sliding completely under the quilt, I cover my face with my hands. In While You Were Sleeping, Peter Gallagher’s character asked Lucy to marry him by saying, My family loves you. I may as well love you. Ridiculous reasoning, and yet isn’t that what I kinda did? Wasn’t that part of why I accepted Bradley’s proposal? The back of my throat tightens and the dam bursts from the pressure. Tears wet the insides of my palms, and I gasp for air in uncontrollable sobs.

  Peter in While You Were Sleeping says, It took a coma to wake me up. He meant to what was important, what was missing in his life. I wonder if one can help me forget. I just want to sleep and forget everything.

  “KENSINGTON?”

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, gently rocking me.

  “Kensington. Come on, sleepyhead.” It’s Shane. “You can’t sleep all day.”

  I fell back asleep? I didn’t even hear him come back. Pushing the stuck strands of hair from my cheeks, I open my eyes and squint. It’s bright, even under the quilt.

  “Sorry.” My voice is crackly. I clear it and try again. “What time is it?”

  “It’s afternoon.” The mattress sinks as he sits beside me. “Are you going to just stay under there all day?” he asks, tugging at the quilt so it pulls down an inch.

  Quickly, I yank it back and hold it secure. “Yes. Maybe.” That actually sounds like a good plan. One, I feel safer in here, and two, I can only imagine what I look like. So my hiding is as much for his benefit as my own.

  I hear him let out a breath. “Are you okay?”

  My thoughts are racing. “No . . .” I feel for my phone and push my hand out the top of the quilt, holding it. “I listened. I shouldn’t have.”

  I tell him everything from under my makeshift blanket shield. “I guess Bradley’s been over to Ellie’s place and even called my brother, who then called me. My mom’s crying. Bradley’s left a million messages and has been drinking. He’s now wondering if Tonya lied, if she’s really pregnant after all, and . . . I don’t know. It’s all a mess.”

  Such a mess.

  Shane shifts, causing me to roll slightly toward him.

  “Kensington, I can take you home. I’d understand if you want to deal with things. Originally, you were only going to stay for a day, but I had hoped . . .”

  I shouldn’t have listened. I should have just kept the world far and away, instead of shortening the distance with my stupid phone.

  I don’t want to go back. Everything’s waiting for me there, and it’s nothing good. I’m not ready. “I’d like to stay . . . unless . . .” My gut wrenches. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with this. Why would he? All my insecurities bubble to the surface. “I mean, I understand . . . if you don’t want to deal—”

  “I want you here, Kensington.” His voice is low. “I want you to stay.”

  Closing my eyes, I release my shoulders. He wants me here.

  “I was just out for a run, so let me grab a shower, and we can head over to the Carriage House, okay?” He stands and the mattress rises from the loss of pressure. “Oh, I picked you up a few things for later. I, ah, put them by the window. It’s actually quite a view, you should have a look. It’s the whole reason I chose this cottage.”

  I manage a thank you and stay covered until I hear running water. Pushing the quilt back, I look toward the bathroom. The door’s shut, so I sit up and finger-comb my hair. By the window is a small plastic bag with red lettering printed on the side. Video Max. He rented me movies. Bet he doesn’t have digital cable here.

  Wrapping the quilt around my shoulders, I pad over to investigate. When Harry Met Sally and Never Been Kissed. Some of the best romantic comedies are less about the movie boyfriend you swoon over, and more about the heroine you relate to. A small smile creeps across my lips. A night hanging with Meg Ryan, and Drew Barrymore as Josie Grossie, is perfect.

  I glance toward the huge double window, curious. Instead of curtains it has two wooden shutters that swing to the inside. I unlatch the metal hook and pull them open.

  Oh. This is a view.

  Sunflowers for as far as you can see. Their yellow faces, smiling, turned toward the sun. We must be on a slight incline, because the drive curves down and around. The horizon is a blast of gold and green framed by rolling hills of tilled-up tan. It’s breathtaking.

  I wipe the dust at the window to see better, then fiddle with the windows to open them, but they’re swollen in the frames. I push harder until they pop free. The air bites, and I’m scolded by the birds as I swivel the windows out.

  I wrap myself tighter in the quilt and take a seat on the ledge. There’s a pair of ladybugs crawling toward me. It makes me think of Under the Tuscan Sun. When she says she was looking for ladybugs, but she could never find them. When she finally gave up looking, they were everywhere.

  Maybe I’ve been looking too hard. Trying too hard.

  Readjusting the quilt over my shoulders, I lean into the frame and look across the field of yellow. This would be the perfect spot to paint. I fill my lungs with crisp air and spot more ladybugs. Then I feel a tickle.

  What the . . .

  Something’s . . . oh! It’s crawling on me! I jump up, flinging the quilt and shaking out my cami top. It falls inside. The creepy little bug is inside! On me. Against my skin. I scream and try and knock him off so he’ll fall, but his little sticky legs are now gripped into my top. He won’t fall.

  Get the hell out! I’m shaking it violently. I yank off the cami and whip it across the room. I extend my arms in a mad inspection. I survey my front for any other intruders, then twist around to see my shoulders, my back, and—

  Shane’s leaning in the doorway.

  Embarrassed, I smile and draw my arms to cover my bare chest. He’s in only a towel and his hair is drenched and clinging to his neck and forehead in wet curls. I can’t help but notice the tattoo across his left shoulder and arm. That’s new. It’s black and tribal and dips in and out over each muscle.

  “Um, ladybug . . . it went down my shirt.”

  His grin is boyish, mischievous. “Lucky ladybug.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Seven Candles

  THE CARRIAGE HOUSE IS built into the side of a hill and is white on white with gray Indiana fieldstone on the lower level. The old barn has been completely refinished. It’s amazing. I’m really impressed, no, more than impressed.

  I’m gobsmacked.

  “Shane, this is . . . I mean, wow,” I say, as we climb the last few steps to the upper deck along the back. Twinkle lights hang from the pergola, giving the tables below a guaranteed starry night.

  Shane’s walking ahead of me with a wide grin that reaches his eyes and causes crinkles along their sides. “We’ll have enough seating for regular dining inside and out. But the best part . . .” Shane unlocks the huge double barn doors and slides them open on their tracks. “Is in here.”

  The space is still under construction and huge with exposed post-and-beam throughout. We’re level with a partial loft and a full two-story screen resides along the back wall.

  “The kitchen is below us and the murals—your murals—” Shane’s pointing to the bare walls along either side “—will be hung throughout. Come on.”

  I follow Shane downstairs. My eyes are still puffy from all the waterworks, and I wa
sn’t able to get much breakfast down. I’m still not sure what I’m doing here or really in general, but I’m grateful for the distraction and in awe of his accomplishment. He always had big ideas, and I knew, of course about the Carriage House, but to see it actually in development is amazing. He’s really doing it. Maybe he has grown up.

  Shane lights up while he shows me the kitchen, adjoining dining area, and theater. I like seeing him like this. Even though his jeans are well worn and his hair’s a glorious mess, he’s never looked better. Well, maybe in the towel earlier.

  My eyes fall to the empty spaces designed to house the murals. My work, my murals, will be . . . everywhere. A small flitter of excitement finds its way to the surface. Then it slams my heart. My mouth hangs open and I blink, not believing my eyes.

  “No way. No frickin’ way!”

  In the hallway three stretched canvas paintings hang. They’re mine.

  The same ones Shane printed from my Facebook gallery and that hang in the conference room at work. The two figurative illustrations of couples and the close-up portrait in reversed color blocking, the same ones missing from under my Kensington box.

  Mom didn’t throw them away.

  I had them flat for storage. He had them stretched? They’re hung at eye level with a single light illuminating each one. They look . . . beautiful.

  I glance at Shane. He loops his thumbs in his jeans pockets and leans against the wall; a small twinkly smile plays on his lips. I’m floored.

  “But how? How did you get them? When?” My mind spins around the implications. My chin lowers to a slight angle, eyes darting between my work and him.

  “I stopped at your parents, about a month or so before the agency meeting. Had lunch with your dad, actually.”

  My head kicks back. “What?”

  “I popped by and, well, we started talking.”

  “You ‘popped by,’ why?”

  He smiles and shakes his head, as if the question didn’t make sense. “To see you. It was never my intention to show up out of the blue at your office. And I told you, when I started developing the Carriage House concept, it was largely in part because of you. So I came by to see if you’d be interested in developing the concept with me.” A soft smile turns at the corners of Shane’s lips. “And it was a legitimate reason to see you.”

  “And then what? One lunch with Dad and you changed your mind?” The thought steals my breath. “Don’t tell me he told—”

  “No. No, quite the opposite. He was a gracious host and we enjoyed a long conversation. I told him my business plans, he told me where you worked, I was considering hiring your agency, and how my concept was based on your paintings, your love of cinema . . . and well, when I dropped him back he found them for me.”

  “He gave them to you?”

  He laughs. “I didn’t intend to keep them, only use them to demonstrate what I was looking for in the first concept meeting, but well, I rather like them here . . .”

  I’m confused. “You used printouts from my Facebook album.”

  “I know.”

  “And you never contacted me—well, on Facebook—but you never said anything about—”

  “I know.”

  My hands are raised, he’s not explaining. “Shane . . . ?”

  “Your father told me you were engaged, so . . .” He shifts position, leaning his shoulder on the wall. “I, I don’t know. Didn’t want to overstep.”

  I laugh softly, wrinkling my nose. “I’d say you kinda—”

  “That was after I saw you with him, and . . .” His lips press into a hard line, his entire expression falling cold. “He didn’t deserve you. Gloves came off.”

  I step back, soaking in his words and remembering Ren’s. Your mom was really upset when you left. Your parents got into a fight. That’s why Mom was ignoring me, and they didn’t say anything because Bradley was there. She must’ve been angry at Dad and oh, guilt drops heavy in my heart. And she probably didn’t bring it up on the phone because, well, she didn’t really want Shane back in the picture. Mom’s firmly in Bradley’s corner. Is she still?

  “So yes, I still have your paintings. Really love them. I hadn’t found the right time to—”

  I walk over and surprise him with a kiss on his cheek, and smile. “You bought my chairs.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, but if it makes you happy, then yes, okay, I bought your chairs.”

  My smile widens. “The movie Phenomenon, remember that one?”

  His eyes narrow a smidgen in thought. I don’t wait for an answer.

  “Lace, Kyra Sedgwick’s character, makes these chairs, all kinds, and tries to sell them. And all at once, they start to sell, so she makes more.” I’m not sure he remembers the movie, but I keep going. “It was John Travolta’s character, George. He bought them all. In fact, his whole yard was full of them.” I shrug, my movie-spiel recap winding down, and nod to my paintings hanging on display. “You bought my chairs.”

  “So I did.” Shane smiles warmly, then straightens. “I’ll be right back, why don’t you have a seat,” he says, motioning to a large booth. He disappears into the kitchen.

  From speakers tucked along the walls, music kicks on and Shane appears with . . . I puzzle my brows. “What is that?” Flowers. A circle of flowers?

  “This is for you,” he says, placing it on my head with exacting care.

  With him standing so close, the scent of his aftershave fills my nose. It’s a familiar mix of woodsy and Shane. My hands immediately pull the flowers from my head so I can see them. They’re wild and wound loosely to form a wreath of pink and white. I smile, brows knitted. What is he doing now?

  “Nope.” Shane takes it back, replaces it on my head, and pulls down securely. With a final adjustment, his hands fall. But his gaze still lingers. “That needs to stay there, and hang on . . .” He disappears again to the back.

  My fingers touch the flower wreath on my head. A small smile forms on my lips as my eyes again rest on my paintings illuminated by soft light in the hall. On display. Not in a drawer, but up for everyone to see. Tears pool on my lower lashes.

  Music starts playing through the sound system. It’s . . . “If You Leave” by OMD. Fiddling with my jacket’s cuffs, I hum along to the song. I haven’t heard it in years. Seven years went under the bridge, like time was standing still . . .

  It has been seven years . . . Funny, and the next line asks what will happen now? That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?

  My phone vibrates again from my pocket. It’s been buzzing all day. Fishing it out, I’m firmly restating the rules in my head. I can’t listen to any messages. I will only look at the screen.

  Three missed calls.

  I scroll and see two from Ellie and one from Bradley. Instead of listening, I open my e-mails to view the Love Like the Movies list. I know he’s up to something.

  1. Sleepless in Seattle

  2. Pretty Woman

  3. Bridget Jones’s Diary

  4. 27 Dresses

  5. Dirty Dancing

  6. Sixteen Candles

  7. Love Actually

  8. Say Anything

  9. You’ve Got Mail

  10. My Best Friend’s Wedding

  It’s number 6. When I see Shane round the corner from the kitchen, it confirms it. I’m wearing a flower wreath, “If You Leave” is playing, and . . . He’s walking in with a birthday cake. My heart floats high in my chest like a balloon.

  This is Sixteen Candles.

  And it’s surreal.

  Shane smiles. “You need to be sitting up there, I believe.” He nods to the wooden table. “Legs crisscrossed.”

  My throat tightens, and I already have tears as I climb up. Folding my legs, I adjust my skirt over them. In the movie, Samantha’s birthday is eclipsed by her sister’s wedding. I feel like my wedding was overshadowed by Ren’s baby announcement. I’m invisible. No one cares, and my big moments don’t matter. And here’s Shane, just like the handsome Jak
e Ryan, doing all of this for me. Just for me.

  Placing the cake in front of me, he steps up on the booth then slowly lowers his weight onto the table. “Okay. Good. Wasn’t sure it would actually hold me.”

  I laugh through my tears and gaze at him across from me.

  Shane smiles crooked. “Thanks for coming over.”

  “Thanks for . . . coming to get me.” The movie lines are swallowed by my breath. I give a closed-mouth smile, choked by emotion.

  Wiping under my eyes, I clear my throat and watch Shane light the candles. There’s . . . two, four, six . . . “Seven? You have only seven candles.”

  Honey-gold eyes flick to mine. He leans in close and says softly, “I only missed seven birthdays.”

  My stomach flutters. I was twenty-three when he left. Seven years ago. Seven birthdays. A lifetime between then and now. But like the song says, it’s like time has stood still.

  “Happy birthday, Kensington. Make a wish.”

  My gaze drops from his to the cake because I remember the line. The scene.

  The kiss.

  I’m glowing from within. Little nervous butterflies are attracted to the inner light. They may be too close. They could get singed.

  Gazing up through my lashes, I bite my lip and debate if I should say the line, knowing what follows. Knowing I’m not quite ready. Not knowing what he expects.

  But he doesn’t give me the chance.

  Placing a hand in front of him for support, he leans over and delivers it. “Mine already came true.” It comes out low, in a breath, his lips a whisper away.

  After a beat, he places a slow, lingering kiss on my cheek that causes a frenzy of flutters. Anything more would have been too much. Anything less wouldn’t have completed the scene.

  There are no more lines.

  The credits simply roll over the still frame of Samantha and Jake, frozen in a kiss. The song’s hypnotic melody drones on in the movie, just as it is now. The viewer knows everything will be all right. That Samantha is fine. Someone finally sees her.