I nod. He looks pleased and ducks into the row after me. I always sit four rows up from the center, and we have perfect seats tonight. The chairs are
classic red. The movie begins, and the title screen flashes up. “Ugh, we have to sit through the credits?” Rashmi asks. They rol first, like in all old films.
I read them happily. I love credits. I love everything about movies.
The theater is dark except for the flicker of blacks and whites and grays on-screen. Clark Gable pretends to sleep and places his hand in the center of
an empty bus seat. After a moment of irritation, Claudette Colbert gingerly plucks it aside and sits down. Gable smiles to himself, and St. Clair laughs.
It’s odd, but I keep finding myself distracted. By the white of his teeth through the darkness. By a wavy bit of his hair that sticks straight out to the side.
By the soft aroma of his laundry detergent. He nudges me to silently offer the armrest, but I decline and he takes it. His arm is close to mine, slightly elevated. I glance at his hands. Mine are tiny compared to his large, knuckly boy hands.
And, suddenly, I want to touch him.
Not a push, or a shove, or even a friendly hug. I want to feel the creases in his skin, connect his freckles with invisible lines, brush my fingers across the inside of his wrist. He shifts. I have the strangest feeling that he’s as aware of me as I am of him. I can’t concentrate. The characters on the screen are squabbling, but for the life of me, I don’t know what about. How long have I not been paying attention?
St. Clair coughs and shifts again. His leg brushes against mine. It stays there. I’m paralyzed. I should move it; it feels too unnatural. How can he not
notice his leg is touching my leg? From the corner of my eye, I see the profile of his chin and nose, and—oh, dear God—the curve of his lips.
There. He glanced at me. I know he did.
I bore my eyes into the screen, trying my best to prove that I am Real y Interested in this movie. St. Clair stiffens but doesn’t move his leg. Is he holding his breath? I think he is. I’m holding mine. I exhale and cringe—it’s so loud and unnatural.
Again. Another glance. This time I turn, automatical y, just as he’s turning away. It’s a dance, and now there’s a feeling in the air like one of us should say something. Focus, Anna. Focus. “Do you like it?” I whisper.
He pauses. “The film?”
I’m thankful the shadows hide my blush.
“I like it very much,” he says.
I risk a glance, and St. Clair stares back. Deeply. He has not looked at me like this before. I turn away first, then feel him turn a few beats later.
I know he is smiling, and my heart races.
Chapter twelve
To: Anna Oliphant <[email protected]>
From: James Ashley <[email protected]>
Subject: Gentle Reminder
Hel o, honey. It’s been a while since we’ve spoken. Have you checked your voice mail? I’ve cal ed several times, but I assume you’re busy
exploring Paree. well , this is just a gentle reminder to cal your dear old dad and tell him how your studies are going. Have you mastered French
yet? Tasted foie gras? What exciting museums have you visited? Speaking of exciting, I’m sure you’ve heard the good news. The Incident
debuted at number one on the NY Times! Looks like I’ve stil got the magic touch. I’m leaving for a southeastern tour next week, so I’l see your brother soon and give him your best. Keep laser-focused on school, and I’l see YOU at Christmas.
Josh leans his lanky body over my shoulder and peers at my laptop. “Is it just me, or is that ‘YOU’ sort of threatening?”
“No. It’s not just YOU,” I say.
“I thought your dad was a writer. What’s with the ‘laser-focused’ ‘gentle reminder’ shit?”