Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

“Good morning, sunshine.”

I walked into the kitchen and rolled my eyes as Leo grinned at me from where he was sitting on the counter in SpongeBob pajama pants and a hoodie, eating a bowl of cereal. The weekend had gone by way too fast, and I wasn’t quite ready for Monday to be here yet.

I’d spent the weekend editing the player intros and making some Reels, so I was in desperate need of another day to catch up on my studies.

“How long have you been up?” I asked.

I liked getting up early to run before class every day, but Leo liked getting up at four a.m. every day because of no reason. He simply liked tacking extra time onto my morning, he said, which made sense on paper but not when it came time to crawl out from under comfy blankets.

“Since, like, four fifteen,” he said, shrugging. “Slept in today.”

“Uh-huh.” I pressed the power button on the Keurig and walked over to the fridge, opening the door to grab my yogurt. “Did you get my rent?”

I usually Venmoed my rent payment to him, but since my grandma gave me a wad of have-fun-at-college money when I visited her last month, I stuck the cash under his door this time.

“Yeah,” he said offhandedly, and it still blew my mind that it didn’t matter to him.

At all.

Leo, who was the sweetest, most thoughtful human, didn’t really think about money because he’d never had to. It was bizarre, the thought of growing up that way. I’d never been poor, but I’d also been very aware throughout my childhood that there were a million things we couldn’t afford.

Honestly, I still woke up every morning and squealed a little that I was somehow living in a really nice apartment for the same amount I’d been paying for the dorms.

But for Leo, it was the norm.

“I was thinking we should get a cat,” he said, looking dead serious.

I grabbed the tiny jar of Oui and shut the fridge. “Isn’t this a pet-free building?”

“Come on, we all see the dog walkers on the elevators and know it’s just for show,” he said. “I want a fat tabby.”

“Aren’t your raccoons enough?” I grabbed a spoon and climbed onto one of the stools.

“Watching them through a window is far different than snuggling them,” he said.

“True,” I said, shrugging. “And I’m game. I miss my cat.”

“You should send for him,” Leo said, his face breaking into an excited grin. “Fitzpervert can be besties with Bridget.”

“You’re going to name your cat ‘Bridget’?”

“I will if Mr. Fitzpervert is coming to live with us.”

“No cats,” Campbell said, stumbling into the kitchen. Her long curls were sticking up everywhere, and she was wearing a cropped shirt that said FUCKET and a pair of boxers. “They pee on your stuff, and the apartment will smell like litter.”

“You grinch,” Leo growled. “Butt out.”

“I hate cats,” she said, walking toward the Keurig. “I think I might be allergic.”

“Liar.” I pulled the lid off my yogurt.

“Speaking of liars,” she said, turning to point her finger at me. “I thought you said that you and Wes Bennett just ‘casually dated’ for a couple months in high school.”

“Yeah, so…?” I stuck my spoon into my yogurt. “What about it?”

“AJ Powers is my lab partner, and he assumed that I knew that you and his roommate were ‘madly in love’ your freshman year at UCLA.”

“What?” I didn’t even know what to say—what to think—as she looked at me like I was a sneaky liar. How did he know that—had Wes said something? “What did he say?”

“We were talking about the party and how fun it was at Fat Sal’s afterward when I totally faced Wade with a map of the United States,” she said, opening the coffee maker and putting a pod inside. “And when I mentioned you, he goes, ‘It’s wild that they were madly in love their freshman year and now they’re like strangers.’ ”

My breath got stopped up in my chest. “Why does he think we were ‘madly in love’?”

“Holy crap,” Leo said, hopping off the counter and coming closer. “Was Miss Anti-Romance madly in love?”

“Shhhhhh, what else did he say?” I asked, even as my logical brain screamed it doesn’t matter!

Had Wes told his roommate that we’d been madly in love?

Had he said it recently?

Because I was still a little… unsettled by his interview, by how quickly we’d fallen back into what felt like us. The second I let my guard down and stopped focusing on how much I hated him, there he was, lying back in the grass and making me laugh.

Totally unacceptable. Had I learned nothing from everything that happened?

“Well, I didn’t want him to know that he knew more than me,” Campbell said, turning around and shrugging. “So I just kind of said ‘yeah, wild’ and we moved on. But I want the whole story.”

“Yeah, me too,” Leo agreed, nodding. “Tell us the story.”

“We all deserve to know,” I heard from behind me. Apparently Clark was up too, because he said, “Especially me, your boyfriend.”

“Gaaaah, I don’t want to talk about it,” I squealed, no longer hungry for yogurt. Or anything. “The short story is that we dated in high school, went away to college together, but then he almost immediately moved back home because his dad died, and then we broke up. The end.”

“That isn’t a short story,” Clark said, breezing past me on his way to the fridge for his daily morning Red Bull. “That’s a lame-ass run-on sentence. You’re going to allow us each three questions, or Leo will evict you.”

“What in God’s name are you wearing?” I asked offhandedly, because it looked like Clark was wearing an old lady’s purple housecoat.

“An old lady’s purple housecoat,” he replied. “It’s vintage Kmart that I thrifted and am in love with, so please refrain from disparaging my garment.”

“Why are you in love with it?” Campbell asked. “And I don’t mean that disparagingly—I’m just curious.”

“I appreciate the clarification, and I love it because it feels like I’m just walking around in my underpants, yet I’m covered enough that I can drink coffee on the balcony.”

“Can I try it?” Leo asked, looking intrigued by that description.

“It’ll be huge on you,” Campbell answered. “You’re like a foot shorter than him.”

“Yeah, hands off my housecoat.” Clark opened the refrigerator, grabbed a Red Bull, and shut the door. “Now, my three questions.”

“Leo’s not going to evict me,” I said, rolling my eyes, absolutely unwilling to discuss Wes with them.

“Just answer the damn questions.” Campbell crossed her arms and said, “Number one.”

“I’m first,” Clark interrupted, nudging her over with his hip. “Number one. Why did you break up?”

“Yeah, why?” Campbell repeated, nudging back.

I don’t want to focus on this when I have an entire day in front of me, dammit. I shrugged and said, “I thought we were good, and then one day he just said he didn’t want to do the long-distance thing anymore.”

“So he broke up with you?” Leo asked, squeezing in front of them both. His blue eyes were huge as he said it, like it was impossible to believe.

“Yes.” I swallowed and wasn’t going to think about it as anything more than a general “we broke up” story.

“What an idiot,” Campbell said at the same second Clark said, “What a dick.”

But then Leo ruined my ability to disconnect with his next question.

“Oh my God,” he said, looking disgusted. “Since you were long distance, please tell me he didn’t do it over the phone like a total ass-weasel.”

“He did,” I said, inhaling through my nose, trying to remain in the present, but the comment sent me right back to the past.

Because yes—he definitely did it over the phone.

October

Two Years Ago

Wes: Are you home right now?

I was sitting at the desk in my dorm room when he texted, reading The Awakening for American Lit. I got that instant rush of happy dopamine when I saw his name on my phone—WESSY MCBENNETTFACE—just like I did every single day since he’d moved home, and I set down the book and stood.

Talking to Wes was best when I was comfy.

I ran over to my bed, plopped onto my stomach, and texted: I am home and am eagerly awaiting the sight of your face! 3-2-1…

In the weeks since he left, we’d fallen into a routine. I went to class all day and he went to work, and as soon as he got home, we basically FaceTimed with each other all night until one of us—or both—fell asleep on the call.

I missed him so much, and nothing was the same with him gone, but the fact that I could still see him all the time, and talk to him, made it work.

But instead of hearing the familiar “incoming FaceTime” sound, my phone actually started ringing. He was calling me? I answered on speaker with, “Did you forget how to FaceTime?”

“No.” I heard him clear his throat, and then he said, “I just thought it might be better to call you today.”

“But whyyyy?” I teased, rolling onto my back and looking up at the ceiling. “I miss out on seeing your dumb face if we talk on the phone the way our ancestors used to. What are we, boomers now?”

“We need to talk, Liz, and—”

“Don’t you know that you can’t use the expression ‘we need to talk’ in daily conversation?” I teased.

He sounded stressed, which wasn’t unusual since his dad died, but I was good at teasing him into relaxing. Lately he seemed distant when I called, but I wasn’t taking it personally because life kind of sucked for his family at the moment. I joked, “Movies have made those words a no-no. Maybe say… ‘guess what’ instead, or perhaps ‘let’s have some wonderful discourse, Lizzie.’ Anything is better than ‘we need to talk.’ ”

He sighed, and it hurt my heart that he was having a rough day.

But then he snapped, “But we do need to talk.”

I sat up, immediately knowing this was different. He sounded nothing like himself, not like the Wes he was with me. He sounded… detached.

Clinical.

Like a stranger.

Stop overthinking, I told myself, staring down at the flowers on my yellow sundress. Things are just tough for him right now.

But I knew in the back of my mind that he hadn’t even sounded like this on the day he’d gotten the call about his dad. He’d been devastated and sad, but he hadn’t sounded cold.

“Okay, so let’s talk,” I said calmly. There was no reason for me to feel the rising panic that had my heart racing. “What’s up?”

I heard him take a deep breath, and then he said, “This long-distance thing just isn’t working for me.”

“What?” I had no idea what he meant by that. “What do you mean?”

“I can’t do this anymore, with you on the other side of the country and me back here,” he said, blurting it out like he’d practiced it a thousand times. Like he’d been thinking about this a lot. “It just feels like we’re delaying the inevitable.”

“What are you saying? What’s inevitable? Do you want me to move back?” My hands were shaking as I tried keeping up with words that didn’t make sense. Last night, we’d fallen asleep together on the phone while watching a Friends marathon, and just the other day he’d randomly texted at three in the morning to tell me how much he loved me.

So he definitely wasn’t, like, breaking up with me.

So what was he doing?

“Or are you talking about returning to school?” I asked. “I don’t know if—”

“I think we should take a break,” he interrupted, sounding frustrated.

“You do?” I felt all the blood rush from my face, and I could hear my heart beating in my ears as his words kept echoing in my head. I think we should take a break.

“It just doesn’t work, living separate lives. I think it’s better if we both just do our own thing and move on.”

“Move on?” I felt like I couldn’t breathe. “Are you breaking up with me, Wes?”

Even though it was obvious, I was somehow still utterly shocked when he said, “Yes.”

I gasped.

“Oh,” I managed, incapable of anything more. My throat was tight as I blinked back tears, as I tried figuring out how this was happening.

Wes is breaking up with me.

“Please know that it isn’t you, Lib,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re amazing and perfect, but it’s just not meant to be for us anymore.”

I wanted to say something, to scream You’re wrong! What are you doing?!, but I couldn’t speak. There were a thousand sobs inside me, filling my throat and making it too tight for words. I couldn’t see the flowers on my dress anymore, the tears blurring out everything but the California sun that was shining through the window, garishly mocking the moment with its brightness.

“I’m sorry, Lib,” he said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Through the haze of my shock and heartbreak, I saw a reason that made sense.

A reason that didn’t make it hurt any less, but I loved him, so I’d have to accept it.

I wiped at my cheeks and tried sounding like I was fine. “I know everything’s a mess right now, so it’s fine if you want to take a break from us while you’re dealing with all of it. I’ll still be here as your friend, and we can revisit the rest later.”

“No, Liz.” He made a noise, like an unhappy laugh or a groan, and then he said, “No.”

“No?”

“No, don’t you get it?” He sounded upset now. “I need a clean break. From us.”

I felt like I’d been slapped when he said that, like a part of me was being ripped away. “You don’t even want to be friends?”

“I think it’s best if we call it done and just walk away.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. I could forgive him for anything after what he’d just gone through, but I didn’t know how he could do this. How he could want this.

He was the center of my world; we were my center.

How could he be fine with not being in my life anymore?

God. He didn’t want me in his life anymore.

“Is this why you didn’t FaceTime?” I said, hating that he could hear I was crying but somehow unable to stop myself from asking. “Because you knew it’d be awkward as hell when I started crying?”

He didn’t say anything. I waited, but he didn’t say a word.

“Wes.”

“I have to go now,” he said, his voice thick and quiet. “I just… can’t…”

And then I watched through tear-blurred eyes as the call was dropped and his name disappeared from my phone’s display.

“Hello?” Campbell snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Where’d you go, Elizabeth?”

I blinked and felt like I’d just gone back in time. Literally. I gave my head a shake and said, “Ugh—to the bad place.”

“So what happened after that?” Leo asked. “He broke up with you, and then…?”

“Then I bawled my eyes out for a few months and moved on,” I said, as if it’d been that easy. “End of story.”

“What about him, though?” Clark asked. “He’s back at UCLA—how did that happen?”

“I genuinely have no idea,” I admitted, really curious about that part of it. “I’ve stayed in LA every summer to work, and my dad comes to California for holidays, so Omaha is like a former life, in a way. The only person I keep in touch with is my friend Joss, but she pronounced him ‘dead to her’ when he dumped me, so she’s never mentioned him. I literally know nothing about his life after we broke up.”

“I think we should table the questions for now,” Clark said, pushing Campbell out of the way as he stepped forward to lean his arms on the counter in front of me. “I don’t like your face right now. You okay, kid?”

“Of course. I’m good,” I said, grateful for my friends as Clark smiled at me with fatherly concern in his eyes. I was also grateful that I meant it—I was good. It’d been years, Wes and I were different people, and I was fine now.

But I kept thinking about it on my run, the way I hadn’t been fine for a long time after the breakup. I cried a million tears into the Emerson Baseball sweatshirt that I didn’t give back, mourning a loss I couldn’t understand.

It’d been impossible to accept, going from madly in love to utterly alone overnight.

God, I’d foolishly overthought so many things from that phone call.

He sounded sad. Did his voice crack at the end, just before he hung up? What if this has everything to do with his dad’s death and he still actually loves me?

Maybe I should call him.

I’d deluded myself into believing so many things about that conversation until I went home for Christmas break. Then I learned—on New Year’s Day—the real reason why he’d dumped me.

It had nothing to do with his father, or him somehow still loving me, and everything to do with a beautiful girl named Ashley.

I’d been a foolish, silly-hearted little love lover back then.

But now I am not.

My brain hit reset when I showered, thank God, and I spent the rest of the day focused on my classes. I had two tests—aced one and struggled with the other—before lunch, and then a guest speaker in my last lecture gave me a hand cramp from all the copious note-taking.

By the time Clark pulled up so we could go to Jackie, I was exhausted.

My phone buzzed.

Lilith: Can you post another Reel today?

I got into the truck and replied: After practice?

She texted back: That’s perfect. It’s been a couple days, and with the exhibition game around the corner, we need to be pushing out a lot more.

I shot off a quick of course, thrilled that she trusted me to post content without running it past her first. I was excited about that as we drove toward the field, and when “Supermassive Black Hole” came up on Clark’s playlist, I knew exactly what I was going to do.

I loved Muse—especially the Resistance album—but it was impossible for me not to picture the Twilight baseball scene when that song was playing.

Which cracked my brain wide open when we got to Jackie and the team was already on the field, practicing.

I swapped equipment with Clark because I needed a lot of hitting and running footage, which would be perfect to set with the song and do a spin-off take of the iconic (in my opinion) vampire baseball scene.

So he was taking stills, and I was on video.

And honestly, it was clicking so well, and I was so into it, that I didn’t even notice Wes.

I dove in the second we got there, thrumming with the buzz of freshly sparked creativity. I focused first on hitting drills, getting as many long-ball shots as I could from every batter. After that, I switched to base running, really zooming in to capture the snap of the ball as it landed in the glove.

It wasn’t until I decided to get pitching shots, really wanting the long extensions that accompanied the release of the ball, that I actually noticed Wes.

Of course, he was on the mound, so he didn’t even know I was there.

He’d always been hyperfocused when it came to baseball. His entire demeanor changed when he jogged out of the bullpen, the easygoing attitude replaced with an intensity that burned white-hot in the darkness of his brown eyes. Like a match had been tossed directly into the fuel of his passion.

That jarring contradiction, the crackling electrical undercurrent juxtaposed over his quick-to-laugh carelessness, was a powerful thing to behold.

He was that way—zero-to-one-hundred intensity—with a couple other things as well, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to let my mind wander in that direction.

Ahem.

Focus, Liz.

Film, Liz.

And film I did.

The more I filmed, the more I noticed the tiny details.

Like the way he still flipped the ball and trailed the seam with two fingers before every throw. And the way he still squeezed the ball and took a big, deep breath before every pitch.

Something about those things felt romantic, the ritual and habit of his hands on the ball. It was almost as if his fingertips and those stitches were a comfortable old couple, intimately familiar with every inch of each other after a lifetime of shared touches.

I need to get some up-close shots of his hands on the ball.

I kept filming.

And God—he was an artist with the ball.

He was.

The way his face went blank and intense, all at once, just before he let loose with a throw that was violent in its speed, slapping into the glove with brute force, yet incredibly nuanced in its pinpoint accuracy.

His long, lean arm, fully extended on release.

The kick of his leg as he fired the ball.

The rushing exhale of his breath when he let it fly.

I was on my knees, on my stomach, on my tiptoes, and on the stepladder; he was giving me every shot I wanted and making me greedy for better angles. Circling like a planet in orbit as I needed more, more, more. Even after he finished pitching, I filmed him playing catch with Mick and Wade, my camera now fully obsessed with his left hand and its relationship with the baseball.

“Think we got enough?”

“Huh?” I lowered the video camera and was shocked to see Clark—or anyone, for that matter—beside me in the dugout. I’d been so sucked into the balletlike mechanics of that ball and its journey from Wes’s hand to the sweet spot of the bat, that everything else in the world had ceased to exist.

“You are in the zone, Bux,” he said, shaking his head. “You usually only give me that stupid stare when you’re doing music.”

“I, uh,” I said, for some reason out of breath and still not quite there, “I was getting amazing vampire baseball footage.”

Because he was Clark, he knew exactly what that meant, and he squealed. “Yes! Supermassive Cullen family, fucking yes. This Reel is going to be amazing, bro.”

He was right—it would be. And as I listened to him go on about it, I got even more excited. Because I’d been able to forget—emotionally—about my history with Wes when he’d been pitching. The flashback from earlier that day was gone, nowhere to be found as I did my job.

I, Liz Buxbaum, could focus on Wes Bennett, the ace pitcher, and concentrate on the creative part of my job without falling apart.

He was just another random athlete at the university.

This wasn’t going to be a big deal at all.