Nothing Like the Movies

Liz

“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “You seriously will?”

I couldn’t believe it.

When Lilith asked me that morning if I’d be willing to talk to Wes for her, to put in a good word and convince my old friend to consent to the interview that he’d refused (multiple times, apparently), I knew it was a terrible idea.

Wes would either mess with me for funsies or just straight-up refuse.

Either way, I wouldn’t get the win for Lilith.

But here he stood, his dark eyes serious as he watched me, almost like no one else was there. Like he couldn’t see the people going around us and into Kaplan, and his only thought was on me and our conversation.

He said, “Yes. But under one condition.”

I inhaled through my nose, trying to snort some patience because here it was. Knowing Wes, this condition was going to make my life hell. I looked up at him and said, “What’s the condition?”

He said, “I’ll do the interview, but only if you ask the questions.”

“But that’s Lilith’s job,” I said, ignoring whatever wildness was going on in my stomach as Wes spoke to me with the kind of intense eye contact that would’ve dropped a weaker version of Liz. I let go of his arm—when had I even grabbed it?—and said, “I can’t do that.”

“Then I can’t do the interview,” he said, shrugging as if he didn’t care before turning and walking away from me.

“I seriously can’t tell my award-winning filmmaker of a boss that I’m doing the interview for her documentary—come on,” I yelled at his back, trying to convince him. “And why would you want that? She’s way better than I’ll ever be.”

“But I trust you,” he said, turning around and walking backward. “I don’t want to discuss this with anyone, ever, but if I have to, I’d choose you over anyone else.”

I trust you.

It hurt, how hard that sentence smacked me, because he shouldn’t. He didn’t deserve to trust me.

I’d choose you over anyone else.

And he hadn’t chosen me, not in the past.

Not when it mattered.

For some reason, his calm words that should’ve felt… nice to hear maybe, I guess, knocked me a little off my foundation, making me wobbly.

It’s all in the past, I reminded myself.

Now we were just two people who used to know each other.

I took a deep breath and said, “I can ask her, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “You should do that.”

“Okay. Um.” I was rattled when I said, “When are you available to do it?”

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and crossed his arms, watching me with an unreadable expression on his face. “I’ll have to check and get back to you. Do you still have the same number?”

Oh God.

We both knew what he was asking. Wes was asking if I’d gotten the text he’d sent the other night.

“Yes,” I said, my voice barely audible.

Because the emotions that’d run through me when I’d seen his name on my phone had been almost too much. Wessy McBennettface. It was like getting a text from a dead person, and I’d been off-kilter the rest of the weekend.

Because what could he have possibly wanted?

Probably to thank me for trying to help him during the game.

That was what I told myself, but the part of me that thought things like what if it was something else? was still frazzled, days later. I took a deep breath and met his eyes.

God—the way he was watching me made butterflies go wild in my stomach, because he looked at me like he knew me better than anyone else in the world, like he was seeing my every thought and remembering our every moment.

His gaze not only saw through me, but it wrapped itself around me like a pair of strong arms.

His gaze was more than familiar.

His gaze was home.

His gaze was backyard bonfires and late-night phone calls and cross-country road trips that led to hotel rooms with soft sheets and cool, heavy comforters.

“Sad Songs in a Hotel Room” started in my head as I clenched my fists.

He had no right to look at me that way anymore.

“So,” I continued, hitting the syllable a little loudly as I forced myself to keep going, to look away from something that he’d destroyed a long time ago. I chose to look at my fingernails when I said, “I guess text me your availability, and I’ll let you know when and where.”

“Is your boyfriend going to be there?”

“Who, Clark?” I asked, looking up, then wanted to kick myself because who else would he be referring to, dumbass?

“Do you have other boyfriends at the moment, Buxbaum?” His eyes were a little squinty, like he was amused by my obvious discomfort. “A harem of giant blond cameramen?”

“Funny,” I muttered under my breath, rolling my eyes.

“I was surprised he was your errand boy on Saturday.” He was watching me that way again when he said, “Really interesting relationship dynamic, by the way, having him pass notes to your ex.”

“It isn’t. At all,” I said, instantly regretting the defensiveness in my voice because the Wes Bennett of my childhood lived for that reaction. I tucked my hair behind my ears and said, “I mean, I don’t even think he considers you my ex because he knows it was just a few forgettable months when I was a teenager.”

“Did you know that you always swallow after you tell a lie, Libby?” He tilted his head and his mouth slid into a slow, wide smirk that was such a throwback that I felt it in my toes. “You say the untruth, then immediately swallow and push your hair behind your ears. It’s the same tell you had when you were eight years old.”

I rolled my eyes again, forcing myself not to mess with my hair. I wanted to say something biting, something that would hurt him, but I still needed his help. So I just said, “Okay.”

Which was so unfair; I hated that.

I also hated that he was seeing my cheeks get red.

“Okay.” His smile went away, but the light was still in his eyes when he said, “And yes—I’ll text you my schedule.”

“Thank you,” I said, unsure how to behave when he was giving me what I wanted while also kind of being an asshole. “I really appreciate this.”

“No problem,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “As long as it’s you, not Lilith.”

“So we have a deal?” I asked, needing confirmation.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, his dirty half smile returning. “Did you want to shake on it? Or… something else?”

My cheeks caught fire and my mouth kind of fell open for a second, momentarily incapacitated and unable to come up with a single word of response.

Which made him say, oh so quietly, “There she is.”

“What? Who?”

“Little Liz.”

Before I could respond, he turned and started jogging up the steps, but not before I saw his grin.

It wasn’t fair, the way he still managed to get the last word. It was irritating as hell, and it annoyed me the entire trek back to Morgan. I didn’t see the green trees or yellow flowers as I marched across campus, because in my brain, I kept seeing his dickish smirk and hearing his deep voice saying there she is—Little Liz.

But the irritation dissolved the minute I stepped into Lilith’s office and gave her the news.

“That’s wonderful!” she said, looking like perfection in her white button-down, man’s necktie, black cigarette pants, and perfectly tailored pink wool blazer. She was standing in front of her brainstorming glass dry-erase board, scrawling illegible notes that only she could read when she added, “I don’t care who asks the questions as long as I get to write them and edit the film. Thank you, Liz.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, relieved Wes’s condition wasn’t a dealbreaker for Lilith.

“I’ve already drafted the interview, so I’ll just send you the questions. I’ve got a direction in mind,” she said, pushing up her black glasses, “so even though some of the inquiries might seem irrelevant, you’ll have to trust me that they’re leading somewhere.”

“Okay,” I said, nodding, entirely confident she knew what she was doing.

“I also find it interesting that young Mr. Bennett requires you exclusively,” she said with a grin. “But I’m not saying a word.”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” I sputtered. “He just—”

“Liz, I know. It’s fine,” she said, turning to give me her full attention while her smile was almost a laugh. “It doesn’t matter. I want his story, and you’re getting him to give it. Relax.”

“But I just want to make sure you know that—”

“I do, I promise.” She held up a hand and said, “So when is this happening?”

“He’s going let me know later today what time he’s available.”

“Okay.” She went back to her board, scribbling something impossible to read. Lilith was back on her outline and in her own head when she said, “You can use my office for the interview, and I’ll clear out whenever it’s set.”

“Perfect,” I said, and for the first time since my conversation with Wes, it hit me, the fact that I was going to be doing another interview. I’d been so busy scrambling to get him to agree, then scrambling to get Lilith okay with his terms, that I hadn’t had a chance for it to sink in.

I was going to have to sit down with Wes.

That thought hung over me the rest of the day, totally filling me with dread as I went to class and the library. Because asking him random baseball questions was no big deal, but I was worried about his questions.

Was he going to ask me about the note? About Clark? I just didn’t want to deal with the everything that accompanied a conversation with Wes Bennett.

At ten thirty that night, when I was exhausted and exiting the library, my phone buzzed.

I took it out and my heart stuttered—again—at the sight of that stupid contact name.

WESSY MCBENNETTFACE.

I needed to change that immediately.

I clicked into “edit profile” and changed the contact name to WES.

Wes: I have time tomorrow morning after lifting. Does that work for you?

I’d make it work. I replied: Yes. Do you know where the Morgan Center is? We can do the interview in MC491.

Wes: Sounds good.

I texted: Great. See you then.

My phone buzzed again.

Wes: WAIT WAIT WAIT.

I looked at the message. God, what was he doing? I rolled my eyes and replied: What?

Wes: What are you doing this very second?

I replied: Besides regretting that you have my number?

Wes: Yes. Besides that.

I don’t know why I answered, but I texted: Just walking out of the library.

Wes: Oof—late night on campus. Which library?

I stared at the phone, unsure how to proceed. I could ignore him, but since I had to meet him for an interview in the morning, that seemed stupid.

But I didn’t want to text with him either.

We weren’t friends.

I replied: Powell.

I’d gone there specifically because I was afraid of running into Wes if I went to the music library.

Wes: No shit? AJ’s at Powell right now. I’m literally sitting on a bench outside of Royce, waiting for him.

Powell and Royce were directly across from each other. The two buildings literally faced each other, so Wes was in the vicinity.

I speed-walked toward the steps, wanting to get out quickly before I ran into him.

I texted: You didn’t have anything to study tonight?

Wes: I did, but I studied at the music library. Just got done.

Ha—I knew it! I knew he was going to be at the music library. I started down the steps, proud of my mind-reading abilities as I texted: Cool. See you tomorrow, Wes.

Wes: Good night, Buxbaum. Also—Liz?

I texted: Yeah?

Wes: The speed at which you’re descending those steps is terrifying. Slow down before you trip.

I cough-squeaked a noise as I read his words—gaaah, he was watching me from somewhere in the dark—and forced myself not to look over my shoulder as I replied: Good night, creeper.