“Perfect.” She held me at arm’s length to survey her work. “You look fab, Nat.”
“Thanks to my fashion-slash-hair stylist hybrid sister.” I nodded with a smirk.
After I dabbed some concealer on in my mirror, I reassessed Nikki, who’d curled back up on my bed.
When she was little and still learning to read, she’d come into my room sometimes at night, complete with a flashlight and her blankie and a book, and have me read to her under the covers. Part of me wanted to put lounge clothes back on and do just that.
“What are you doing?” She finally looked up at me and gave me a faint smile. “Go have a good time.”
Seeing her sitting there made me hesitate, and once again, she was more perceptive than I gave her credit for. Or maybe I was more see-through than I even realized.
“I don’t want you to feel like you can’t do anything,” she continued. “Contrary to what any of you might think, I can take care of myself. I know how to make mac and cheese, I haven’t maxed out my credit card, and I have a valid driver’s license. All that should get me by for a few hours.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “I know you can.”
“But I may stay here. Your bed is comfier,” she told me with a shrug.
“Okay.” I nodded, my smile widening. “You do that.”
At exactly two o’clock Brooklyn pulled up to my house in his red Wrangler, this time with the hard black rooftop on. Rain had started to collect in puddles on the pavement as I made a dash to his car.
“You look nice,” he said as I hoisted myself into the passenger seat.
I fumbled with the seat belt. “Thanks,” I replied with a faint smile, hoping he didn’t see the blush creeping up my cheeks. I glanced over at him, my face still warm, and realized it was impossible for him to ever look bad, even with his glasses, messy hair, and wrinkled green Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt.
Brooklyn shuffled through a few songs on his dashboard, settling on an upbeat house-style song I’d never heard before, and I sat in a quiet contentment, watching the small town fly by like a messy watercolor painting. But now I could pick out familiar things, like the flower shop on the corner by that Cota Coffee place Brooklyn took me to the first time we hung out. It was starting to really feel like home, and I tried not to think about how much of that was because of him.
>> <<
Film Press was filled with old, rickety shelves of even older movies, but that wasn’t all. Racks of vintage movie posters hung from the exposed brick walls, and glass cases of collectible items like figurines, props, and all sorts of other knickknacks lined the far side of the shop by the cash register. Brooklyn and I snaked our way around the aisles of old DVDs.
“What about horror movies?” Brooklyn asked as he thumbed through the “Random” selection.
“I like ’em old-school. The cheesier the blood splatter, the better.”
“Damn, that’s too bad.” Brooklyn held a DVD in his hand, tapping it on his chin. “My master plan of scaring you so you’d have to grab me has beensorelyruined.”
“You’ve got jokes, I’ll give you that,” I retorted. “Does that work on other girls?”
“What other girls?”
Fine, he won that round. I quickly went back to shuffling through more DVDs. I glanced at Brooklyn out of the corner of my eye to see him smirking at me. For people who insisted we werejust friends, the casual flirting came almost too effortlessly for both of us.
My hand brushed over an interesting cover—a photo of a young boy’s profile with disheveled, windswept hair. The photo was grainy and had a murky, yellow tinge. But it was the actual title of the movie that piqued my interest.
“What’s that?” Brooklyn suddenly appeared over my shoulder. I felt his breath, warm on my ear, as he reached over me to take the DVD box from my hands.
“‘Gummo,’” I read, turning the box over in my hands. “Have you heard of this one?”
Brooklyn slung his arm around my shoulders, leading us away from the DVD racks.
He read the back of the DVD box like a radio show host, describing a town of odd and nihilistic residents that gets hit by a tornado. “Oh, and it says that critics have called this film fascinating, intoxicating, life-changing, and enlightening.”
I looked at him with wide eyes, and he grinned that fierce grin of his again. “I’m in the mood to be enlightened,” he said. “What about you?”
“I’d like to think I’m very enlightened already.” I mirrored his coy grin. “But I guess this is my pick.”
“And this is mine.” He held up another DVD box with a picture of an upside-down sneaker hanging from a bloody knife.Sleepaway Campwas written at the bottom in a similar cartoonlike bloody print. “I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard about it. Apparently the acting is terrible but there’s a twist at the end that makes up for it.”
