My phone buzzed with another notification, andIsilenced it without looking.I’ddeal with the internet’s opinions about my love life later.Rightnow,Ihad a festival to finish planning– and a growing certainty that whatever was happening betweenTeddyand me deserved more attention thanI’dbeen giving it.Butthat was futureChloe’sproblem.
“You can delete the story,”Jensaid asIturned to go, “butI’mkeeping the painting.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to give it up.It’sbeautiful.”
And it was.Evenunfinished, it captured somethingIhadn’t realised was visible to outside observers– the careful attentionTeddypaid to everything she did.Evenif the recipient of the attention in that moment had been me more than the bees.
* * *
By that evening,Iwas desperate for the normality of film night atJack’s.Iwas looking forward to losing myself in someone else’s story for a few hours.
I foundJackandPhilin their typical pre-film debate, though this one seemed more heated than usual.
“Alienis clearly superior,”Iannounced asIwalked into the living room, immediately taking a side without even knowing the full argument.
“See?”Philsaid triumphantly. “Chloegets it.”
“I haven’t even heard your positions yet.”Ilaughed, settling onto the sofa between them. “ButAlienis a masterpiece of practical effects and mounting tension, so…”
“That’s exactly whatIsaid!”Philthrew his hands up. “WhereasJackthinks we should watchJurassicParkbecause, andIquote, ‘dinosaurs are cooler than aliens.’”
“JurassicParkspends like twenty minutes having characters explainDNAextraction,”Icountered, getting into the swing of the argument.
Jack looked over atMorgan, who was sat opposite them in a chair, clearly looking for support.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’mjust here for the show.”Shepointed at the row of us, making it clear thatwewere the show.
Jack looked betweenPhiland me, clearly outnumbered. “Fine.ButI’mpicking next time.”
“Deal,”Isaid, settling back asPhilqueued upAlien, readying myself for the glory ofSigourneyWeaver.
As the film went on, though,Jacknudged me with his elbow. “Workokay today?Youseem a bit on edge.”
I glanced at him, then atPhil, who was also watching me more closely than usual. “I’mfine.Justpassionate about good filmmaking.”
“Uh huh.”Philpaused the film less than ten seconds in. “That’snot your ‘passionate about film’ energy.That’syour ‘Ineed to argue with someone about something becauseIcan’t have the argumentIwant to have’ energy.”
“Very specific energy type,”Jackagreed. “We’veseen it before.”
I sighed, slumping deeper into the sofa. “It’snothing.Justwork stuff.Andinternet stuff.It’scomplicated.”
“Is this about the beekeeping photo that’s been making rounds online?”Philasked excitedly. “BecauseAmyshowed me, and?—”
“Everyone’s seen it, haven’t they?”Icovered my face with an errant cushion. “Thisis mortifying.”
“It’s not mortifying,”Jacksaid firmly. “It’sactually really beautiful.Artistic.Romantic, even.”
“That’s the problem,”Isaid, hitting him with the pillow. “It’stooromantic-looking.Peopleare reading way too much into it.”
“Are they, though?”Phil’svoice was carefully neutral. “Readingtoo much into it,Imean.”
All three of them were watching me with the patient expressions of friends who already knew the answer but were waiting for me to figure it out myself.
“Maybe not,”Iadmitted.
“And how do you feel about that?”Jackasked carefully, as if negotiating with a trigger-happy bank robber. “Excited?Confused?Scared?Horny?”
“How about all the above?”Isat up properly. “Canwe please just watch the movie?IpromiseI’llhave an existential crisis about my feelings after the alien bursts out ofKane’schest.”
