“That rant did win me a Golden Globe,” I acknowledge coyly, popping another shrimp into my mouth.
“Well deserved,” he says, raising his bottle in “cheers.”
I cast him a sidelong glance, then smirk and shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“Just strange to think of you watching my movies,” I admit, ripping off a hunk of the baguette and dunking it in the thick tomato broth. I avoid Ryder’s films like the plague. It’s a defense mechanism I put in place years ago—if I wanted to get over him, I had to enforce a strict media blackout on all things Ryder Perry. I couldn’t watch him chase, flirt with, touch, or kiss other women—especially knowing how easily on-set relationships can go from reel to real, as ours once did. I know my threshold for pain, and that’s a hard limit.
“Why wouldn’t I watch them? You’re something special, Scar, you always have been. I’ve acted alongside some of the biggest names in the business, but you’re still the best I’ve ever worked with.”
I chortled. “Oh, please. Better than Tom Cruise?”
He looks at me deadpan like,Don’t be ridiculous.“Excluding Tom, obviously. You know he’s in a class by himself.” I start giggling, and he holds up a finger, as if to amend his statement. “Though Tom doesn’t look half as good naked.”
“Ryder.”
He grins wider, smug and unrepentant, his dimple peeking out from under his beard. That dimple has magical powers. “You ever watch it?”
“Tom Cruise nude?” I ask cheekily, pretending to think about it. “Can’t say that I have.”
He throws his balled-up napkin at me. “The Lost Letter, smartass.”
I shake my head. “No. Not if I can help it.”
“Never?”
I shake my head again, though it’s not entirely true. Unfortunately for me, a movie as universally beloved asThe Lost Letteris impossible to escape. Its enduring popularity means it has found a permanent home on cable, playing and replaying on a constant loop, eternally available for those who need a good cry, like a Home Shopping Network for hopeless romantics. And even if I never turned on another TV again, a certain degree of exposure is inevitable: a flash of the movie poster as I scroll through Netflix; a glimpse of a scene streaming from the back of an airplane headrest, weepy passenger clutching tissues; a clip that pops up on my For You page without warning, punching me in the gut.
I’ll never forget the first time I came across it on TV. I got sucked in right away, transfixed by the timeless innocence of the love story, as enthralled and captivated as any Letterhead. And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, of course I came in right at our love scene. As I watched, I could remember every detail of the day we shot it: the scent of petrichor and hay in the barn, the bite of the muslin blanket against my back, the silky brush of his hair as it tickled my face, the flirtatious comment Ryder had whispered in my ear just before Nate called “Action.” It was too much for me, an onslaught of sensory memory that made all the heartache I thought I’d moved past come roaring back.
I’ve avoided it ever since.
“I can’t watch myself on screen,” is the excuse I give him now, because I can’t say,I can’t watch myself fall in love with you.“Doyouwatch it?”
There’s a pause. “I’ve caught it once or twice,” he sayscasually, then immediately takes a long swig of water, avoiding my eyes.
His caginess sets off alarm bells. “You’re being shifty. What aren’t you telling me?”
He keeps up the nonchalant pretense for another few seconds before exhaling a loud breath. “Fine, I watch it all the time. It’s an addiction,” he confesses, palming the nape of his neck self-consciously. “I can recite every line at this point.”
I gape at him like he’s just confessed to murder. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s true,” he says, regarding me solemnly. “You’ve discovered my deep, dark secret: I’m a Letterhead.”
I bark a disbelieving laugh and toss a hunk of the baguette at him. “Butwhy?”
“It’s not as weird as it sounds,” he says defensively, and I balk, casting him a dubious look that says,I’ll be the judge of that, weirdo.
“Filming that movie was one of the best times of my life,” he says simply, his eyes snagging on mine, holding me captive, and my heart squeezes painfully. “Watching it is like getting to experience it all over again. It’s become like a comfort object for me. If I’m ever stressed or upset about something, I can turn it on in the background and it just sort of…calms me down.” He blinks. “I guess that does sound a little weird.”
I envy him, to be able to view our past through such a rosy lens, to not have his memories tainted by the crushing heartache that came after. It’s incredible really, how two people can view things so differently.
I prop my chin on my fist and assess him. “So what you’re telling me is,The Lost Letteris your lovey.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to laugh. “I mean, I feel like there’s a manlier way to say it…” he huffs, puffing out his chest.
“And to think you had the audacity to sit here and denigrate the fandom to me.” I shake my head andtsk. “This is deeply concerning behavior. You realize that, right?”
