This Summer
It’s a marvel we get Everett in the car at all.
“No,” he said at first, adamantly, after Laurel announced her plan. He headed immediately in the direction of the stairs, like he might lock himself in his room.
“Oh, come on,” Laurel had said, dancing after him. “Don’t be one of thoseartisteswho can’t bear to look at their own work.”
“Laurel,” Everett said, turning to face her. “I don’t watch anything I’ve made after the final cut is done. I leave my own premieres.”
“I know,” Laurel said. “They reported on it inPeople.”
Everett rolled his eyes sky-high, turning to go again, but I was the one who called out to him, making him stop and turn once more.
“We’ve never been able to see one of your movies all together,” I said, hip against the island he’d just had me on top of. His eyes met mine, chilly steel gray, but almost interested. Not in watching his own movie, I knew, but maybe in why I’d said anything. I wasn’t quite sure myself, other than the fact that I still had the taste of him on my lips and didn’t want to watch him walk away.
He’d looked back down at Laurel, sighing through his nose. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll come. But that doesn’t mean I’m paying attention.”
Laurel squealed, clapping her hands together. “Perfect!” she said, spinning around. “We’re going to need to pack wine, and blankets...” She threw tasks to each of us as Everett’s eyes locked on to mine once more across the room, the air still sparking between us.
At the park, we set up camp on the wide lawn that slopes down toward the giant screen, spreading blankets around and Davi flopping into the low-sitting chair he brought, stretching his legs out in front of him and pouring his first glass of wine as we settle in to wait for sunset. It’s more of an event than Laurel let on, apparently. There was a banner we walked in under that readMalibu Movie Series:Cooney!, and two massive posters on either side of the ticket table that made Everett’s cheeks flame red as he ducked behind me.
Food trucks are set up around the perimeter, what looks like a small kids’ carnival set up to one side, likely an homage to the massive carnival sequence in the movie, when the teenage heroes take on the mysterious threat that’s invaded their town. This is more of a ring toss, a carousel, and a lone cotton candy cart, but the effect is charming.
I’m next to Everett at one end of our blanket setup, but if I’d thought there would be any covert glances tonight, hands brushing in the dark after what happened in the kitchen, apparently, I was very wrong.
Everett is sitting with his forearms resting on his knees, the hood of a dark blue sweatshirt pulled up over his head. I examine him as his eyes dart around the crowd, teeth working at his lower lip.
“I don’t think anyone’s going torecognizeyou,” I say, moreout of any remaining glimmers of irritation I’m feeling toward him than any truth in that statement.Cooneyis something of a phenomenon, and an event like this would undoubtedly draw some superfans.
Nevertheless, Everett’s eyes flick toward mine, a frown curving his mouth as he yanks off his hood. “I’m not that vain,” he grumbles, low enough so only I can hear. At that moment a group of women walk by, one of them pausing to do a double take at Everett. Though I think it has less to do with her recognizing him and more to do with his rumpled hair, the sharp jaw underneath his short beard. Every other thing that’s drawn me into Everett Bridges over the years. I watch her as she passes.
“People loveCooney,” I say, turning my attention back to him once they’ve gone. “It won awards.” I don’t know what I’m trying to do, exactly. Maybe coax Everett into relaxing a little. I reach into the bag of potato chips in my lap, staring down into it as I say quietly, “It’s a great movie.”
I can feel Everett’s attention land on me, but I don’t look at him, focusing on picking out the largest chip I can.
“You saw it?” he finally asks.
I feign exasperation, crunching down on the chip as I nod, but I meant what I said.Cooneyis a great movie, and it infuriated me when I snuck into a matinee of it like I was trying not to be seen, my own hood up and a box of Sour Patch Kids in my pocket.
It had been out for a few months at that point, but I’d avoided it as best I could. It was bad enough to have to see the poster for it on my commute to work, or hear about it from everyone I knew.Have you seen that new sci-fi movie yet? Not even sci-fi, it’s, like, a love letter to all those eighties movies we used to love,Hayes, front of house at my uncle’s restaurant, had saidwhen it first came out, his words lifted directly from all the pull-quotes they’d used for publicity.The nextE.T., filling theStranger Thingsvoid, a tapestry of nostalgia, growing up, and the sci-fi we used to love. I heard it everywhere. On social media, the radio, in snippets on the street. Try as I might,Cooney, and reminders of Everett with it, was unavoidable.
The irritation in me flickered and then started to fade as I watched it, though, steadily marching through my candy until my hand hit the bottom of the bag only halfway in. I’d been that absorbed, and the sugary cellophane against my fingertips was enough to yank me out of it for a second, to remember to watch the movie with Everett in mind.
And I did. For the second half, I watched it searching for reasons to be angry, like he might have left a piece of us somewhere in there. He had writing credits on the movie too, had been working on the concept with a buddy of his for years, I knew, even if he’d been secretive about it then. We hadn’t talked much about his work, I realized as I sat in that theater, as I watched the two leads fall in love while they unraveled the mystery of what was plaguing their small town.
But I could see him all over it, in ways I didn’t expect.Wewere in it somehow, all of us, in the friend group that formed. They were all on the brink of the next phase of their lives, this one last hurdle to cross before they could grow up. And logically I knew that was the point, that the message here wasn’t specifically for me, but for everyone who’d ever felt something like that. Even so, by the time the credits rolled, my cheeks were wet, and I sat through to the bitter end and then a minute longer, until a kid the age of the characters in the movie came in to sweep up.
It was the only time I’d let myself cry about Everett Bridges since things had fallen apart between us. And it had been hisshining, brilliant, award-winning movie that had done it. I hated him for it.
So it’s a little hard for me to admit it’s a great movie to him now. Not because I don’t mean it, but because of what it meant to me. Something outside of what it meant to the millions of other people who saw and loved it.
Everett is still watching me when a kid in what looks like a homemade Cooney High Schoolsweatshirt comes bounding up to us, cheeks ruddy. His mom is with him, beaming down at us. Laurel, Gabe, and Davi crane their heads to watch as the kid holds the hem of his sweatshirt out toward Everett, wordless.
“We love your movie,” the mom says, not even bothering to ask if he is, in fact, Everett Bridges and not some doppelganger here to enjoy some popcorn and a little sci-fi horror. “Would you sign Kit’s sweatshirt?” She produces a Sharpie, extending it toward Everett.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Everett just smiles and takes the marker from her, signing a quick signature on the light blue fabric. He’s the picture of cool as the kid watches with shining eyes. He’ll tell everyone about this, I think.
“Nice to meet you, Kit,” Everett says as he caps the marker and hands it back to the mom. “Enjoy the movie.”
