Page 40 of The Apparent Trap

“I guess not.”

“I guess not,” I repeat. And with my last shred of self-preservation, I open the door and walk out of the strangest evening of my life.

Chapter 13

“How was Newsies as a tenuous Thanksgiving-adjacent movie?” Georgia asks. We’ve just finished our Monday show, and we’re taking a break to keep building our LEGO Titanic, because it’s always hard to get back into a routine after a holiday weekend.

I don’t even know where to begin explaining to Georgia why Newsies wasn’t anywhere on my radar. Or why I only responded to all her texts the last few days with one-word answers and memes.

Instead I’d been holed up in my apartment, alternating between watching breezy comedy reruns I could recite with my eyes closed (a Golden Girls marathon never fails me) and the least romantic, bloody content I could muster (Quentin Tarantino is pompous, but he succeeds in jarring me every time).

I didn’t eat a single BLT. I don’t know whether I should be proud or angry that I’ve let Lee’s words once again burrow their way in.

But I’m kidding myself if I think it’s just his words about BLTs. He’s playing on a loop in my mind, no matter how much I try to let some Inglourious Basterds distract me from him.

I can’t tell Georgia any of that, though.

“It was um . . . you know, Newsies is always good,” I lamely respond.

I click a LEGO into place, satisfying. It’s always easier to deal with something so straightforward. LEGOs are a thousand little pieces that, when organized, form something beautiful. That’s the kind of structure I want in my world. Not unavailable men who call me luminous.

I’ve got to stop thinking about it.

But I’m even more distracted when Georgia plops herself right in front of me, swiping the LEGOs to the side so she can stare me down without blinking.

It’s funny how few people see this goofy side of Georgia. To most of America, she’s a poised journalist, blonde hair never out of place, a perfect face that melds beauty with gravitas. No one would guess that she immediately switches into sweatpants post-show and can sit on the floor bugging her eyes out at her best friend to try and get her talking.

They’d guess that about me. One hundred percent. But Georgia is unexpected.

“You can’t afford to rip a hamstring by sitting like a wannabe yoga instructor,” I joke, attempting to redirect.

But Georgia’s not biting. “‘Newsies is always good’?” she recites back to me. “No monologue about how Spot is actually the dreamboat? No reminiscing about how they don’t make journalists like Bryan Denton anymore so that I can remind you that you just think that because you have a crush on Bill Pullman?”

She’s not wrong. I do have a crush on Bill Pullman. Any conversation about Newsies inevitably becomes a conversation about how While You Were Sleeping is one of the greatest rom-coms of all time. Except today. Because I’m preoccupied. And caught out, apparently.

“I’m just tired after a long weekend,” I try.

“No you’re not,” she retorts.

“I am tired.”

“Yeah, but you’re not telling me something.”

“I don’t tell you a lot of things,” I point out. “How boring would life be if I kept you up to date on every minutia of my life? Did you know I bought new toothpaste? Got a call from a telemarketer? Replaced my laces in my sneakers? Made chili for dinner last night and tried a new brand of canned tomatoes?”

“Is this supposed to be cute?”

“You always think I’m cute.”

“Ezzie,” she says, exasperated. “What happened?”

I lean back, deliberating. I can’t lie to Georgia. But I also can’t share all of this. “I don’t think I can tell you.”

She nods, seeing the truth in that. It’s amazing how she can see through my bullshit but also instantly trust me when I’m being serious.

“So tell me the parts that you can.”

I consider it. I do feel like a shaken soda bottle—I need to release some part of this, otherwise I might explode.