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Hands in his pockets, going casual in a way that makes me tingle from the tops of my ears to the ends of my toes, he says the words I fantasized about hearing for all of my formative adolescence:
“Actually,” Will Lotham says, “I’m looking for you.”
Chapter Six
I love the scent of old movie theaters. They smell like all of the happy people from the past converging in one place to let their imaginations be sparked by a shared experience.
You know what they smell like, though, during the first show of the day?
Old ladies.
The ten a.m. showing at the local second-run cineplex is filled with old women and unemployed losers like me. For three dollars a ticket, we can watch a movie you’ll be able to find a month from now on Netflix.
But hey–it’s an outing. An escape.
A procrastination technique that supports a small, local business.
I need to procrastinate. Hard.
Because I have a job offer I really, really need to refuse.
At the coffee shop yesterday, Will told me to check my email. This is what I found:
I like how you started to re-arrange the living room. That feng shui theory sounded ludicrous, but then again, I’m superstitious enough to bury a statue of St. Joseph when trying to sell a property. I need someone to handle staging for our company. If you’re willing to do a one-month trial as a consultant, I’ve got a gig for you. No coconut oil, and sorry–clothing isn’t optional.
The words weren’t the problem.
It was the smirk.
And the fact that I’m so desperate for a job, I’m actually considering his offer.
The bastard.
As if it’s not enough that I crushed on him for four years, he also had to save me from being arrested, and now he has the power to give me a consulting gig that saves me from eviction.
See? What a jerk.
If I close my eyes and transport myself back to that moment yesterday, I can feel him. Not through touch. That would involve going further back, to the porn incident.
No.
I can feel the essence of Will, the space inside myself I created fourteen years ago, a habitat deep in my core where he lives. Sounds creepy, right? Like I’m lowering a bucket full of lotion to him. But hey, it’s my imagination. My brain.
My heart.
And having grown-up Will make grown-up Mallory a job offer is the closest thing to teen Mallory being asked to the prom by teen Will.
It will have to do.
Yet–I know I can’t say yes.
My career isn’t the issue. Even my bank account, as starved and frail as it is, isn’t the issue. The issue is remarkably simple: I can’t take my personality and turn it back ten to fourteen years. Working for Will Lotham would do that to me.
As the lights dim in the theater, the creaking old seats make an asynchronous melody of their own, the ten or so ticket buyers settling in. I munch happily on my cheap popcorn, heedless of the hydrogenated coconut oil I’m feeding my arteries. If I’m going to have coconut oil in my life, I want it like this.
Not smeared all over me by a naked porn star.
The Diet Coke habit I can’t shake–only at the movies!–makes me feel like I’m home again. My mouth is happy, at least.
