Beast(52)

Dad…Even if she’s mad and can’t stand me right now, give me a sign to reach out and hold her hand. Send the okay; send the all clear. Like someone dumping their tray in the trash in the next three seconds.

I wait.

Okay, five seconds.

Still nothing. Crap.

I glance over at Jamie and in spite of my best efforts, I smile.

“What?” she says.

A daub of yellow spots her cheek. “You got some mustard here.” I point to mine, locationwise.

Her tongue flares out but misses. “Did I get it?”

“Nope.” I reach out with my thumb and wipe it away. The napkin is a wreck, so I lick it off instead. She smirks and looks to her lap. Now I have to ask. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I think it’s adorable that you still want your prince fantasy.”

“My what?”

“Your bodyguard thing—how you want to be my prince in shining armor. It’s sweet.”

I laugh so loud, everyone at the food court twists to see. “I would make a real shitty prince.” Let’s just stick to the Beast, thanks. Much easier. “Besides, I don’t think it’s some massive gesture to warn you about stupid people. That’s just normal friend stuff.”

“Maybe I watch too many stupid movies where the guy comes in and sweeps the girl off her feet. Carries her away and they kiss in the rain. You know the ones I’m talking about?” She waits for me but I shrug. “Anyway”—she ducks her eyes low and blushes—“I don’t know. I love those movies. Have you ever wished you were in a movie like that?”

A slab of pretzel gets stuck deep in my molar because of course I have. With her.

“You think I’m being a cheesy dork, I can tell,” she says.

“Nah. You’re a romantic.”

“I am.” She sighs. “What about you?”

The mall is packed. I try to make eye contact with a stranger. A lady over there waiting in line for a Venti peppermint pumpkin mocha white squall. The lady looks up, catches my eye, and shudders. She grabs her drink and runs.

“I’m a realist,” I say in a dull voice as that lady flees.

Even if I got the sign of all signs to pick Jamie up and sweep her off her feet (Dad, how about someone tripping on that spilled strawberry shake right now? No? Dammit), I don’t know if I could be the type of boyfriend Jamie wants. I just don’t look the part. She’s into all those romance movie guys and their swoony gazing. I’m way more suited to standing in front of her and smashing the oncoming world to bits. Besides, I’ve already tried to be a movie-star guy with her, back in the rose garden, and she shot me down hard.

So I guess it’s good to officially know Jamie will never go for me. I can stop worrying about us and me and her and all the rest of it and just be. Maybe we can be friends.

“Yeah, I suppose I’m a realist too. Everyone kinda has to be at least a little bit,” she says in a similar monotone. “Since you loved group therapy, with your whopping one session and all…”

“Two!” I laugh. “I showed up for the second one, I just didn’t go, remember?”

“Semantics. Anyway, here it comes, ready? Pop psychology. You’re a leading man in a movie, like action or horror or thriller. Which one are you and why?”

“A lead? What does that mean?”

“Like an actor. How about classic Hollywood? If I’m doing me, I’d kill to be Sophia Loren because oh my god, but since it’s obvious I’m more of a Katharine Hepburn, that’s not a bad deal either. You get to pick between James Dean, Paul Newman, and Marlon Brando. Spoiler alert, I’m bringing home Brando from A Streetcar Named Desire. Oooh, Stanley.”

“Jimmy Stewart,” I say. I’m the guy saving the town and coming home to my family on Christmas, my wife and four kids smothering me with hugs and kisses. Ill-fated suicide attempt and all.

“Oooh…I like it. The Everyman. Oh, hey! Rear Window! He has a broken leg in Rear Window! That’s perfect.”

“I guess so.” He’s also super paranoid and sacrifices his girlfriend to go head to head with a murderer, so there’s that.

“Grace Kelly was so pretty in that movie. Her makeup was flawless.” She peers across the food court. “Can we stop in Sephora?”

“Out of pineapple lip gloss?”

“You remembered.”

Some things you can’t forget. She gets up, I do too. We chuck the sad remains of our pretzel in the trash and there’s nothing I can do but follow her into a store that smells like Play-Doh doused in rotting Sharpie markers. “We have to go to Sephora, huh?”

“You’re my BFF. You of all people should understand.” I am despising the descriptive term “BFF” because it has one too many Fs. “Help me pick out some colors. I need a new nude palette,” she says.

“A what?”

“Eye shadow. Don’t worry, we’ll get you up to speed by the time Pride rolls around.”

“Why do I have to go to Pride now?”

“Well, I usually go. We make it a party—to me it’s like a birthday almost. My day, I love it. But if you’re not into it, that’s okay.”

“It’s in June, right?” Maybe I’ll be ready by then.