She Drives Me Crazy(41)

The seats are packed when we walk in, so we split up between two rows. Gunther and Honey-Belle snag a couple of seats in the middle and Irene and I grab a pair of seats diagonally behind them. We settle back and kick our feet up at the same time.

It’s kind of weird, sitting next to her in a dark theater, especially once we start trading Sour Patch Kids back and forth. My fingers keep accidentally brushing hers when I reach into the box. I ignore the warm tingle across my scalp.

“I have to pee,” Irene says toward the end of the movie. She moves to stand up, but I grab her arm.

“You can’t go right now! He’s about to do the boom box thing!”

“I’ve seen that clip a million times.” She rolls her eyes in the blue light of the screen. “It’s so cheesy.”

“Cheesy? Are you insane?”

“Zajac, I will piss in your lap if you don’t let me go.”

Sure enough, she misses the iconic moment when John Cusack holds the boom box outside Ione Skye’s window, serenading her with “In Your Eyes” at dawn. I get goose bumps up and down my entire body. Without meaning to, I imagine Tally holding a stereo outside my window, determined to win me back. I wonder if I’d run out to her.

“I feel so much better,” Irene whispers when she returns.

“I can’t believe you missed that.”

“I sure as hell wasn’t going to miss the scene where her dad gets caught embezzling. That’s the best part.”

I shake my head in the darkness, but Irene merely shrugs and steals the soda cup from my hand.



* * *



Gunther and Honey-Belle are holding hands when we exit the theater. Irene catches my eye and pretends to gag when they’re not looking. It almost makes me laugh.

“What a night for romance,” she says as we’re driving home. “Honey-Belle and Gunther, Ione Skye’s dad and prison…”

“You’re such a cynic.”

“Am not.” She chews on another Sour Patch Kid. She insisted we buy a second box before we left the Munny. “I just always hated that stupid boom box moment. It’s melodramatic for no reason.”

I whip around to scoff at her. “It’s one of the most iconic images in American cinema. It’s fucking perfect.”

“It’s empty and self-indulgent.”

“It’s romantic. It’s tender and poignant and star-crossed—”

“It’s a waste of time. Grand gestures don’t mean anything in the place of actual effort. He should have just talked to her. You know, actually communicated instead of performing some fantasy version of love. He just wanted to be all up in his feels.”

I glare at her. “Says the girl whose favorite movie is Dirty Dancing.”

Irene falls silent. Even in the darkness, I can see her embarrassment. “How do you know that?”

“I have my ways.”

“Seriously.” She reaches over to pinch my arm, and I yelp. “How do you know that?”

“God, relax, I’m trying to drive! Honey-Belle told me, okay?”

Irene blows out an irritated breath, but I can hear the self-consciousness beneath it. “What else did she tell you?”

“That’s between us.”

“Scottie.”

“Fine, you really wanna know? She said you talk about me all the time.”

Irene snorts. “Oh did she now…”

“Are you talking about me?”

She narrows her eyes. “What, you think I’m, like, gossiping? I spend half my time with you now. You’re obviously going to come up in conversation.”

“She said you talk about my favorite songs.”

Irene laughs in the back of her throat. “More like I complain that you play the same five songs over and over.”

I look over at her as we turn back onto the main road. “So you’re not … like…”

“Obsessed with you?” She snorts and strains against the seat. “No. Were you worried I was catching feelings?”

“No,” I say hastily.

“Okay, good. Because I’m not.”

“Good. Neither am I.”

We fall silent. I turn the music up. She turns it back down.

“You don’t have to act like the idea is so horrible, though,” she says. “You sound like you’ve contracted bird flu.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly. “It’s just … this is purely a business arrangement.”

“I am well aware, Zajac.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t want to date you, anyway. You love drama too much.”

“What? I don’t love drama.”

“You totally do.”

“In what way?!”

“Um—” She gestures meaningfully between us. “This way? Paying someone to be your girlfriend so you can emotionally manipulate the ex who doesn’t care about you? Talk about a performative gesture. It’s exactly the kind of thing I hate.”

I feel my heart rate rising, my cheeks flushing. “You’re really pushing my buttons, you know that? What was it you said after Charlotte’s party—something about how I was arrogant to think I understood your enemies?”