CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

February 27, 1993: Part II.

“You can’t be serious,” I say when we arrive at the movie theater.

“When was the last time you saw a movie in theaters?” Javier asks.

I think. “Summer 1990, maybe?”

“Yeesh. You needed this more than I thought.” He opens the truck door. “Let’s go.”

“Nothing sappy or sad, right?”

“Neither of those would quiet the voices, would they?” he whispers.

He buys us two tickets to “Groundhog’s Day”, which came out two weeks ago. I’ve never heard of it, which makes him grin.

We stand in line at the concession stand behind a large group of teenagers. “I usually just see the movie,” I say. “Also, you could let me pay.”

“Will you just let me lead this dance, please?”

I chortle. “Sure.”

When we finally arrive, he orders the biggest container of popcorn they have, a box of Milk Duds, a package of Twizzlers, and two large sodas.

“Are you serious?” I ask.

“What did I just say?” he asks rhetorically, handing me the giant cups.

We’re in the empty theater long before the previews start.

“Where do you want to sit?” he asks.

“Back row. Always the back row.”

“All right,” he says, “but if we don’t make out, these seats are going to be disappointed. Their entire existence is to help teenagers get to first base.”

“You never made it past first base?” I ask, sitting next to him.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

We set up all of our concessions. “We look like we’re eating for four.”

“That’s how you’re supposed to look at the movies. People go nuts. Besides, a sugar high will help, right?”

“Probably.”

“Then stop worrying about it,” he says before passing me the popcorn.

We talk about the pre-show entertainment as the room fills, and we go silent when previews start. We constantly exchange candy, and he sets the popcorn on his lap for me to easily access.

The movie’s hilarious and a much-needed distraction. The third time I laugh, he grins at me, obviously proud of himself.

Unfortunately, there’s a romantic subplot, and although it mostly stays comical, the few truly romantic moments make my heart ache.

I wonder if this ever gets easier.

An hour in, I place my hand on his arm, and he leans over to whisper, “You’re a kickass, badass woman, and you can fucking do this. Stop listening to the voices and focus on the absurd comedy.”

I take a deep breath, and he hands me a Milk Dud. The rest of the movie, I do my best to see the romance for what it is: a subplot, not a reflection of my life.

I refocus, and at one point, I laugh so hard that I bury my head against his shoulder. He laughs more at me than at the movie and drapes his arm over my shoulders.

When the credits finally roll, we let everyone else clear out first.

“What’d you think?” Javier asks, gathering our trash.

“I think that was a good idea, and I could do it again.”

“Right now?” he asks. “Because I’d be up for that.”

I furrow my brow. “The same movie?”

“Uh, no. We can find another. Start all over.”

“You’re serious?”

“You have somewhere else to be?”

“No.”

“Did it help the voices?”

I check in. “Yes.”

“Maybe this time, we get real food. Hot dogs, or nachos, or something.”

“That’s real food?”

He chuckles. “In comparison to popcorn and candy.”

So we do. He buys us tickets to “Home Alone 2” along with new sodas, four hot dogs, and a serving of nachos.

When we slide into the back row of the new theater, he says, “Okay, but this time, we really should make out. I think I heard the other seats cry when we left.”

We eat our hot dogs during the previews, and nearly make a mess out of the nachos. Half an hour into the movie, the food is gone, and only the sodas remain.

I reach over to hold his hand, and he interlocks his fingers with mine. Ten minutes later, he quickly squeezes my hand.

When I look over, he’s still staring at the screen, but a small smile peeks at me from his profile.

I squeeze his hand back.

And we do that for the rest of the movie. Sometimes, it’s immediate. Sometimes, we wait ten minutes or more. It’s the spontaneity–the game–that makes it fun, and ultimately, I’m more amused by him than I am by the movie.

After it ends, he says, “Want to grab some dinner?”

“After hot dogs and nachos?”

“We both ran a 5K this morning, yes?”

“Why do you respond to so many of my questions with a question?”

“Why do you?”

“Fine, let’s have dinner. But you have to let me pay.”

“Fine.”

He drives us to a mid-tier Italian restaurant, and we enjoy an early dinner.

“Today was good, yeah?” he asks during our entree.

“Yeah.”

“It helped?”

“It did.”

“So why do your eyes still look so miserable?”

“I’m not miserable. This is one of the best days I’ve had in months.”

“But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes, Sam. Why is that?”

I bite my lip. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I sigh. “We’ve had a great day, Javier. Do we really have to ruin it with something serious?”

“It won’t ruin it. This is more of an… interlude, if you will.”

I twist my noodles around my fork. “The distractions are great, and they do quiet the voices, but it’s not a long-term solution.”

“What is?”

I stroke my chin, debating how much to tell him. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, yeah, like that’s going to work,” he says sarcastically. “C’mon, Sam.”

I lean back and tap my fingers against the tablecloth. “I don’t have a long-term solution, Javier, and the more fleeting moments of happiness that I do have, the more I think…”

“What?”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to freak you out.”

“Do I look fucking freaked out?”

I continue to tap my fingers. “There’s not a long-term solution, Javier. I’m holding them off as long as I can, but I think it’s inevitable; the voices will eventually win.”

I expect him to yell at me that there’s no way, that I just need to pull it together and be stronger. He doesn’t.

“What would that look like?” he asks before taking another bite of his pasta.

“If the voices win?”

“Yeah. Give me the best and worst.”

“Best case scenario? I’m constantly self-destructive, but I have regular access to temporary relief. Worst case scenario? I die.”

He looks up from his plate. “You’re serious?”

“You asked.”

“Well, that’s fucking terrifying.”

“Hence why I didn’t tell you.”

He’s quiet for several seconds. “Do you want to die?”

“Not particularly… Sometimes, the universe decides.”

The waiter returns, and we order dessert before he takes our plates away.

“What can I do?” Javier asks. “How do I tip the odds?”

“You keep letting me show up in your office, don’t fucking coddle me, and make sure you don’t fall in love with me.”

He’s quiet for at least a full minute. “This was a good day, and I want it to stay that way, so I’ll ask one more question, and then we’ll go back to being delightful.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you figured out the real reason that the voices are so loud?”

“The thing that you’re sure is staring me in the face?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“If you really think you might die, Sam. I may have to push a little harder for that realization. Not tonight, but sometime soon. You cool with that?”

“Do I have a choice?”

His jaw drops. “You always have a choice. Did I not make that clear?”

“I didn’t mean… Yes, you can push a little harder.”

“Good.” He claps and rubs his hands as the tiramisu arrives. “So, give me your favorite scene from both movies!”

And we’re back to the ease from earlier in the day, the fact that I’m dancing with Death forgotten.

***

After dinner, we return to his house. “Do you want to stay the night?” he asks.

Part of me really does. Sex or no sex, Javier’s house is quiet, and there’s no one who requires socialization.

Still, I’ve slept in enough new beds recently.

“I think I’d sleep better at Ra’Shelle’s,” I say, getting out of the truck. “I’ll just get my clothes from the 5K, and then I’ll go.”

“I’ll drive you.”

I gesture down my body. “What do you want me to do with your clothes?”

“They’re your clothes, Sam. Bring them back whenever.”

I gather everything, and he drives me to my latest temporary home.

“Thanks for today,” I tell him. “It was… surreal.”

“When can I see you again?”

“I’m sure I’ll show up at your office eventually.”

“You could also show up at my house… or use the telephone.”

“Might be a little too normal for me.”

I want to kiss him. One last moment to steady me. But I don’t want to have to answer questions if anyone sees–especially Alex.

“To hell with everyone else,” he says, reading my mind.

If only it were that easy.

“How about a hug instead?” I ask, moving closer.

His torso is warm against mine, and his embrace is almost too tight.

“It was okay that I told you all that shit, yeah?” I whisper.

“Yes.”

“I’ll probably regret it later.”

“I won’t.”

I pull away, and he releases me. “Good night, Javier.”

“I’ll see you next time.”

But as soon as I step into the house, I wonder: Should I have revealed that much?