And I’m certain—certain—I’ll meet her soon.
I do not share any of this with Molly.
“Who else is sitting here?” she asks, looking around the table.
“Marian,” I say with delectation. Molly has always loathed Marian.
“God, she looks the same,” Molly says. “What does she do these days?”
Trust it to Molly to not keep up with anyone from our class.
“She’s an advertising exec,” I say. “Specializes in feminine hygiene brands.”
Molly snorts. “Marian sells tampons and shit?”
I shake my head. “Not shit. Just tampons.”
This time, she does laugh.
“So how are you? What do you do?” I ask, even though I know exactly what she does, because she is, at least in our overlapping circle of high school friends, famous.
She grabs one of the Parmesan twists and idly breaks it in half, like it’s a toy and not a delicious food.
If I’m not mistaken, she’s nervous.
I’mmaking her nervous.
Delightful.
“I’m a writer,” she says vaguely.
“Oh, that’s so great. What do you write?”
“Films. Rom-coms.”
She says this blandly, in the manner of someone who does not wish to invite further questions. Here is my opportunity to torture her, just a little bit.
“Miss Molly McMarks,” I say, “you must be joking.You, of all people, write kissing movies?”
“Kissing movies gross upward of fifty million dollars opening weekend,” she says. “Or, they used to, before superheroes started dominating the box office.”
“I love superheroes,” I say. “No offense.”
“Of course you do. You always loved a simplistic battle between good and evil.”
This is mean, but true, and I can’t help liking that she’s being catty. It reminds me of our romance. True love at sixteen is hardwired. To this day, I am hopelessly attracted to hostile women.
“I knew you were sentimental at heart,” I say, which is true. She always refused to go to movies with me because they made her cry, and she has a phobia about crying in public.
“It’s a job,” she says and swallows down half of a Palm Bay Preptini.
“Careful, champ,” I say. “There’s five kinds of rum in those.”
She flags down a waiter and motions for two more.
“Cheers,” she says, offering me one.
I accept it and take a sip. “Yum.”
