“Real life is never that simple,” I agree. “There’s no story arc for one thing or third-act dramatic climax.” I scoop up a glob of melting cheese. “And as for resolution . . .” I meet his eyes again. “As if we’d be so lucky.”
“Right.” He smiles, relieved. “I guess it’s my way of trying to get a little control over everything.”
“Like me and my timetables.” I nod. “The only reason I do it is because there’s so much I can’t even begin to control. If you just stop and think about how much of your life is totally out of your hands, it’s incredible.” My voice begins to rise. “I’m not even talking about things like global warming or famine or politics, just normal everyday things. Whether or not your examiner is in a good mood when they mark your paper, or if your application gets filed underneath the person they choose.” My eyes are wide. “Ninety percent of your entire existence occurs through luck or accident. Just think about that!”
“Pretty scary,” Ryan agrees. He has a slight smirk of amusement on his lips, and I realize I must have got carried away.
“Sorry,” I say, deflating a little. “But I get it: wanting to be the one in charge of the scene.”
He shrugs. “But it doesn’t work that way, right? You can’t write everyone’s part for them.”
He looks sad for a moment, and I remember what Lexi and Morgan said in the salon. “We can do it today,” I suggest with a smile. “Pick the soundtrack, stage the scenes. Cut from the car park to the diner interior to . . .”
“Santa Monica boardwalk,” Ryan finishes for me. He nods slowly. “‘Emily’s Big Adventure.’”
“You make me sound like an animated pig.”
“Don’t complain, or I’ll make it so you don’t get home,” he warns me with a dark grin.
“And then who would do last-minute rewrites? Face it, you need me.”
We spend the rest of the day creating that perfect fun montage you find halfway through every romantic-comedy film. Tourist photographs at the Walk of Fame; people-watching on Sunset Boulevard; arcade games and candy floss on the boardwalk. Ryan even insists we rent Rollerblades, for that quintessential California experience, and although I can tell he’s still watching us through that director’s filter in his mind, I’m having so much fun that I don’t really care.
“So this is what life is really like for you people.” I take tiny gliding steps forward, arms outstretched to keep my balance. I’m covered in an array of crash pads, but I still don’t feel particularly stable as we edge down the wide pedestrian path. “Sun and sand, all day every day.”
Ryan gives me one of his twisted half-grins, skating circles around me with irritating ease. He’s filming me on his digital camera, and I dread to think what I look like. “Not exactly. It’s the same living here as anywhere else. Except with better scenery.”
“That’s not true.” I gingerly pick up speed. The boardwalk traffic is thinning as the evening breeze begins to cool, and I feel a rush in my blood that has nothing to do with the skating. “People are so laid-back here — it’s like you have Prozac in the water system!”
“You’re not doing too bad.” He pushes me carefully out of the way as another girl hurtles past — as trussed up in protective clothing as I am but clearly out of control. I feel marginally better about my own Rollerblading prowess. “You haven’t checked the time all afternoon.”
“Yay me!” I mimic the California-girl squeal.
He laughs. “Don’t go changing too much; they won’t recognize you when you get home!”
I miss my footing and begin to fall.
“Whoa!” Ryan grabs my elbow and drags me upright. I cling to him for a minute, trying to get my balance back. “You OK?”
I nod, suddenly breathless. I’m not sure if it’s Ryan’s body pressed against mine or the sudden thought of home, but I feel a sharp clutch beneath my rib cage. “I’m . . . I’m fine.” I straighten my legs, he releases me slowly, and we skate on.
The sense of giddy sickness lasts through an old John Hughes screening and the drive back to Santa Barbara. I curl up, sleepy in the passenger seat, while Ryan hums along with the sweet chimes of an indie-rock song on the stereo. My body is tired but relaxed, with a potent soft buzz of endorphins.
“You’ve gone quiet.”
I look up to find we’re back at the apartment, waiting in the dark car park. “Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about . . . home,” I lie. “I can’t believe I’ll be going back soon.”
“Just when I was getting used to you.”
I ignore the wistful pang in my chest and quickly pull my jacket on. “You’ll find someone else to keep you on the shooting schedule. Anyway, thanks for today. I had fun.” I open the car door, but he turns off the engine.
“Wait, I’ll walk you up. It’s late.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
I fill the space between us with project talk all the way into the lobby and up to my corridor. Edits and pacing are safe ground: details that won’t belie anything other than professional interest in his opinion. Still, I swallow nervously as we reach my room. The whole day has been one long facade of a date, even though I know it’s not real.
“So, I had fun,” I say again, stupidly. Ryan looks as awkward as I feel, shifting from one foot to the other in the empty hallway. I unlock the door and push it open to find an empty flat. Morgan is still out. “Oh, do you want that book I mentioned?”
“Sure.”
I flick the lights on and he follows me in. “It’s here somewhere. . . .” Browsing the stack on the bookshelf, I find the title — a critical look at comedy conventions. “It’s not due back for another week.”
“Thanks, I’ll make sure to get it to you in time.” Ryan takes it and scans the back cover before tucking it under his arm. There’s a long pause.
“Back to work tomorrow, then?” I say, and immediately want to kick myself for stating the obvious.
“It won’t be more than another two days,” Ryan offers. “You must be getting sick of me by now.”
“Surprisingly, no.” I try to sound lighthearted, but when I glance up, he’s looking at me with an expression that’s almost unreadable.
Almost.