Page 59 of Isabelle and the Beast

“Oh.” My giddy mood turns into something a little more somber. This is a big deal for him, for multiple reasons. Not only is he willing to go back to the room that meant so much to him and his mom, but he’s sharing this with me and telling me about his experience with grief. He hasn’t said much to me about her yet other than last night when he explained that he went into acting after she died. And now it makes even more sense—it was something special that he shared with her, and he wanted to continue to feel her presence in some way.

I exhale and take him by the hand. “Let’s go. But you get to pick the movie.”

Chapter

Twenty-Six

ADAM

Isabelle doesn’t let go of my hand as we walk to the theater, and I don’t want her to. She pulls me into the movie closet and waves her hand at the musicals section. “Pick.”

I look at her, noting how small this closet feels after our barely-kiss. I can imagine pushing her up against the wall and kissing her senseless, knocking DVDs off the shelves…

Focus, Adam.

I don’t have to think hard about my choice. I pullSingin’ in the Rainoff the shelf and hand it to her.

“The ultimate classic,” she says with a smile. She lets go of my hand and heads back to the main room.

I guess she’s not having the same fantasies that I am.

She puts the movie in the player and settles on the couch, patting the spot next to her.

“By the way, thank you for my popcorn,” she says.

“Do you want some now?” I ask, starting to stand.

She pushes me down. “No, I’m good. Let’s just watch the movie.”

We settle into the couch and watch Gene Kelly explain hisentrance into the world of acting, laughing at his lies and marveling at his dance moves.

“That’s how it was for you, right?” she asks, bumping her shoulder into mine.

I smirk. “Oh, yes. Lots of singing and dancing.”

“Seriously, though. You didn’t have to tough it out? At all?”

I shake my head. “I know I’m fortunate in that way.”

“Well, it seems like it went to your head.”

I turn my head sharply to look at her, and she has a devious smile on her face. “What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.

“You know.” She rolls her eyes. “You have this reputation of getting whatever you want, and it’s definitely not because you’re so sweet.”

“Fine. That’s true.” I cross my arms over my chest, irritated that she’s taking this in such a negative direction.

She puts a gentle hand on my bicep. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just trying to put the pieces together.”

“What pieces?” I ask, the movie long forgotten now.

She shrugs a shoulder. “You’re a mystery,” she says. “I know you have your secrets—and I won’t push you to tell them to me—but I’m just trying to understand where you came from and why you are the way you are.”

I unfold my arms, but she keeps her hand where it is. “And how would you describe the way I am?”

She twists her lips. “Broody.”

“Broody!” I exclaim, insulted. “Like a hen?”

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