Page 74 of Take 2
“Orion sounds like a snob.”
“He absolutely is.”
“So how about”—I rest my chin on my hands and bat my eyelashes—“we watchMagic Mikeinstead?”
“Okay, Mira, here’s your problem.”
“I meanMagic Mike XXL!”
“Here’s your list of problems.” He enumerates with his fingers. “You sound desperate if you come out of the gate with that. You leave yourself no room to up your bid. And I know why you really don’t want to watch it, except I only know half, and Iwantthe other half.”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “So you’re like really determined to watch the awards?”
“Yes. It’s tradition.”
“Okay, but when I said, ‘watch’Magic Mike,I meant hang out with the cast of. But I’ll just tell them not to come over.” I unlock my phone to send a fake message to no one. Actually, I pop my phone into airplane mode. Several well-meaning people are likely to think they need to reach out to me today, and I don’t want it.
“We picked the dress together.”
“That was under duress.”
“I don’t care. Go put it on.”
I stomp to my bedroom in a bigger tantrum than I ever threw as a teenager. My bedroom is small, as is everything else about my apartment, but it’s mine. All by myself, for the first time ever. My closet is pathetic, and it doesn’t help that I keep all of my Oscars dresses. I just can’t bear to part with them, even though it would feel weird to wear them again. They are mementos of the days they were purchased for. That section of my closet is like a scrapbook—even of the things I’d rather not remember.
The dress is entirely too pretty for this year. I should save it for another year, but I don’t have another good option and James will guilt-trip me. So, I slip into the silver lace bodice and A-line silk skirt.This is fine.
James will notice if Iaccidentally on purposelight my apartment on fire, right?
He whistles a catcall when I come out. I curtsy and roll my eyes. “Happy now?”
“I will be …” He drags out the last word like it’s a pitch pipe and he’s cueing me to break into the musical explanation.
Jimmy Kimmel is already starting his opening monologue.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say for the millionth time.
“Bullshit, there isn’t.” He hands me my flute, and I suck back half the contents at once. “But first, pictures.”
We snap a couple of individuals and a selfie of the two of us. I send them to my assistant, Kristen, to post, and James makes a snarky remark about having to post his own social media content like a peasant. As if he doesn’t claim my assistant as his own half the time.
“What happened at Lisa’s party last year?” If I’d kept a tally of how many times he’s asked me about this, it would look like Dantès counting the days he spent in Château d’If inThe Count of Monte Cristo.
“Nothing.” I refill my glass.
“Isn’t there a rule about always telling the truth on this our high holiday?”
I hiss out a laugh. “Not remotely.”
“Well, I thinkalways the full truthshould replacealways sex.It’s only fair.”
“I disagree.” I drop onto the couch, and he perches on the armrest.
“There must be rules, Mira. What would our tradition come to without rules?”
“Okay, I’ll go have sex then. Reinstate that rule!”
“Will you, though? I don’t think you have since last year’s Olivers.”
