Page 50 of How We Play the Game
“We can’t,” I explain. “You’re barely in it. This video is just about me, and we all know it’s the two of us people care about.”
“Look again.” Ivan cocks his head at me like he’s not taking that for an answer. Fine, I’ll stop being stubborn and watch it again. “But remember who took the video.” He cues it up from the top, and after a few moments I see exactly what he meant.
That video does tell a story with pictures, not with words. It’s a story about a boy who likes a girl so much he can’t help capturing the little moments that make her extraordinary in his eyes. When he’s behind the camera, everything she does looks more magical than reality should allow. She pretends to shy away from his lens because she doesn’t see what he sees, but the way she smiles makes it clear she’s grateful someone notices she’s special. She’s especially grateful that he’s the one who notices.
It’s a solid, if cheesy, narrative. No wonder the internet likes it. Silly fantasies like that don’t happen in real life, but Ivan and I have gotten miraculously good at making it seem like they can.
“Let’s do one more,” I say. “Another candid, but it’s your turn.”
“Fair is fair.” Ivan hands me his phone and scrambles up a few more steps.
“Rolling!” I call out. “Do something cool, Ivan. Do a flip.”
His laugh is cut short when a dark shadow appears at the top of the screen.
“What is—”
“Shit,” Ivan shouts, careening down the stairs and jumping so far back he nearly goes toppling into a bush. I reach out to grab his outstretched hand just in time to pull him back to safety.
Just as soon as he’s safely on land, the same dark swirl reappears out of the corner of my screen. Then another, and another. A flock of pigeons storming in to pick at the remains of an abandoned pretzel. A few feet away, a mom consoles her toddler as the birds chip away at what must be the remains of their dinner.
Another pigeon flies past Ivan’s shoulder, and he doubles over to avoid getting hit by a rogue wing. He’s practically curled up in the fetal position on the ground, holding there for a beat before lunging out of the pigeon’s hunting ground. For the second time today, I’m doubled over from laughter, my sides aching from the force of my laugh. It takes a Herculean effort to straighten myself out enough to chase after him. A few more birds hop along the ground near him, and he leaps into the air to avoid them like they’re made of toxic waste.
“He’s afraid of birds!” I wheeze, spinning the camera into selfie mode. “Pigeons almost took him out! Tell the world! I’m dead!” Tears brim at the corners of my eyes and threaten to spill down my cheeks as I finally catch up to where he’s collapsed onto a nearby bench.
“Pigeons are flying trash cans!” he says extremely quickly and extremely defensively.
I’m tempted to stand up on behalf of pigeons—which are as iconic to New York City as the Empire State Building—butdecide to let Ivan live in his fear without judgment. For now, at least.
“I got that on video!” I wheeze once it seems like we’re in the clear. The pigeons are distracted by their feast, and Ivan doesn’t look like he’s one wing flap away from passing out. My arm hovers on the bench behind him, my fingers twitching to reach out and try to console him somehow. Y’know. Like a good fake girlfriend would.
“Of course you did,” Ivan mutters and runs a hand down his face. He shakes himself off like a dog on the beach, his hair an effortlessly cool mess. Completely unfair. He grabs his phone on his way past me and slaps at the screen until we hear the telltale beep of a stopped recording.
“Play it back, Ivan.”
“No.”
“You gotta.”
“No!”
“For me?”
“Fine.” He cues the second video, and I see his panic morphs into a genuine smile.
Ivan is grinning like a madman at first, silhouetted across the darkening sky like a giant as I call out to him. He looks so pleased to be there, even if I’m teasing him, but his impressive on-screen figure morphs absurdly fast into a panicked blur charging off frame.
Then, pure chaos. Belvedere Castle spins on the horizon behind us as I tried to catch up to Ivan’s movement, until all becomes a whirl of sunset colors. We hear cooing, squawking, the crash of a boy into a bush. Cue my face and myuncontrollable laughter. Despite the massive building shielding us from the sun, the golden hour still manages to cloak me in the softest warm light. Even without makeup, my skin is lit up like there are a dozen flecks of glitter just beneath the surface. My smile is radiant. Honest.Real.
I can’t tell if it was an accident, or Ivan continuing to attempt to get a candid moment even under duress. But it doesn’t matter. Because it’s perfect.
“I’ll let you post this one,” Ivan says, nudging his shoulder against mine. Before I can protest that we should post one where he’s not just a screaming blob, he’s already texted it to me along with a sunshine emoji. “If you let me post the one of you. Also, buy me a Popsicle.”
Ivan Hunt’s kryptonite revealed to the world and all I have to do is buy a Popsicle? This is the deal of the century.
“Why do you take what I want so seriously?” I finally blurt out the question that’s been weighing on me all week when Ivan gets up from the castle steps to toss our Popsicle sticks in the trash. “To the point of being weirdly cool with pretending to date me?”
Ivan sighs and leans back against the steps like he’s trying to crack his back. When that doesn’t work to calm him down, he settles for another classic Ivan ritual: running his hand through his dark hair.
