Page 13 of Quarantine Crush
“Sounds good.”
I watch as she walks away, noticing for the first time the sway of her hips. Shit.
“Hey, Knox.”
My eyes dart up to find her paused at the end of the hallway.
“What’s up, Emy?”
“Thanks for not making me talk about last night.”
I nod, and she shoots me one last nervous grin before turning back around and heading into her bedroom.
An hour later, the streets are as crowded as ever as our Uber driver slowly navigates us to our destination. The vintage movie theater is out of our way, but I don’t mind. I can’t count how many hours Emy and I spent there as teens. Mostly Saturdays for their “dollar double features” but plenty of school days, too, once we could drive–not that the dads ever found out about that. My mom caught us once or twice, but she sure as shit wasn’t going to rat us out.
During the ride, Emy makes easy small talk with the driver. I listen, noting how friendly and open she seems with the guy compared to the weird, clipped silence she offers me.
I brush it off as my imagination. Maybe I’m the one still feeling awkward.
Determined to move past the weird-ass kiss, I decide to make an extra effort to remind us both of the friendship between us.
When the Uber stops a block down from the theater, I nudge Emy toward the door, ignoring the ache at the way she shies away from my touch. “We’ll walk from here, mate,” I say, and Emy takes the hint and climbs out.
“Mate?” she asks, eyebrows raised, when we’re standing on the sidewalk.
“What?”
“You called him ‘mate,’” she says with a giggle. “Are you full-blooded British now or something?”
“Nah. I hardly drink enough tea for that. Come on.”
She rolls her eyes but laughs and follows me down to the ticket counter.
“Two for The Mummy,” I tell the attendant.
I hand him a twenty and take our tickets, holding open the door for Emy to enter.
Inside, the theater is deserted as always.
It’s one of the reasons we like it here. All of the commentary we want with no one getting pissed about it.
Sure enough, we have the entire theater to ourselves.
The gaudy carpet matches the aging upholstery just like I remember.
“It still smells like feet in here,” Emy says, wrinkling her nose.
“You seem surprised,” I joke.
“Well, it’s not like I’ve been here without you,” she says, and for some reason, I’m relieved to hear that.
We take our seats and settle in, but it doesn’t take long for the silence to feel awkward. I try to think of a topic, something to talk about that won’t end in some accidental mention of last night, but then Emy jumps up, nearly stepping on my foot.
“We need popcorn,” she says, “And sodas. What do you think?”
“Uh, okay.”
“I’ll be right back.”
