Page 54 of Lovesick
“Yeah, I mean look at this setup. It’s perfect.”
She thinks it’s perfect? I thought for sure that I didn’t bring enough blankets, or I parked too far away from the screen, or?—
“Get out of your head,” she coaxes. “We’re just watching a movie.”
Merit and I have hung out a few times before this. Why am I freaking out? I shared a heart-to-heart with this woman. A movie and some small talkcan’tbe what takes me out.
“Mm-hm” is all I can manage, trying to ignore how good it feels when she sidles up next to me.
The projector screen flashes to life without another second to waste, and the whole drive-in screams in elation, some poor moviegoers abandoning their snacks to race to their vehicles. I lean back to switch to the corresponding radio station for the sound, turning up the dial so that the volume is loud enough to be heard from the back seat.
Sinisteris supposed to be one of the scariest horror moviesin existence. I’ll be lucky if I get through this screening without screaming like a little girl.
Mirroring my thoughts, Merit makes a throwaway comment. “You’re not easily scared, are you?”
I answer a little too quickly. “Me? Of course not. I’ve been watching horror movies for so long that I’ve become desensitized to them.”
Not entirely false, but no number of black-eyed children crawling on walls and turning their heads a full three-sixty degrees can desensitize even the strongest of veterans.
“Yeah? I bet you’ll flinch at the first jump scare,” she challenges, the resplendent sapphires of her eyes roaming over me, stopping to read between the lines. A piece of licorice dangles from between her fingers.
Maybe it’s foolish arrogance (which I seemingly have plenty of), but I bench some of my pesky nerves, grateful that our effortless banter has made a quick turnaround. “Oh, really? I bet you’ll be leaping into my arms before you know it.”
“I think you just want an excuse to cuddle me.”
“You’re the one who proposed we go to the movies. And would a cuddle really be so bad?”
“With you? That answer is obvious.”
Oh, I know the answer. The answer and I have long-standing beef. But acknowledging the truth is only going to kill the mood, so I do what I always do and use humor as a defense mechanism.
“It’s because I’m irresistible, isn’t it?” I drawl, leaning in and holding intense eye contact with her as I bend down to bite a chunk of her Red Vines.
Her hand wavers.
“Keep dreaming,” she quips, though she isn’t in a rush to break our pseudosexual staring contest.
“I will. My dreams usually consist of you, anyways.”
The movie starts out as expected—foreboding ambience,tragic backstory, a non-horror actor that redefines the genre completely. I should be grateful that some of the pressure to pilot this hangout is off my shoulders, but now I’m too focused on the smell of her jasmine-infused perfume, the softness of her skin, and the endearing way she peels the segments of her Red Vines like they’re string cheese. I’m on edge the entire time. Between looking at her and the screen, I’m not sure which one raises my pulse more.
Doing that fake-yawning-shoulder-move would be really inappropriate, right?
Yeah, she’d probably punch me in the balls.
Okay, be cool, Crew. Just sit normally. Don’t think about the fact that if it wasn’t for your coach, you could be kissing the most beautiful girl on the planet right now.
I greatly underestimated Merit’s tolerance for horror because she hasn’t cringed once. Not when a mass hanging happened, a family was barbecued alive, or a masked killer slit the throats of multiple people.
About halfway through, I unknowingly lose our little bet. A tamer scene lends me deceptive reassurance, and when the protagonist watches some sketchy Super 8 footage, a lawnmower runs over a contorted woman.
I, the unfortunate keeper of the popcorn, shriek at a decibel unbeknownst to humans while simultaneously showering our space in buttery kernels. It’s reflexive when I bury my face in Merit’s shoulder, fear and adrenaline thrumming under my skin.
“Holy shit,” she whispers, dusting food off our overflowing comforter.
I don’t risk a glance at the screen—especially not now that I’m snuggled up next to her. “Jesus,” I grumble into her shirt, popcorn bucket discarded and hands gripping onto any available part of her with might. “That was the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Maybe it was stupid of me to, I don’t know, expect her to agree with me, but her profanity is for an entirely different reason.
