Page 17 of Sunny Goes Cold Turkey
“It’s okay. It was a rough time, but I’m good now. Anyway, my family was at the funeral, and I was alone in the hospital, having the pity party of a lifetime. A nurse came in. She talked me through it and turned on that movie. It was light and fun.”
I smile as I recall the comfort of a simple love story during an excruciating time. It was like anesthetic for my heartbroken fourteen-year-old soul. For years, Micah filled the cracks in my heart. I could’ve turned to drugs or alcohol or even comfort eating in my grief. Instead, I turned to Micah Watson, his dashing, dark looks, and a continuous stream of unhealthy daydreams. Micah Watson is my coping mechanism, and his worst movie of all time (I can acknowledge this to myself, at least) is my drug of choice. But all I tell Anders is: “It was just what I needed that day.” He doesn’t need to know that I’m infatuated with his co-star.
“Well,” he crosses his arms, “I feel like a major jerk.”
“You shouldn’t. I get it. Technically speaking, it is the worst of your movies.” I guess I can acknowledge it to him. Look at that.
He scoffs. “You can’t know that. You haven’t really seen all of them.”
Except I have. If a movie contains a hint of Micah Watson, I’ve seen it. Anders has been in a handful of movies that don’t co-star Micah, and I’ve watched them just in case. He is Micah-adjacent, and a girl can never be too thorough. “That’s true.”
My pants? Officially on fire.
He makes a “hmm” noise next to me and rubs his five o'clock shadow. “What’s one you haven’t seen?”
I pretend to think for a minute because I’m stalling. I could recreate this man’s iMDB page from scratch with no notes. I choose one of his lesser-known historical dramas that came out when I was seventeen years old, right after the first installment of theLet’s Do Thisseries. It was a box office bomb. He’ll buy that I haven't seen it. Of course, I saw it the night it opened. “Contagion 1918.”
"We're watching it." He stands and makes his way to the couch like I'm going to follow him.
I do, obviously. "Watching it right now? That movie is like seven hours long. Is your ego really that delicate?” I tease him while looking at my watch.
It’s 9:30. According to the schedule Oliver emailed yesterday afternoon while Imogen and I were taking our long nap, I’m supposed to be here at seven tomorrow morning. He also emailed a link to Immy's remote tutor and a list of dos and don’ts for this gig. My law-abiding personality appreciated every last bullet point. I read the thing at least three times while my brown hair dye processed and I can almost recite it on command. Rule number one: “NO FLIRTING WITH ANDERS OR YOU WILL RUIN THIS VERY IMPORTANT MOVIE AND POTENTIALLY HIS CAREER," was typed in all-caps. Of course, it was written in legalese, but that was the gist. Point taken, Darth Oliver.
Anders’ eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s three hours long, Grandma. But it’s fine if you don’t want to watch. I’ll just turn it on and we’ll see what happens.” He swipes the remote and drops onto the plush white couch, crossing his long legs on the coffee table. Even his tan, bare feet are cute, which I didn't think was possible. It’s annoying.
He presses a bunch of buttons on the remote and I’m frozen, standing next to the couch while I deliberate. On one hand, this feels risky for about a hundred reasons. The main reason being that Oliver was very clear that any blurring of the nanny/boss line will not end well for me legally, and I'm scared of Oliver. On the other hand,we’re not technically flirting or doing anything inappropriate, plus I’d get to live out the fantasy of millions of teenage girls. I’m also capable of self-control. The fact that so many acquaintances have teasingly called me Grandma attests to that.
I’m no dummy. I lower myself onto the couch a friendly distance from Anders and keep my feet firmly planted on the rug. If I relax too much I might forget I’m the small-town, fill-in nanny and he’s an international superstar whose ex-wife is a European supermodel. It’s laughable that Oliver is worried about me flirting with Anders. We couldn’t be more mismatched. He’s champagne and he’s used to dating caviar. I’m fried pickles and Coke.
“Don’t most actors hate watching their own movies?”
“Which actors told you that?” he chuckles while the movie opens.
“I must’ve read it somewhere.” Like in an interview you did with Micah nine years ago.
“I don’t mind it. In the early days I hated it. I don’t have any control over the end product—editing, sound, stuff like that. I thought I could make better creative choices and that was irritating. But with experience I’ve learned that these projects aren’t just mine. I’m one part of a whole machine that makes these movies happen.” He slings a heavy arm across the back of the couch behind me, no big deal. “I’m lucky to be able to be more selective about who I work with, and I trust the team.”
I don’t hear a word he says. Every square inch of my shoulders feels the warmth and weight of his arm and it’s all I can focus on. I didn’t sit too close to him, but somehow it feels like his arm is curled around me. Am I inching toward him or is he inching toward me? Is he trying out one of his overused moves on me? Do I care? I’m not sure.
“Huh.” I pretend to be engrossed in the movie, which isn’t difficult when one of my favorite actors is the lead. I might not be in love with the guy, but I’ve developed a healthy appreciation for his bodyof work over the past decade or so. I begrudgingly admit that his actual body isn’t bad, either.
We spend the next three hours watching the movie from a friendly distance. He comments on the actors he worked with and shares the little bits of trivia he can remember. His movie commentary is pure gold, and I eat it up. It turns out to be one of the best nights of this film junkie’s life.
Eventually, the credits roll and Anders moves his arm off the back of the couch. I’m guessing his hand is completely numb by now. He flexes his fingers and hides a yawn against his elbow as we stand from the couch. “See? That was arguably better than your favorite, right?”
“Wrong,” I say through a yawn, because his yawn was contagious. I’m too tired and braindead to form an argument. This is why I never stay up this late. I hate feeling like this. “Let’s Do Thisis your finest work. I stand by that.” I grab my purse while sliding my feet into my sandals at the door. It takes a few tries, but at least I’m leaving with my shoes tonight.
“Clearly, we’re going to have to watch the rest so you can form a legitimate objective opinion. For science.” He opens the door for me, “Are you okay to drive?”
He’s not allowed to be so sweet. “You’re not allowed to be so sweet.” Dang it. I’ve reached that stage of sleepiness—the brain-to-mouth diarrhea stage. “Sorry. Um, yeah. I’m okay to drive. Thanks for the movie.” I giggle a little, as if that won’t destroy all evidence that I'm of sound mind.Get out of here before you do something even more goofy, Sunny.
He leans against the door jamb in that alluring way I’ve seen him do on the screen, with his arms folded across his chest. Does he know how that looks? Is he being sexy on purpose? “It was fun,” he says in that gravelly voice. There’s no way he’s doing this by accident.
There’s barely enough room for me to scootch past him. I swear he does this on purpose, too. I squeeze through the door, getting onelast whiff of his beachy scent. “Yeah. Fun. G’night!” I holler as I speed walk into the night, to the sound of Anders chuckling behind me.
It’s one in the morning when I park in front of my condo. My phone buzzes in my cup holder almost immediately. It’s my brother, Joe. Who died? That’s the only plausible reason my brother would call in the middle of the night. My heart is galloping.
I slide to accept the call and whisper, “Hello?”
