6. Winter

Chapter 6

Winter

As the lights in the theater dim and trailers dance across the screen, I sink deeper into my plush red seat, feigning interest in a movie about dancing bartenders. My focus drifts. Once again, I find myself stealing glances at Orson, seated near orchestra left, two rows down, laughing at something his blonde bimbo whispers into his ear. I’m not jealous. I hate the sound of his laugh.

My friend Chelsea, who only had a few walk-on scenes in the movie, didn’t land prime seating, which works for me. The farther I am from Orson, the more comfortable I’ll feel in the silver concoction my stylist swore was in line with the new mature image I’d like to cultivate. Now, I see it was a mistake. I feel like a roll of aluminum foil.

I pull my sash tighter around my shoulders, an absent gesture meant more to comfort than to fend off the chilly draft sneaking through the theater doors. Around me, everyone’s attention is fixed on the giant screen, the room filled with flickering images and the excessive buttery scent of popcorn. But I'm caught in a moment of invisible turmoil, gripped by a cocktail of nostalgia and raging fury stirred up by Orson's unexpected presence.

When I flip-flopped on Chelsea’s invitation for fear I’d run into the last person in the world I wanted to see, she swore she’d heard he and Kim broke up weeks ago. This is utterly humiliating. The big jerk probably thinks I came here to see him, and nothing could be further from the truth.

Kim Dawson is a stunning woman, and I don’t blame him for hooking up with her. She’s tall, buxom, with a flawless complexion and gleaming blonde hair. I bet she’s never had a pimple or a split end. As much as I try to find an imperfection, the tramp looks fabulous in her tight black dress and diamond jewels. I’ll bet Orson bought her all those baubles. That little twerp used to make me share my fries with him to save money and now he’s running around Los Angeles giving women extravagant jewelry. Why the hell am I letting him get to me?

My mind races back to our last spring in Bixby, ten years ago, when Orson and I took an afternoon hike on the Bluebell Trail, and we talked endlessly about our lofty dreams, some we believed were so unachievable, we’d have a better chance of becoming astronauts. That walk could have been a scene straight out of one of these cheesy romantic comedies—except ours didn’t end with the promised happy ending.

As soon as the trailer switches to a high-paced action movie, an explosion on screen rattles through the surround sound system and effectively snaps me out of my daydream. I glance around, but no one else seems unsettled. Unlike me, they're all drawn into the action and not obsessing about their high school ex-boyfriend who dumped them eight years ago.

For a fleeting moment, I consider leaving before the main feature begins. Yet something urges me to stay. Perhaps it’s loyalty to Chelsea. This may not be the big break she needs but it’s a step in the right direction. Not everything is about me. She needs me, and my discomfort will need to take a back seat. Besides, there’s solace in seeing him here. Our story ended long ago, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be semi-cordial in public places. Frankly, it’s become incredibly inconvenient to avoid him at all costs. Whether I like it or not, Orson Frost was an important part of my life. I need to overcome my insecurities and figure out how to acknowledge his existence without retreating into the past.

As the main attraction begins its opening credits, I settle back, telling myself that tonight is about embracing my good friend’s success—not ruminating over lost loves or what-ifs. We had our run and failed miserably. People like us don’t get do-overs.

The darkness offers a coward's comfort, emboldening Orson to stare without fear of reproach from his girlfriend. I shuffle in my seat, pretending to dig deeper into the plot winding out on the screen, anything to push him out of my mind. Each glance freezes a frame of our past—a reel of memories I’ve long tried to archive in dust.

Chelsea whispers something about the brilliant cinematography, expecting me to mirror her awe. Instead, I nod silently, my focus overtaken by the turmoil within. How many minutes have passed? An hour? Time blurs when you’re dancing with ghosts.

Finally, Chelsea leans closer as the climax builds on-screen and the heroine confronts her villain. Her voice is a lifeline tossed across turbulent seas churning in my mind. "You look pale—are you okay?" She studies me with concern etched across her face.

I manage a weak smile. "Yeah, I think I ate too much popcorn, and this dress is cutting off my circulation." It's a lie easily told but not quite believed.

Chelsea isn't convinced, but before she can press further, applause erupts around us—the movie has reached its victorious end. The lights slowly crease the darkness away, revealing the audience as they stretch and chatter about the scenes just witnessed.

"Let's get out of here," Chelsea suggests quietly, catching my arm. “I need some fresh air.”

Grateful for her intervention, I rise quickly—too quickly—as dizziness spikes through me like a warning shot. “Yes, let’s.”

We weave through the crowd, dodging my security detail and doing our best to appear casual. The crisp outside air feels like a slap against my flushed cheeks as we step out into the rainy night, unconcerned with what the water is doing to our hair or clothes. My heart races with a cocktail of relief and anxiety when the paparazzi ignores us, choosing to focus on the cast leaving through the front of the theater. No one cares about us.

"So," Chelsea begins, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as we walk down the sidewalk awash with lamplight and shadows, "do you wanna talk about it?"

Do I? My brain whirls with reasons why Orson’s appearance upset me so much, and why his gray eyes had found mine so often in the dark. "Honestly? I feel weird," I finally admit. “I’m somewhere between enraged and confused.”

Chelsea looks over at me, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity. "Seeing him with someone else, or him seeing you without a proper date on your arm?” she probes delicately.

"A little bit of both," I confess. How juvenile does that sound? How starkly junior high—and yet there it is, the raw core of my unease. I despise looking like I’m on the losing end.

Chelsea wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me tight against her side as we walk toward her waiting car. As we slide in, she continues, "Hey, you're not alone. You've got me."

We both laugh out loud at her ridiculously sentimental words.

Up ahead and far away from the chaos of the movie premiere, a cozy diner glows like a beacon through the drizzling rain.

"How about some coffee? Maybe pie?" Chelsea suggests.

"Yeah." I sigh, grateful for the change of scenery. “Coffee sounds perfect.”

We push into the warmth of the diner where a bell above the door jingles merrily at our entrance. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee blends with baked goods and bacon sizzling somewhere in the back. It's comforting in a way I didn't know I needed tonight. It reminds me of home.

Chelsea orders us two coffees and an apple pie to share. “For therapeutic purposes,” she declares, as if I’m in any position to judge late-night snacking.

On the contrary, I smile as I watch her animatedly chat with our waitress about how pie is unfairly underrated as a healing tool.

“Don’t worry about the calories.” Chelsea turns to me with a smile, unraveling her napkin and lifting her fork like a warrior going into battle. “It’s December, and everyone knows Christmas calories don’t count.”