30

Aidan

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“A movie?” Aster says as we approach the theater. “That’s your big something?”

“Why?” I hold the door. “Were you expecting something perverted?”

She purses her mouth primly. “No.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, you perv. I told you. We’re just friends.”

She tries to hide it, but I see her smile and it still gets me.

I wave her in. “Come on. Kill Glory 5 starts in twenty minutes. I want to see the previews.”

I haven’t been to a matinee since my dad took me to see Ice Age. I don’t remember anything about the movie, just how excited I was to be there. I didn’t know until later that he’d brought me to the movie to get me out of the house while some guys showed up to take our living room furniture.

“I haven’t seen Kill Glory one, two, three or four,” Aster frets. “I hope I can follow along.”

“I’ll explain all the complicated parts.”

I buy both tickets, ignoring her attempts to give me money. I’m forcing her to be here, after all. The least I can do is pay. It’s not like chivalry’s completely dead.

We order snacks at the concession, and Aster jabs me in the gut with her elbow when she thrusts money at the cashier before I can pay again. Okay, now it’s dead.

“Fuck,” I wheeze, half hunched over as I carry my popcorn and drink down the hall to the theater. “You’re a mean date.”

She fastens her lips around the straw and sucks, cheeks hollowing. “Who me?” she asks, tongue peeking out to lick a stray drop of soda off her lip.

I pick up the pace.

Because it’s a matinee and the movie is several weeks old, the theater is mostly empty, just a few people scattered throughout. We snag seats on the end, the same ones I’d reserved for our first failed date night, the ones we’d never managed to fill.

As soon as we sit there’s a shrill ring, and Aster jolts. “Shit,” she mutters, shoving her popcorn into my arms as she fumbles to get her phone out of her bag.

I start to make a joke about who might be calling her, but stop when I see her face, lit by the dim glow from her phone. I can’t see the screen to check the number, but the tense set of her jaw and the sudden strain on her face tells me it’s not good.

“What is it?” I ask as she shuts off the phone and crams it back into her bag.

“Nothing,” she mumbles, taking back her food and sinking into her seat. She stuffs a handful of popcorn into her mouth and focuses her attention on the car ad playing up front.

“It kind of seems like something,” I say, treading lightly. Learning that Aster’s bright and shiny façade covers up seven years’ worth of dings and dents has shown me we’re more alike than I thought. Most of the cars I stole got stripped down for parts, but there was the occasional car they re-outfitted and resold to some buyer who was fine not asking questions. Whenever I saw the transformed cars I’d look past the new paint and the rims and the upgrades and see the original. No matter how good the cover up, you can never completely erase the past.

“Nope. Nothing.”

“Are you in trouble?”

She meets my eye. “No.”

We sit silently for a few minutes, absorbing ads for credit cards, phone plans, and more soft drinks, then Aster asks, “Why’d you volunteer for the interview?”

I did it for her, obviously. I did it so she didn’t have to. So she could be as bright and shiny as she wants to be, without ever admitting to the scars she keeps hidden. But of course I can’t say that. “To get out of the meeting. I hate meetings.”

“You could have said that before the meeting. Then there would have been no meeting at all.”

“I was hoping Jim could find us another victim.”

“Are you worried?”

“That your questions will be perverted? Yes, of course.”

She smirks.

“Promise me you’ll keep it clean,” I say. “At least while—”

“Have you ever been with that...woman?” she asks abruptly. “From the bar? Sindy?”

The ellipsis means “prostitute,” a gap in the question that’s as dangerous as a huge hole in the ground, a nest of vipers writhing at the bottom.

“I didn’t know the interview was going to start now,” I hedge.

Aster just stares, waiting me out.

“No,” I say finally, cautiously circling around the gaping hole. “Of course not.”

“She knew you,” Aster says. “You weren’t just some guy that showed up that day and paid her. She said you went way back.”

Turns out there’s another big hole right beside the last one, and I topple in headfirst.

“Three years way back,” I admit, scrubbing my hand over my chin uncomfortably. “I met her when I first got here. I didn’t know anybody, was convinced I’d never have any friends, and I went to the bar with my fake ID, intending to get drunk and forget my problems.”

“But you didn’t?”

“Well, partly.” No one besides Sindy knows this story; I’d begged her never to repeat it. “I got very drunk and fell off my stool and knocked myself unconscious. When I woke up I was on the floor in the back room, covered in a blanket. I heard Sindy having sex with some guy—I didn’t know he was a client at the time—so I stayed still until he left, then she said, ‘You can come out now.’”

Aster’s cringing. “Okay, I thought my prison cavity search was a low moment, but you may have just topped it.”

“It gets worse. She made me pay her for the time she’d wasted convincing the manager not to call the police—or an ambulance—and as I handed over the only cash in my wallet, I realized that while I may have thought I’d hit rock bottom before, I’d just uncovered new depths. So I turned things around.”

“And became friends with a prostitute.”

“She’s more like a really mean aunt. That’s why I prefer to drink at Bender instead of any of the places on campus. If I’m there, I’ve got someone to make sure I stay in line.”

“Have you ever paid for it?”

“I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”

“I’ve never hired a gigolo.”

“Are you sure? Because this date is costing you three hundred dollars.”

“What a rip-off. I should have been allowed to pick the movie.”

“I’ve never paid for it,” I say. “Lindo may have mocked my long hair, but it was a hit with the ladies.”

Aster snickers and eats another fistful of popcorn. “I should ask him to send me that photo.”

“Too late. I already bribed him not to.”

“Dammit.”

“Anyway. My question.”

She lifts a brow and waits.

“How come I never heard you wailing the way Missy does when she comes? If Jerry’s such a superstar in bed, how’d you stay so quiet?”

Aster’s mouth falls open, a piece of popcorn held between her fingers, just a millimeter away from its destination. “Aidan!” she exclaims, swiveling around as though any of the four people in the theater might be eavesdropping. “That’s none of your business.”

“It’s because he’s bad in bed, right? And Missy’s faking it? For my benefit?”

“God, you’re conceited.”

“Or was it so good your screams were so high, so loud, the human ear couldn’t hear them?”

“Yes, that’s why there were so many dogs in the parking lot,” she says dryly. “Every. Single. Night. Multiple times.”

I know she’s lying, but it still affects me. Still makes me picture Aster’s face when she comes, the sounds she might make, the things she might like.

“Why didn’t you bring anyone over?” she counters. “Jerry said you never had company.”

“Because I wanted you,” I reply. “And nobody else.”

“You didn’t know me,” she says. She’d said that before, too. Like she doesn’t trust that the image she’s presenting could possibly be real. It may be a work in progress, but it’s still her. Part of her, anyway. The superficial part, that one that hides the deeper, more interesting parts. The ones she’s still convinced have to be hidden.

“I know you now.”

She rolls her lips, and I know the next question. I know she wants to ask if I still want her, if discovering those depths changes how I feel.

“And?” she asks softly, fiddling with her straw.

The movie starts then, jolting us in our seats with the terrifyingly loud thud of Glory, the film’s hero, crashing to earth in a bloody heap, the way each film in the series begins.

“Fuck,” Glory mumbles, holding a hand to the brains oozing out of the crack in her skull. She sits up and glares around Times Square. “Not this again.”

From the corner of my eye I see Aster grimacing in horror.

I reach over the armrest, finding her hand on her thigh and sliding my fingers through hers.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, staring at our joined hands.

“Holding on,” I whisper back.