Macy
Running my fingers over the large lettering on the invitation, I try to come up with reasons I’m invited to this premiere, and why I decided to go.
I’ve never heard of this movie and nor have I been invited to a premiere before. The way I received this invitation was even weird. It’s not every day you get a gorgeous envelope hand delivered to you by a man in a tuxedo.
Who rode up to you on a bicycle while you were on West 8th Street, on your way to class.
I shake my head, laughing at how absurd this whole thing sounds.
But this whole thing—from the mysteriously hand delivered invitation to the unrecognizable movie—is so weird that I couldn’t say no.
I have to see for myself what this is all about—and frankly, why I’m actually invited.
I sigh, looking at the beautiful invitation for I think the millionth time since I received it in stunned silence.
It has impressively written aqua-colored calligraphy, atop of a sandy tan background. It’s simple yet elegant. Admittedly, there are parts of it that reminds me of my past, but I can’t quite figure out why.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, so naturally, it would come to mind when I think of movie, premieres, and sand.
Ugh…it’s annoying. I’m getting too annoyed of how much I think about it...about him or how so many things remind me of him.
It was such a simpler and happier time before I met him and before I let boys mess with my head.
The taxi slams to a halt, plunging me forward. Steadying myself, I look out the window and see the bright lights, crowds of people, and flashing cameras.
Shit, this is a lot more intimidating in person.
I get out, mesmerized by the glamour and extravagance of it all, and cautiously walk towards the entrance. Nerves rush through me, and I begin to feel a bit nauseous as I take in everything.
Oh! And the celebrities…shit, there are so many of them.
I briefly look down to adjust my dress, feeling like an imposter for wearing an H&M dress I got for sixty dollars yesterday.
Maybe I should’ve indulged more.
My attention is directed to a sudden commotion in the crowd, and it vaguely sounds like they’re saying my name.
What? There must be another famous Macy around…though, I can’t quite think of one to ease my anxiety at the moment.
Maybe, the teen mom Macy is here?
Or Macy Gray?
Or William H Macy?
Or is it a bunch of tourists demanding directions to Macy’s?
All I know is that it can’t be me they’re referring to. But, as I approach the crowd, people are staring at me…a lot of people. If that weren’t enough, I can feel anger and annoyance emanating from the crowd—although I’m trying not to look.
And I’m also trying to keep my distance.
Even though I’m looking straight down, I just now notice that ‘keeping my distance’ meant inadvertently wandering onto the red carpet.
But the crowd’s still nearly silent, and I think I hear someone hiss.
What the hell is really going on?
Seriously? What did I do?
I look down to check my dress, making sure there isn’t a stain or something, and when I look back up, I meet his gaze.
Burning into me.
It’s him.
Shit.
I blink my eyes.
I might just be seeing things. I wouldn’t put it pass myself.
And it’s still Aaron. In the flesh and staring at me.
An entire crowd suddenly recognizing and turning on me is one thing. I was about to give up even caring why that shit’s happening. But this is another thing altogether.
Why is he here?
The invitation I’m holding in my hand is now crumbled up in a ball, and I force a small, albeit nervous smile on my face.
“Macy, come here. Walk with me,” he says, holding out his hand, waving me over.
I walk to him, hesitantly and take his hand, blinking in awe as I take in my surroundings.
Looking down at my feet again, the reality of it all hits me.
There’s a part of me who’d laugh at shit like a glitzy, corny, ostentatious movie premiere with spotlights and paparazzi. That same part of me would laugh at the image she sees now, of excitement overwhelming me, now that I’m starting a premiere, on the red carpet.
That part of me can go to hell, because look where the fuck I am!
And I’m with him… Aaron.
The paparazzi shout at us, “Aaron, who is she?”
“Who is Macy?”
“What are you wearing?”
“Macy, who are you?”
Who is Macy? sounds like a viral marketing campaign—but it also sounds hilarious being shouted at us.
Cameras are flashing, and I squint, trying to focus on the chaos swarming me.
Aaron slides his hand around my back, and the warmth of his touch resonates everywhere within me.
Shit, I thought I’d forgotten what that touch really feels like. It turns out my memories are still accurate. Not that they can compete with reality.
“I can’t wait for you to see my movie,” he says, excitedly.
Turning to him, I laugh. Not at anything in particular but at everything.
Aaron gets it, and I can see that as he joins me in laughing. It’s the circus of absurdity surrounding us, and for me, the extra layer of being tossed right into the middle of it.
Aaron has no qualms about standing in the middle of chaos and laughing with me in what has to be one of the most photographed spots on Earth right now.
And it all feels so fucking great.
The best anything has felt in a long time.
“Come with me, we’ll skip this part.”
Frozen with his hands on me, I stare into his eyes, and catch my breath.
Flashes snap at lightning speed around us, catching our moment, and everything becomes a blur with him being the only thing in focus. It’s like we’re lost in our own little world.
“Okay,” I say with a genuine smile.
As public as this all is, nervousness is about the last fucking thing I feel right now. The stimulation I’m feeling now is more like the giddy little kid on the sugar rush type.
I don’t give a damn how many tabloids, blogs, magazines, Twitter accounts.
Keeping his hand on my back, he guides me through the cavernous Radio City lobby.
I’ve never been here before. This is the first time there’s been a reason good enough for me to schlep all the way up here. It’s not easy to enjoy the architecture though, when I keep randomly noticing the daggers and glares from other people walking beside me.
A few even turn around to pointedly—and not secretly—stare at me, snickering to each other when they do.
“They’re just pissed we ruined the red carpet for them. Looks like someone can steal a show,” Aaron whispers in my ear and winks at me.
I blush as shivers run down my spine.
I’m a tad embarrassed for making that type of an entrance, but mostly, it’s his breath and the proximity of his body to mine that’s making me hot.
I look at him and smile shyly, and I see in the corner of my eye…
“Aaron…It’s Pauly Shore! Oh. My. God.”
I stop short of screaming at the top of my lungs, but I’m okay with him being the one actual celeb we’ve spotted tonight.
He walks by us and gives Aaron a thumbs-up.
What just happened? Why did he give Aaron a thumps-up? Do they know each other?
My mind can’t catch up to what just happened, and I stare at Aaron, tilting my head in confusion.
All Aaron does is laugh at me.
Whatever, that was fucking Pauly Shore. It’s exquisite.
And like in the lobby, I look around as Aaron takes my hand and leads me to our seats. Again, thankful for assistance and support.
Without him, I’d be a deer in headlights, stuck, and unable to move away from the impending traffic that is apparently very eager to run me over.
A few minutes pass and the lights dim, and people hush the crowd and settle into their seats. Excitement and nerves fill the theater.
The nerves mostly come from Aaron beside me, whose face is stone-cold and his muscle tense. He looks over at me and gives me a tight smile, but I see a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.
I smile back at him, squeeze his hand and turn towards the screen.
Title cards fade in and out with a tropical setting filling the screen:
Inspired by true events…
A film by Aaron Michaelson
The title scrolls down: Love, for the non-believers.
It’s an appropriate title, because I’m feeling skeptical immediately. But then the story begins, and for the next two hours, I’m absorbed.
The film is the farthest thing from what I was expecting. It’s small-scale, realistic, subtle and a little too relatable. Nothing close to what he’s produced before.
And unlike after anything else he’s produced, I find my face is wet with tears as the credits are rolling.
I hear a good portion of the few thousand other people in the hall having similar reactions.
Yet, it felt so damn far from being manipulative, but it rang so true.
Even Anna Bell was great—and I was so wrapped up in the story I forgot it was her, anyway.
As the house lights come up, and I’m released from the story’s grip at last, I’m filled with a sense of warmth and lightness, sort of an afterglow.
From a fucking movie!
It doesn’t happen often enough.
I make sure to hold onto my armrest, afraid that I’ll float to the ceiling.
The ovation evolves slowly, but I hardly notice. The thunderous applause just feels like part of my own rapturous response.
My tears continue to fall.
I look over to see Pauly Shore give Aaron an approving nod, and I can’t help myself but laugh. Aaron looks at me and wipes away my tears, kissing me on the cheek as he does.
“If Pauly Shore likes it, I might’ve done something right,” he winks.
The director goes to the front of the theater and takes a bow. The crowd enthusiastically cheers him on.
“Thank you! But who we really need to thank is our producer, Aaron Michaelson. Without him, this movie would be shit!”
The crowd laughs, as do I.
“Aaron, come up. Revel in your masterpiece.”
He smiles and unexpectantly grabs my hand, dragging me to the stage with him.
“Aaron, what are you doing?” I yell at him in a hushed voice.
I pull at him, forcing him to look at me, but he ignores me, holding my hand tighter every time I tug at it.
Standing up at the front of the theater, I flush. There’s a lot of fucking people looking right at us.
Aaron pulls me to him, and kisses my forehead, effectively calming my nerves.
Taking the microphone, he thanks the crowd and then stares at me, taking my hand in his.
What is he doing? My heart starts to race, and the nervousness, which I held off earlier, starts to set in.
“During the production, I had a change of heart. I rewrote part of the script the day before principal photography was scheduled to end.”
He laughs, and I’m frozen, not sure how to read this moment.
“As you could imagine, the studio didn’t like that very much. So, they pulled out, leaving me with no funding. So, I did it myself. I financed the ending. I knew that this movie had so much more to say. I decided I wanted to try a different kind of happily ever after.”
Huh, that sounds familiar.
“Because, for the first time in my life, I had some real experience to draw from, for something that, as fantastical as it seemed, would still ring true.”
He pulls me to him and wraps his arms around me. I look at him, trying to absorb everything he’s saying as my heart feels like it’s ready to fly straight out of my chest.
“This movie was inspired by this woman, Macy Evans. She made the most arrogantly stubborn non-believer believe in, well, you saw the title.”
I hear gasps, awwws, and a few sparing clasps emerge from the crowd.
Tears start to fill my eyes…again, and I sniff, trying to hold it in.
He continues. “Macy, I’ve fallen for you. In ways I never believed I could or wanted to.”
I look at him, and without thinking, I take the microphone and tell him exactly how I feel.
“I love you too, Aaron Michaelson. My arrogantly beautiful asshole.”
I feel like I have left my body, and I’m looking down at this whole exchange, beaming.
I can’t believe this is happening.
Shaking his head, he leans down to me and his mouth curves into a ridiculously large grin.
“You’re an aggravating woman, Macy, and I couldn’t love you and that damn feisty mouth more.”
As the crowd’s laughter ricochets around the cavernous room, Aaron whispers in my ear.
“I’ve got the Honeymoon Suite at the Hotel Warwick up on 54th—if you’re interested in resuming our interrupted spring break.”