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“And they pay you to do that.”
“Yes.”
“To be honest, I’ve never actually looked at Instagram or TikTok,” I admit.
She smiles and shakes her head a little, like she finds this unbelievable, and maybe it is. I read somewhere that American teenagers spend an average of five hours a day looking at social media. “I figured that. I googled you. I know you don’t do social media. But it can be very lucrative. So I try to make the most of it.”
I top up her glass, then my own. “It’s hardly fair that you googled me but I can’t google Ivy Jones.”
She giggles and takes another sip of her drink, but dismisses my complaint. “What else do you want to know?”
“What’s your favorite movie of all time?”
She thinks about this for a few seconds. “That’s way too hard.”
“Name one.”
She gets that dreamy look again and this downright fucking charms me—and I can’t ever remember being charmed—because it’s a look I recognize, from the photo, and it makes me feel like I know her, even though we’ve only just met. “I like the classic rom-coms. You know, the ones you can watch over and over and they never get old because by the end, you always feel good that they got their happy ever after that was meant to be all along.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a movie like that. “Like what?”
“You know, like Sweet Home Alabama, Sleepless in Seattle, The Holiday. They’re fantasies, but they make me feel…I don’t know…hopeful.”
“Hopeful?” My question almost makes it sound like the word is foreign to me. Come to think of it, it basically is.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have to watch them sometime.”
“You’ve never seen them?”
“No.”
“Any of them?”
“No.”
She’s shocked by this. “What kind of movies do you watch?”
“I don’t know. Mainly war movies. Occasionally the movies of premiers I get invited to or the ones made by the studios I own a share of. I don’t really have a lot of time to watch movies.”
Her mouth quirks empathetically. “Well, that’s too bad. Escapism can be good for the soul.”
“Really?”
My question is funny to her. “Yes. Sometimes unplugging from the harshness of reality for a few hours and just having a little bit of mindless fun can be healthy.”
“As I said, I don’t really have time.”
She bites her lip again and—goddamn it, her mouth. “You don’t have time to be happy?”
I consider the question. “No. Not usually.”
A little huff of laughter escapes her. “No wonder you’re grumpy,” she teases, but she follows it up quickly. “That’s what they told me, that you’re grumpy. But I get it. I didn’t used to have time either. But it helps. I’ll show you if we have time. Maybe we could watch a movie together, since we’ve got the whole weekend. You can tell me what you think.”
“Okay,” I’m surprised to hear myself saying. I can hardly get offended that Cleo thinks I’m grumpy. I am grumpy, especially around Cleo. And I want nothing more in this moment than to be given lessons in escapism by this gorgeous, fresh-faced little nymphette.
It feels connective, that we’ve made this plan together. That we have this thing we’re going to do together that no one else knows about.
