Page 11 of Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition

The next moment, a young Kate Bellina, sporting a wet pixie cut, appeared on the screen. She was standing on the edge of the rain-slicked Blackwood Gorge Suspension Bridge, right at the jagged peak of Orion’s Virginia mountain range. Her hands were trembling against the freezing iron railing as a bitter December wind whipped sleet against her alabaster-soft skin. The camera cut to a close-up of her face, her long eyelashes streaked with tiny iridescent droplets, her lips raw and chapped from the biting winter air. “If you cross this bridge without me, Thomas...” she muttered in a haunting, breathy Appalachian accent. “Then...”

Amy literally squealed. This was her favorite scene in the movie. “Then consider yourself crossing into this new chapter of your life alone,” she recited, pausing on “alone” just like Kate had done. Amy got literal chills. She ran her palms across her bare arms just as she caught Savannah staring at her. Not just staring; watching. And with a grin on her face.

Amy felt her cheeks flush and a strange flutter wallop in her stomach. “What?” she asked, suddenly intensely self-conscious. Her voice dipped into that breathless, bashful tone that one of her romance characters would use, complete with the head drop and that awkward sway of her body. “I just love this movie.”

“I can see that.”

“As if you haven’t watched Orion’s Peak,” Amy jabbed back. Or was she teasing? Were the words coming out more flirty than snappy? Just because Savannah had shown a morsel of vulnerability didn’t mean she was forgiven. Far from it. Amy required a formal apology. In writing, if possible.

Savannah said nothing, just smiled. The scene on the screen changed, and Thomas burst through the cabin doors into the pouring rain. A young Jeff Richer played the role, and his face had once stared down from posters pinned all over the floral wallpaper in Amy’s teenage bedroom. His white shirt clung tightly to his chest. Funny how Amy had watched Orion’s Peak for Jeff Richer only to discover she couldn’t take her eyes off Kate. In some ways, that movie had been her own gay awakening, which was later cemented when Frankie had kissed her under the rusty metal bleachers behind the Porter High Football field during the homecoming halftime show and again when Luna’s books had hit her library shelves.

“I was never allowed to go to the movies when I was a kid,” Brenda said, balancing a bag of popcorn, two boxes of Milk Duds, and a cup filled to the brim with spiked slushie, as she walked over to the nearest pouf. She collapsed into it like a bag of wet laundry. “I was on a strict regimen from the time I was six. Two-a-day swim practices. Three hours each. My parents spent most of my waking hours grooming me into an Olympian.”

“Didn’t you get that big shoulder injury?” Avery asked, threading a cherry Twizzler through her fingers as she took up the pouf beside Brenda. “A torn rotator cuff, if I remember. It was in your documentary.”

“Three out of the four,” Brenda said, laughing. “Ended my parents’ Olympic dream.”

“Not yours?”

Brenda flicked a single Milk Dud into the air and caught it perfectly in her mouth. “Hell no,” she said. “At the time, all I wanted to do was skip the morning laps and make out with Jenny Rogers on my relay team. She could do things with her tongue you can’t even imagine.”

Amy tried to imagine Brenda in the swimming pool locker room, surrounded by steam, the smell of chlorine, and a girl named Jenny Rogers. Before the thought could become too vivid and quite possibly a mental scene in a future book, it flew out of Amy’s head just as Kate stepped back on the screen. This time the actress was wearing nothing but an oversized flannel shirt and grey wool socks as she ran tearfully out after Thomas.

“With a show of hands, who here has had a crush on Kate Bellina at some point in their lives and feels like those feelings are coming right back seeing her tonight?” Avery asked.

Only Amy’s and Avery’s hands shot up. Surprising? Yes. Very. Kate Bellina was peak-nineties girl perfection. She was the girl-next-door archetype that forced an entire nation of closeted teens and young adults to reevaluate their interest in boys. Why weren’t Brenda’s and Savannah’s hands raised?

“I’m more of a Lea DeLaria girl,” Brenda said, clacking open the little cardboard tab of her second box of Milk Duds and tossing a few more straight into her mouth.

“Who?” Savannah asked.

“Big Boo,” Brenda replied, looking aghast that Savannah had no idea who that was. Amy didn’t either, but she had the sense not to ask. “Only the most iconic butch lesbian of our generation. Please tell me you’ve watched Orange Is the New Black. You’re not a real lesbian if you haven’t.”

Savannah picked up a half-popped kernel and dropped it back into the bag. “I have,” she said. “The first season, at least. It got a bit repetitive, to be honest, and kind of ran in circles until the prison riot. In my opinion, I didn’t think the writers could handle such a fantastic cast.”

“A critique coming from the book critic, ladies and gentlemen,” Avery joked, giving a slow clap. “I was wondering when you were going to start throwing your opinions around, not that I mind. I’ve been following your page for years. You’re the reason my algorithm isn’t just healthcare content.”

Amy nearly told them what Savannah had said about Outlasting Love, but her mind was stuck. If Kate wasn’t Savannah’s girl crush, then who was?

“And you?” Amy asked, ignoring Brenda and Avery, who immediately launched into a tirade about whether critics kill art or artists are just too fragile to take a bad review. Amy was on the fence about the whole argument. Her pouf was close enough to Savannah’s without the need to shout. She just had to lean a little closer. “Who was your girl crush?”

Savannah took a moment to ponder it. Or to stall. Either way, she first shoved a handful of popcorn into her mouth and chewed slowly. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t think I ever had one. Or if I did, I can’t remember.”

“Come on,” Amy pushed, though she wasn’t sure why she was so interested. Who cared who Savannah had crushed on once? It’s not like she needed insight into the kind of woman Savannah was attracted to. Amy didn’t care who Savannah found hot or not. Still, she couldn’t let it go. “Just think about it. Try. Please.”

“Fine. I’m only answering because I owe you for guiding me through the challenge earlier,” Savannah said, tapping the tip of one finger against her jaw. “I had a long-running crush on Catherine Zeta-Jones in Entrapment.”

“Really?” Amy asked, although she wasn’t sure why that surprised her.

Catherine Zeta-Jones had been an objectively breathtaking choice. She was sleek, dark-haired, and impossibly graceful, especially in that scene where she twisted her body through a maze of laser beams without setting off a single alarm. Of course Savannah would be attracted to someone who could pull off a multimillion-dollar heist while looking polished enough to attend a charity gala afterward.

Amy looked nothing like Catherine Zeta-Jones. If Amy attempted to crawl through those lasers, she would catch her sneaker on the first beam, trigger every alarm in the building, and somehow knock over a priceless vase in a completely different room.

The exact opposite of someone Savannah would find attractive.

“Yes,” Savannah said with a nod. “I suppose I’ve always been drawn to women who look like her. My ex-girlfriend was the spitting image.”

In other words, Amy thought, Savannah only dated breathtaking women who could probably rob a museum without sweating.