Page 63 of Never Been Matched
“Brace yourself,” Daphne murmurs at my side.
When they reach us, Mrs. Hammond nods toward Daphne and me. “These nice ladies brought me here to see you.”
Graham glares at Daphne and me. “So. What’s all this about? What’s this show based on my work?”
“The flyer was a little bit of a lie.”
His jaw firms.
“Just hear them out.” Mrs. Hammond extricates her arm from his. “I’m going to get some popcorn.”
“I’ll go with you,” Daphne pipes up.
Once they leave, I turn to Graham. “Don’t worry. There is no heartwarming tribute. We’re watching Rear Window.”
He gestures around us. “Then why all this? Does it have to do with Beverly again?”
I nod. “Yes.”
He sighs. “Look. I get that this isn’t entirely about me, and I’m sorry about your grandma. She seemed like a cool lady. But I like my privacy. And all of this—I mean, I’m used to?—”
“People acting like they are entitled to a piece of you. Trust me. I get it.”
“I guess you would. And yet, here we are.”
Ha! So he does know who I am, even though he pretended like he didn’t. “That’s not the intent here. All I’m asking is that you sit through one movie, in a seat next to me. And Mrs. Hammond. It’s not even two hours of your time; it’s an hour and fifty minutes. No previews, even. You’ll get to spend some time with your favorite teacher, then you can go home and pretend like this never happened.”
“And then what? What about next week or the week after? What can I expect? Are you going to egg my house, steal my furniture, lure me into an unmarked car for parts unknown?”
I don’t know how to respond. Knowing Beverly, literally anything is possible. So I go with the truth. “Beverly left me The Palace,” I gesture around us, “but I can’t claim the title until I complete a bunch of requirements.”
“She asked you to hijack my produce and con me into going to a movie? Why would she do that?”
“Beverly was a bit of a matchmaker.”
His lips twist. “Ah.”
Is that disgust? “I had to get a signed copy of your book, and I had to get you here, but how I went about it was up to me.”
He stares at me. “You couldn’t just tell me all this?”
“Hey, you slammed the door in my face when I tried to just tell you.”
He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again. “I guess that is true.”
“I don’t know what will be expected of me next, but I promise that if it involves you, I will ask. If you promise to listen.”
His mouth twitches. “I guess I can try. On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“How about I give you my number so you can call or text instead of showing up unannounced?”
I search his face. Is he flirting? I mean, he wants to give me his digits. And yet I can’t quite tell if it means anything. He’s not smiling or doing anything remotely flirtatious. He looks as severe and irritated as ever, maybe with a hint of amusement in his eyes but that might be wishful thinking. “Of course.” I pull my phone out of my clutch and unlock it, pulling up my contacts and handing the phone to him so he can input the number himself.
“I am sorry about all of this,” I add.
“I get it. Sort of. It’s just, being in public gives me some anxiety. If I know in advance what to expect, that helps.”
