Better Than the Movies

I have a nerd-level fascination with movie soundtracks.

that soap or deodorant?”

His big hand landed on the shifter, and his eyebrows crinkled when he looked over at me. “Pardon?”

“You smell really good, but it isn’t your usual scent.”

He didn’t put the car in drive but instead just looked at me. “My usual scent?”

“Don’t act like I’m weird. Your normal cologne is kind of, like, piney, but tonight you smell more… I don’t know… spicy.” The image of him shirtless and putting on deodorant popped into my head, and I cleared my throat, sending it away.

His voice was deep and kind of rumbly as he gave a throaty chuckle. “Holy shit, Liz Buxbaum knows my scent.”

He looked at me and shrugged like that explained everything.

“But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.”

As it turned out, Wes was a rock star pitcher and got offers from schools all over the country. In the end he’d selected UCLA, but he made sure I knew it had nothing to do with me. I believe his
exact words had been So we’re totally free to dump each other in Cali without any weird guilt. This is just a freak accident that we’re going to the same school, not any love bullshit.

And then he’d given me a boyish grin and a kiss that made me forget my name.

My dad put his arm around Helena and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Did you ever know, Liz, that Wes used to sit on the back porch and listen to you practice the piano? We pretended not to see him, but he was always there. And we’re talking way back when he was a little pain in the ass and you were awful at piano.”

You made our deck into a wedding chapel when you were seven—remember that? You spent days setting it up with stolen flowers from your mom’s garden and white sheets. You tied a string of empty corn cans to Fitz’s collar.”

“So? That’s some impressive creativity right there.”

He gave a little laugh as I joined him at the table. “That’s right—that part was cute. The part that was weird was when you talked that kid who used to live on the corner—Conner something—into pretending to marry you. He let you boss him around until you told him that it was legal and he was married to you forever. Then he tried going home, but you tackled him to the ground and said he couldn’t leave until he carried you over the ‘tressel.’ ”

“A reasonable expectation from a bride.”

“He cried until we finally heard his wails through the screen door, Liz.”

I blew on my coffee. “I’m still waiting for the weird part.”

“You broke your black oval glasses in the scuffle and you still wouldn’t let him up.”

“He should’ve stayed put like a good husband.”

“I told him that you’re completely different now.”

I glanced across the darkened front seat. “You did?”

“Yep. I told him that you sing less now and that you’re kind of considered a hot girl at school.”

My weirdo heart felt warm. “I’m considered a hot girl?”

“Probably. I mean, you’re not ugly, so it’s possible. I don’t
know.” Wes kept his eyes on the road and sounded irritated. “I don’t make it a habit to discuss you unless it’s in the context of ‘Guess what my goofball neighbor did,’ so I actually have no idea. I was just trying to change his impression of you.”

I rolled my eyes and felt ridiculously bummed that he’d made that up.

“But here’s your problem.” He put on his blinker and slowed as we approached a yellow light. “As I was doing my best to convince him that you’re no longer a little weirdy, he took it the wrong way and said, like, ‘So you DO like Liz. I knew it.’ ”

“Oh no.” Shit, shit, shit!

“Oh yes.” He looked over at me after stopping for the red light. “He thinks we’re into each other.”

“No!” I dropped my head back onto the headrest and pictured Michael’s face as he’d smiled and watched Wes and me. He thought I was into Wes, and it was entirely my fault. I’d started the rumor, for the love of God. “He’ll never ask me to prom if he thinks you like me.”

“Probably not.”

It’s not that.” He reeled in his smile and shot me a quick glance. “It’s just that he assumes you’re the same person you used to be, because he’s been gone.”

“I wasn’t a nice little weirdo.”

His smile was back. “Oh, come on, Buxbaum.”

I thought back to the old days in the neighborhood. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You made up songs constantly, about everything. Terrible songs that didn’t even rhyme.”

“I was creative.” True, I was less athletic and more dramatic than the rest of them, but I wasn’t weird. “And that was my theme music.”

“You lied about boyfriends all the time.”

That was true. “You don’t know they weren’t real.”

“Prince Harry?”

Oof—I had forgotten about that one. “He could’ve been my boyfriend; there was no way of knowing for sure.”

Enemies-to-lovers—it’s our trope, Buxbaum.”