A Summer Fling: Three Romantic 4th of July Stories, Page 3

  “Sure thing,” I say, somewhat disappointed. I mean, I kind of cooked up the whole red, white and blue thing special just for her. “Anything else tonight?”

  “A small popcorn and a bag of those too-sweet red licorice vines,” she says, and I blush, catching her smirk.

  It’s the first emotion I’ve seen her have in all this time. “Coming right up,” I tell her, dishing up the fresh batch of popcorn I popped just for her – it’s been a slow night – and a fresh soda, low on the ice, so she gets more bang for her buck.

  “$12.59,” I tell her, just like every week. She slides over fifteen dollars, just like usual, and I give her the change.

  “Whatcha watching tonight?” I ask as she gathers up her movie snacks.

  I already know, of course. Sasha in the ticket booth texted me the minute she bought her ticket. “Werewolf Bikers from Mars 6,” she says, a blush rising to her cheeks, avoiding my eyes. But then, she looks back at me and says, “Have you seen it?”

  “Of course,” I snort, giving her “an are you kidding me?” wave. “I’ve seen them all. You’ll love this one.”

  She blushes and says, though I already know, “I’ve already seen it.” Then she kind of stands there, waiting to hear my reaction.

  “Awesome,” I tell her, taking her ticket and ripping it in half. “Then you know it’s in Theater 4, down on your right.”

  “Thanks,” she says, still lingering as I hand her the ticket. She kind of looks around and says, “Kind of dead tonight, huh?”

  I chuckle above my crisp white shirt and maroon manager’s vest. “Yeah, 4th of July is always like that. Everyone’s at the beach watching fireworks, I guess.”

  She nods, biting her lower lip. My heart is pounding. I can’t take my eyes off of her. This is more than we’ve ever said to each other.

  Ever.

  Seriously, this is like the Flickers Cinema version of two young lovers running across a flowery field only to jump into each other’s arms.

  “Except you and me,” she finally says, staring down at her worn red sneakers.

  “Pretty much,” I chuckle. “There are a few knuckleheads in the new Space Crimes movie, and a few seniors in that Nursing Home 3 flick, but those get out any minute now and we’re closing early tonight, so…”

  Oh my God, I’m rambling. I’m so excited about her finally speaking to me I’ve become a rambling, babbling, blathering fool.

  “Oh,” she says, suddenly startled. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t want to keep you.”

  “You’re not,” I say, coming around from the concessions counter. “I’ve got to close anyway, so… enjoy your Martian werewolf movie in peace. Looks like you’re gonna have the whole theater to yourself.”

  She wrinkles her nose and smirks. “Good, just the way I like it.”

  I watch her walk down the hall, expertly, without hesitation, like she knows the way. And, with only four theaters, it’s kind of hard not to.

  “Put your tongue back in your mouth, Romeo,” says Sasha, startling me, her black ticket taker vest already slung casually over her shoulder as she appears out of nowhere.

  I chuckle, blush and sign her time card. “You coming to the fireworks tonight?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I’ve got to close up shop here,” I tell her.

  “I’ll help you if it means you can see the fireworks on time,” she offers, sounding sincere.

  “No, no, you go and have fun. I’m sure I’ll be out of here by then.”

  “By when?” asks Tucker, creeping up behind Sasha and tugging two of her dreadlocks playfully.

  She turns, slapping him flirtatiously. They’ve been “secretly” dating for weeks but, since it’s against company policy, no one at Flickers Cinemas is supposed to know.

  Yeah, right.

  “For the fireworks tonight,” she says, snatching Tucker’s time card and offering it to me protectively. Tucker and I share a knowing look and I sign it quickly.

  “You gotta come, boss,” he says, towering over both Sasha and I in all his high school basketball glory. “I hear they’re gonna be nearly half an hour long this year!”

  I chuckle, counting on it. “I’ll do my best guys, but… you don’t want some old fogey around spoiling your fun.”

  “Forget that,” Tucker says, brushing past to grab his backpack out of the small manager’s office just inside the concession counter. I notice he brings out Sasha’s purse, too. “The whole Flickers crew will be there; day shift, weekend shift, the whole gang.”

  “All five of you?” I chuckle, walking them to the main lobby doors.

  “At least try,” Sasha pleads, but the heat’s gone out and now I know they just want to hit the road and get their swerve on.

  I hustle them out the lobby doors and stand just inside, waving them off impatiently like a babysitter eager to get the parents out of the driveway so her boyfriend can sneak in from the bushes. “I’ll try gang, but… no promises.”

  It’s wasted on them. They’re already gripping hands tightly and sashaying to Tucker’s beat-up pickup truck. I smile and lock the door behind them, sighing with relief.

  Now it’s just me and less than a dozen patrons and, as I sweep the lobby I hear the three junior high kids who snuck into Space Crimes 4 chuckling and chortling on their way toward the door.

  I let them get ahead of me just because it’s always fun to watch kids jiggle and jam the door frantically, like they’re trapped in some haunted amusement park and will never get out alive. Sure enough, they panic and look back, faces stricken as I approach.

  “Closing up early tonight,” I explain, waggling my keys, and relief floods their faces. “Have a Happy Fourth!”

  They can’t stream out soon enough and are already laughing with relief as they unlock their bikes from the two metal racks out front.

  That leaves only the five or so seniors in Theater 2. I clean off the soda spigots and empty out the popcorn machine and while I’m dragging the giant, life-size bag of extra popcorn into the break room I hear them start to shuffle out.

  “Evening, folks,” I beam, standing by the open lobby door as they make their way slowly to the front entrance. “How was the movie?”

  They grumble a little and one woman, about four feet tall in a soft brown jacket, complains about the sound. “I’ll be sure to look into that,” I tell her as she passes.

  I lock up for good after that. Well, except for Tara in Theater 4. Thank God Werewolf Bikers from Mars 6 has already been out for five weeks and everyone’s already seen it, or I might have had to ditch my entire plan.

  I was worried some gaggle of teens, bored and restless from the long, host summer might buy tickets at the last minute, shuttling my plans, but now that she’s alone…

  I check my watch and hustle back to the projection booth, pressing the pause button on the digital movie display so that it jerks to a stop and the theater lights automatically come on.

  I check to see that I’ve still got a few of our “FREE Admission” passes in my pocket and hustle around to the theater door. She’s just beginning to stand up, right there in the middle of the sixth row back, when I stumble in.

  “I’m SO sorry,” I blurt, gently creeping up the stairs toward her. “The computer’s saying the movie’s a ‘corrupted file,’ so I had to dump it and download a new version.”

  She frowns, but doesn’t look too upset. “Will that… take long?”

  I frown. “Probably about fifteen or twenty minutes,” I lie, reaching her aisle. I offer her the ticket from a safe distance, so she doesn’t get too spooked. “There are three free passes there, you know… for your inconvenience.”

  “Oh, one is fine,” she says, waving them away.

  “No, I insist,” I say. “I can’t leave a fellow Martian werewolf fan hanging right in the middle of the flick.”

  She takes them under duress. “Should I… wait here?” she asks, uncertain. I notice half her popcorn is gone and she’s carefully folded the licorice vi
ne bag over so the candy never actually touches the arm of her seat.

  “You can,” I say, baiting the hook. “But… it’s almost nine now and, if you want, I usually duck out the back door and watch the fireworks.”

  “You can see them from here?” she asks hopefully.

  “On the roof you can,” I suggest, almost cringing in anticipation of her response.

  “Oh gheez,” she says, looking at the blank white screen and the giant empty theater. I suddenly notice she’s wearing her little tan sweater, her long legs crossed in her white jeans. “That sounds like a lot of trouble.”

  I chuckle. “Takes two minutes to get up there,” I explain, backing away so she doesn’t feel threatened. “Straight out the back, it’s got one of those zigzag stairs…” I slide the keys from my pocket and jingle them enticingly. “We can watch the fireworks, ‘ooh’ and ‘aah,’ and I promise the movie will be ready to go by the time we get back down?”

  She frowns, looking at her phone. “It’s getting kind of late,” she hems and I feel the night going south. All my planning and plotting – two whole weeks of it! – about to go down the drain.

  “I hear you,” I say, turning down the steps and trying not to sound too disappointed. “No worries, you just sit tight and I’ll have the movie up and running in no time—”

  “Two minutes?” she asks and, even with my back to her, I can hear the telltale sound of her chair squeaking as she gets up and out of it.

  I do a silent “Yes!” to myself and turn, straight-faced. “Maybe less if we hurry,” I chuckle, holding the theater door open for her as she cautiously navigates the steps.

  The lobby is bright and empty and it’s a straight shot to the back door from Theater 4. I unlock it, let us out into the warm night air, and lock it back up. The stairs to the roof are right there by the back loading dock, where the soda and popcorn and candy delivery trucks back up, and I swing open the flimsy little gate for her.

  “Watch your step,” I tell her, though the moon is mostly full and there are plenty of street lights illuminating the mostly empty parking lot out back.

  She pauses halfway up, on the little landing before the zigzag stairs zag right and straight up to the roof of the small theater. “I feel so VIP,” she gushes breathlessly, hand to her chest.

  “Nothing but the best here at Flickers Cinemas,” I chuckle, half out of breath myself.

  She looks away, sighs and then mounts the last flight of stairs. The roof is wide and level and there are three or four lawn chairs still setup from last year. A little rusty but still sturdy; I’ve already checked.

  Along the roof in front of the chairs – and facing the direction of the fireworks – I strung little red, white and blue star lights from the dollar store, jacked into the outlet the air conditioning guys use to test their meters. Other than the moon high above and the streetlights below, they provide our only lighting.

  A small cooler sits between two of the lawn chairs, facing the beach more than five blocks away from the Sand Dollar Shopping Mall.

  “Is… anyone else coming?” she asks, seeing the cooler and extra chairs and the soft glow of string lights.

  “I was hoping some of the kids from the theater might join me like they did last year,” I lie, “But… they all wanted to go to the beach instead.”

  She nods, eyes flickering around the roof. “You’re not some serial killer, are you?” she chuckles, waving her phone protectively. “Because, there are about a million ways this could all go wrong.”

  “Feel free to live feed the entire evening,” I chuckle, pointing to her seat. “I’ve got nothing to hide except for a few late parking tickets.”

  She sighs and sinks into her creaky lawn chair. “Diet or regular?” I ask her, opening the cooler.

  “Got anything stronger?” she asks hesitantly.

  I smirk, our eyes meeting over the open cooler lid. “I shouldn’t drink on duty,” I lie, “But… I did slip a few beers in there, just in case.”

  “Sold,” she says, accepting the ice cold lager I hand her.

  She waits until mine is open and then extends her frosty brown bottle for a toast. I clink her top with mine and we sip the cold, cold beer. I can’t remember beer every tasting this good before.

  We’re a little early and I don’t want to sit too close, too soon, so I sink onto the building’s ledge, looking back at her. “I’m Conor,” I tell her. “By the way.”

  She nods her head in my general direction; we’re too far away to try shaking hands. “Tara,” she says. And then: “But you already know that, don’t you?”

  I cock my head and she takes a nice, long sip of beer. “You said it, a few weeks ago, in passing,” she explains.

  “No way,” I bluff. I thought she hadn’t noticed. “I must have… you must have used a check card that day.”

  “Ha,” she laughs, crossing her legs casually. “You know I never use my ATM card here.”

  I blush, flush and squirm on the edge of the roof. “I… I…”

  She sips more beer, putting the bottle down on top of the cooler like it’s an end table. “It was that night I forgot and wore my nametag into work, wasn’t it?”

  I go to lie, to say something, make another excuse or possibly just roll off the ledge and land two stories below, but then my shoulders sag and I just nod.

  She sighs, watching me watch her. “How long?” she asks.

  “You wore it a few weeks ago,” I say.

  She shakes her head, straight auburn hair rasping against the shoulders of her sweater. “How long have you wanted to do… this?” She holds her arms, taking in the lawn chairs, the cooler, the strings of red, white and blue star lights, the rooftop… the effort.

  I look away, toward the beach, wishing the fireworks were just starting so I could avoid her answer. But I stupidly brought her up here early, so we’d have time to chat. I was thinking pleasant chit chat, a little light conversation, the weather, work, that kind of thing.

  Not the third degree.

  I look back at her and she doesn’t look mad, just curious. Insanely curious. I figure, what the heck? She’s come this far; I might as well bet the whole farm and fess up.

  “Since the first time I waited on you,” I confess, not looking away.

  Her eyes widen a little, peering back at mine for a beat, and her voice is soft when she asks, “Which was…?”

  “Five months ago,” I admit sheepishly.

  She picks her beer back up. “What movie did I see?” she asks, testing me.

  I don’t know whether to admit I know and scare her, or lie and… well… lie to her face. “Star Fighters from Venus,” I mumble, avoiding her eyes as I look down at my cheap black movie theater manager shoes.

  “Oh my God that’s right,” she squeals, and I’ve never heard her so… animated… before.

  “I’d just moved into my new apartment,” she says, recalling the evening that changed my life. “I stood around, staring at all those boxes waiting to be unpacked and said, ‘Sca-rew this.’ I Googled the nearest theater and… Flickers Cinemas came up.”

  “Good thing, huh?”

  She nods, then pauses. “Why didn’t you… ever say anything?”

  I blush. “Did I have to?”