Things are just a little too real this time.
It’s not the kiss, or the dialogue, or the way his fingers grip her tightly, the way his hands press her body impossibly closer to his.
Okay, fine—it is somewhat all of those things, Lily is inclined to admit, but mostly other things, too.
Like, for example, the rumors of a contract for a huge media franchise with a line for James’s signature at the bottom.
She doesn’t know if he’s taking the deal—she doesn’t even know if the gossip is true. (Except…there’s something about Pam’s sudden obsession with her phone and weird sympathetic looks that is making her increasingly anxious. She refuses to ask and has drawn the line at stealing her friend’s mobile device, but that line is deteriorating as quickly as sidewalk chalk in the rain.) It’s enough to get her thinking, though: she’s spent so much time dreading the inevitable co-starred productions that Lily hasn’t even thought about the day when that inevitability will become obsolete. What, did she think they’d be working together for the rest of their lives?
You don’t know what you have until it’s gone, blah, blah, blah—Lily feels like she might puke.
She doesn’t ask him for the truth, though. She doesn’t ask him, but if her eyes are just a little bit wider, her words just a little more sincere—well, it’s not for nothing. Yeah, okay, so maybe she doesn’t pull away immediately when the cut is called. So what? Neither does he.
She remembers how Pam once said that James is just himself; she remembers thinking that the only person Lily has ever wanted to be is herself. She doesn’t want to be a character in a 60’s movie, or a 50’s movie, or any other decade for that matter. She doesn’t want to live as Anne or Olivia or Annabel. She wants to live as Lily—just Lily. She wants kisses in the rain and kisses in the sun and kisses indoors, for God’s sake. She wants infuriating arguments and coffee dates on Sundays and to tease him mercilessly every time he takes a bite of food because doesn’t he just hate it? She doesn’t want grand gestures. She doesn’t want a boy with a boom box standing outside her window. She wants something better.
She wants him.
So no, she doesn’t ask him about the rumored contract or the likelihood of his departure or an opportunity that would launch him into permanent orbit among the stars. Because the way he’s touching her feels too much like goodbye already, and Lily has learned not to ask questions if she’s not ready for the answers. This answer—Lily’s not sure if she’ll ever be ready for this answer.