I smile and take the rose.
An usher recognizes Tristan and moves us to the front of the line. We take seats in the “reserved” row of the auditorium. I can’t help feeling a little special. Tristan didn’t tell me anything about the film, so I’m thrown off guard when the actors speak a foreign language, reminding me how terrible my French is. The story begins with a delivery truck on its way to a bakery, when a bump along the road sends a single baguette out the window without the driver noticing. The rest of the film follows the lost baguette and its journey through the streets of Paris. While the other baguettes are being stacked on wood shelves and taken home by loving families, the lone baguette is run over, picked up, dropped again, mauled by birds, kicked, tangled in a scarf and dragged by a lime-green Vespa across town, before miraculously landing on the front steps of the bakery. But before the baker can come outside to find it, it begins to rain, soaking the baguette, and dissolving it into wet crumbs that wash down the street and into the drain.
When the screen goes black, Tristan hands me his handkerchief to wipe away tears. “I can’t believe I’m crying!” As silly as it sounds, I saw myself in that baguette, wanting nothing more than its safe return home. Is that why I’m hanging on to Sam? I want us to go back to the way things used to be. I glance around, and see the entire audience is sobbing as well. I turn to Tristan. “Why did you pick this to show me?”
“I read about this film online and thought of you,” he says. “Did you like it?”
“I mean, I did. But it’s so heartbreaking.”
“Exactly. I knew it would make you sad. Just like you said you want from a film.”
“When did I say that?”
“The week we first met,” he says, “I asked you what kind of movies you liked and you said the ones that make you cry. You said, you want to cry in a way you’ve never cried before. Don’t you remember?”
I think about it. It does sound like something I’d say.
“I thought about that a lot,” Tristan says. “I wondered why someone would want to intentionally experience that. I think I figured it out. You want to feel something. Something meaningful, and intense. You want to feel that thing in your heart and stomach. You want to be moved. To care about something, or fall in love, you know? And you want it to feel real. And different. And exciting.” Tristan glances at the black screen. “And I think this film does that, in its own way. It makes you cry, over bread. You’ve never felt that before. It’s original. It makes you feel … alive.” An usher comes in to clean and arrange the seats for the next screening. Tristan checks his watch again. “Let’s get going. There’s more I want you to see.”
We squeeze two short films in before the after party. One is a romantic comedy, and the other is more action-packed. Around ten o’clock, we follow a crowd toward the main tent where the band’s playing. Tristan ties a special wristband on me before we head inside. A champagne fountain bubbles besides silver trays of hors d’oeuvres, as a hundred people or so stand around, socializing. I see Mr. Lee found his way in. I spot him at a table with champagne and roast duck. He smiles at me. I wink at him knowingly.
The crowd is a bit overwhelming, but Tristan never leaves my side. I hold on to his rose as he walks me around the tent, introducing me to other filmmakers, writers, and college students from all over Washington.
“Somebody wants to meet you,” he says, pulling me toward the other side of the tent.
I narrow my eyes. “Who on earth wants to meet me?”
There’s a man with a paisley tie standing near the corner of the tent, holding a glass of white wine.
“This is Professor Guilford,” Tristan introduces us. “He’s one of the board members who chose my film. He’s also a professor here.”
“Great to finally meet you, Julie.” He offers me his hand.
“And you as well,” I say politely. “But how do you know who I am?”
He laughs. “You’re Professor Clarke’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asks. “She talks a great deal about you. Tells me you’re a talented writer.”
“She’s the best!” Tristan chimes in.
“I’m alright,” I say, somewhat embarrassed.
“You know, modesty is the sign of a true writer,” says Professor Guilford.
“Oh, she’s the most modest person I know,” Tristan adds.
I nudge his arm. “Tristan.”