He didn’t look as dressed up as I had expected: white collarless shirt and a jacket, nondescript (but probably expensive) slacks. I began to panic. Was I overdressed? Did I look like I was trying too hard? I was too upset to even think before blurting out, “Is this dress overdone?”

“Um … overdone?” He looked confused.

My face felt so hot I could have toasted s’mores by it. “I mean, am I overdressed? Is it too much? You’re not as dressed up as I thought you’d be, and I don’t want—”

“Oh! No, your dress is fine. It’s great. Really, it’s perfect.”

I smiled with relief, but inside I felt so tense I thought I’d explode. I wracked my brain for something else to say. “So what’s the game plan for the evening?” Game plan? Real classy, Winslowe.

“Well, provided the traffic does what we’re expecting it to do—which is to lock us in a near standstill for the last hour and a half of the drive—we should get to the theatre around six. Then we’ll do the whole meet-the-press thing, which basically means smile and wave in the face of all the flashbulbs, say some innocuous pleasantries about the rest of the cast and the filming experience to a few reporters, then get inside and watch the movie. Afterward there’s Alexis’s party, if you’re feeling up to it. But if not it’s no big deal. It can be a lot to take in, especially when it’s your first time.”

“Wow.” You’ve got to come up with something better than ‘wow.’ “So I might see myself in next month’s People, eh?”

He chuckled and nodded. “I’ve seen myself in there before and not even remembered having the picture taken. A bit unnerving.” I laughed with him, but it sounded high and chirpy. I felt like dying.

Silence ensued for a moment and I thought desperately for something to say. “So,” I started, “the movie, what’s it about exactly?”

He launched into a description of the plot, which led to tales of mishaps and bloopers on the set and then tales of mishaps and bloopers on other sets, and for a whole fifteen minutes all I had to do was nod and laugh. It was a relief.

But then he stopped, and we sat there again, both of us staring out the windows. He sipped his beer, and I fiddled with the fringed edge of my wrap. “So you teach, right? Fifth grade?” I nodded. “So how’s that going this year?”