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He isn’t really offering to simply go away and leave her alone, no questions asked. That doesn’t make any sense, therefore it must be false.
On the flip side, she wonders if maybe he’s being serious. That, through some small miracle she’ll never understand, Josh really is letting her go. Maybe he’s decided she’s not worth the risk or the effort. Or that he’s bored with toying with her. Or that he’s taking pity on her.
“So you’re letting me go? Just like that?”
“Letting you go makes it sound like I’ve been holding you hostage,” Josh says. “That’s never been the case. I didn’t force you into my car. You got in all on your own.”
Charlie doesn’t see it that way. Yes, she eagerly accepted a ride from Josh, but only because she was desperate to get away and he told all the right lies. And he continued to lie so she’d stay in the car long after she suspected who he was and what he’d done. So even though she was far from forced into his Grand Am, she was definitely deceived into it.
Part of her thinks she’sstillbeing deceived. That, instead of a movie in her mind, this is Josh toying with her some more. Getting her hopes up and then enjoying her crushed reaction when he snatches it all away.
A patch of heat forms on the back of her neck. An angry prickle. It matches her mood. Having been gaslit all night, she’s nothing if not prickly. As for anger, Charlie can feel it spreading just as quickly as the warm spot on her neck.
She’s tired of being lied to.
Tired of being deceived.
Tired of being so fucking sad all the time.
Tired of feeling guilty and confused and living a life so pathetic that she has to make imaginary movies in her head just to be able to cope.
Charlie’s so tired that she’s tempted to tell Josh she knows everything. She’s struck with an overwhelming urge to shatter the good-guy facade he’s created and watch the pieces fall away, revealing the monster behind the mask. She almost does it, too. Her jaw unclenches and her tongue loosens, ready to unleash the truth.
But then Marge appears, coming through the swinging door with a pot of coffee. “Let me top that off for you, handsome,” she says, even though Josh hasn’t taken more than a few sips.
She fills the cup to the brim and pulls back, her elbow movingacross the table. Charlie watches its progress, the elbow as sharp and spindly as the knife discarded next to Josh’s plate. It keeps moving, even after it hits Charlie’s teacup.
The rest is as quick as it is inevitable.
Elbow moving.
Teacup sliding.
Both not stopping until the cup is knocked off the table and the tea spills over Charlie’s red coat.
Charlie leaps from her seat, dripping tea that, while no longer scalding, is still hot enough to sting through her wet clothes. Marge backs away, aghast, one age-spotted hand to her mouth while the other continues to grip the coffeepot.
“Aw, shit,” she says. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
Charlie slides out of the booth, pressing her napkin to the front of the coat.
“It’s fine,” she says, more relieved than angry. Marge’s accident gives her a chance to get up, to get away from Josh, to regroup. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Marge points to a small alcove next to the swinging door. “Right there, hon.”
Charlie makes a beeline toward it, the napkin still pressed to her coat even though it’s now so soaked that tea squishes between her fingers. Inside the alcove, she sees two doors, one markedguysand the other, disconcertingly,dolls. She pushes the door open and rushes inside, not bothering to take one last look at Josh.
Even though this is the perfect time for him to, as he put it, part ways, Charlie has a feeling he’s not going anywhere.
When she returns from the bathroom, he’ll still be waiting for her.
INT. DINER—NIGHT
Marge swore she wasn’t going to intervene, even though she sensed trouble the moment they entered the diner. It was clear from their body language that something wasn’t right with the two of them. The girl in the red coat looked scared and the man she was with looked surly. Never a good combo in Marge’s experience.
Yet she held her tongue, which has gotten her in trouble more often than not. She only speaks up when she’s truly concerned, like when that other couple left still three sheets to the wind. They didn’t listen to her—people their age never do—but she had to saysomething, even if it was just to keep her conscience clean. She offered advice. They ignored her. Whatever happens after that isn’t her concern.
And these two were none of her business. They looked to Marge like a couple that just had a fight in the car and needed to stop somewhere to decompress. She sees it all the time.