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Chapter Forty-Four

RUTH

T he theatre the film department rented out smells of stale popcorn, the ratty carpet keeping my shoes stuck down with every step. As I look around, I adjust myself in my clothes. I don’t know the desired outcome, but seeing the rest of the people in the room, I know I’m not quite right.

It’s not that I’m underdressed, there’s a guy in the corner wearing board shorts and a guns ‘n’ roses shirt; it’s more that the whole crowd feels very curated. That guy knew exactly what he was doing. But I’m here in my ‘nice dress,’ which I all but fell into because I couldn’t figure out what the vibe was.

My eyes bounce around the room, trying to spot anybody I recognize. There are a few vaguely familiar people, but nobody I’d feel comfortable walking over to.

Was this a terrible idea? Marshall and I have barely hung out in the last month or so, and now I’m here at his screening? Everyone else looks like they’re people from the department, and I don’t see anyone who seems like they’ve brought a guest. What the fuck is happening?

I’m about ready to bolt when my phone chimes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from Clara.

CLARA

On your right

My head whips around. She’s here? I spot her in the corner near the door. She gives me a wave which I return, my relief nearly causing my knees to buckle. I’ve never been so happy to see a friendly face.

I’ve taken half a step toward her when an arm snakes around my waist. “You came!” Marshall laughs before dropping a kiss to my cheek. I squirm out of his hold and have to fight not to reach up and wipe away the trace of it. He must already have broken out the champagne. I turn to face him, and his face is so happy, so open and warm, that any discomfort kind of just melts.

I give Clara an apologetic smile but she waves me away, mouthing something about ‘later’. I make a note to find her after and say hi, maybe introduce her to Marshall.

“Let’s get you a drink.” Marshall tows me towards the bar and I find myself happy to go. He presses a glass into my hand and I let the chill ground me. A bead of condensation trails down onto my fingers. I watch it drip off my knuckle and fall to the ground with an inaudible plop.

I awkwardly trail after him as he works the room; he’s all backslaps and handshakes like he’s schmoozing Hollywood producers instead of lecturing at starry-eyed freshman.

I catch Clara’s eye a few times but never make it over. Marshall seems determined to tow me around and I can’t help but feel a bit like a prop.

The lights in the lobby dim for a second, and apparently, it’s some kind of signal- not just a lightbulb on the fritz- because everybody starts filing into one of the screens. I get swept along by the tide, and soon, I’m folded into a seat, my arm pressed against Marshall’s as he puts his elbows on each armrest. I’m surprised Georgie isn’t here. Usually, she’s big into campus events, especially if it means something free to do and the possibility of flirting somebody (or several somebodies) out of their allotted drink tokens.

Ruth

Are you here?

Georgie

Where? Are you not at Rowan’s?

I don’t get to reply because the theatre lights drop, plunging us all into darkness. There’s a long beat where nothing happens. All I can hear is the friction of people shifting in their seats, coats hitting the floor, and shoes thudding against chair backs as everybody tries to get comfortable. The curtains on the screen draw back, and a film fades in. I’m shocked nobody’s gotten up to give a speech.

They seem like speech types.

The first couple of films pass me by in a flicker of vaguely interesting but fairly unmemorable scenes. Marshall keeps accidentally nudging me as he shifts around. He’s never been good at sitting still, but with the added nerves of seeing his own project on the big screen, he’s like a caged rabbit.

It must be time when he sits bolt upright and frantically taps my arm. I give his elbow a quick squeeze and focus up. The film opens with a couple walking along a lookout spot. I cringe as I recognize the place where I first kissed Rowan. “It’s really pretty,” I lean over and whisper. Whoever Marshall got to shoot this thing did a great job. It’s all grey and moody, and I wonder if we’re about to see Matthew Macfadyen striding out of the fog.

Marshall says nothing, just giving me a quick look that has me turning back to the screen. The scene cuts to a couple in a kitchen, I smirk at how much it looks like the space from my freshman dorm. The characters argue a little, but they soon fall into bed. It’s a hard jump, and I feel like I missed a scene. Something about the whole thing has an uncomfortable thought tickling at the back of my mind. My fists clench, and I feel like the other shoe’s about to drop. I try to push it aside. It’s probably just anxiety at being in this crowd of people I don’t know.

It’s been a while since I saw one of the film department’s projects, I’d forgotten how awkward the acting could be. Marshall had asked me to be in one of his films last year, but he recast me with a theatre major right before filming. As I watch the clunky performances now, I can’t help but be glad I didn’t get roped into this.

Then the woman on screen speaks, and my blood runs cold.

“Do you think everybody gets to feel this? I hope so. I can’t imagine what it must be like not to get a single moment when they feel as good as I do right now.”

…As good as I do right now. I could have repeated the line with her word for word.

It’s exactly what I said to Marshall after the first time we slept together. A sickening realization hits as I finally figure out why everything seems so familiar, and yep, there’s the other shoe.

It’s us. All of it. It’s us.

Scene after scene rolls by, moments from our fling last year, the final fight we had. Everything I said to him in our most intimate moments is suddenly blown up fifteen feet across for everyone to see.

‘What did you think this was?’ The line echoes through the auditorium. I have to give her credit, the actress on screen manages to look almost as shattered as I felt when I heard those words for real. The confirmation that I’d misread everything we’d experienced, that I’d created a scenario in my head that never existed. I can feel the stitches popping open on an old wound with every frame.

I manage to get through the rest without puking, but I needn’t have bothered. I could have recited the entire script. All the things I thought were private and special and safe are suddenly spread out like a buffet.

I feel gutted. Literally, like my insides have been pulled out and now we all get to take a peek. I don’t know how much time passes, how many films play before the lights finally come up, but I’m frozen in my seat.

How could he do this to me?

My brain regains control of my limbs, and I’m up, stumbling like a baby deer as I fight to get out of the room, out of the building. I’m on the street and it’s freezing, but I barely notice, not with the rage and shame and hurt pumping through me.

“Ruth, wait! " a voice calls after me. I whip my head back and forth, trying to find a place to run to, but unless I want to dive straight into traffic, I’m trapped. “Ruthie! Hey, you left your coat.”

He’s right behind me, trying to slide my coat over my shoulders, but I round on him, grabbing it and balling up the fabric in my hands.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” I hiss, shoving a finger into his chest.

“What do you mean?” He looks genuinely bewildered, and I honestly think that he doesn’t see the issue here.

“That was me! That was all me!”

He has the decency to look chagrined. “Look, I’m sorry that I didn’t give you the heads-up, but I thought it would be a cool surprise.”

I didn’t think I could get angrier, but somehow those words make it happen. “What exactly do you think is cool about having my private moments broadcast to the world?”

“I mean, broadcast is a strong word.” He gestures vaguely toward the theatre. “And half of them have seen it anyway. They were in my focus groups.”

I think I’m going to pass out. The thought of groups of these pretentious assholes crowding around a laptop to pass judgment on that piece of shit.

“How could you possibly think that I’d be okay with this? That’s my life!”

“Yeah, and mine.”

Does he seriously think that’s some kind of trump card here? “You used everything, everything I thought was just between us. How could you?” I must be crying, I can feel the wind chilling the tracks that run down my cheeks.

“Ruth, you’re making this way too big a deal. I thought you’d be flattered.”

“I’m humiliated!”

“Nobody even knows it’s you! Which for the record, it isn’t! It’s an original script, those are my characters. If they bear any resemblance to the people in my life, it’s only because I’m inspired by my surroundings.”

“You’re so fucking pathetic,” I spit. “Did you even try to come up with something actually worthwhile before you ripped off our entire relationship?”

“We never had a relationship. We fucked.”

The words hit me like a slap. I know they’re true, he made as much clear last year, but to hear him put it in such brutal terms makes me wonder how I ever thought he cared about me, even as a friend.

“Did you always know you were gonna do this? Is that the only reason we still hang out? So you can mine me for material?”

“You’re being really dramatic now. Nobody’s gonna know what inspired it. At least they won’t if you stop making such a scene.” He scrubs over his hair. “You know, most girls would like the idea of being somebody’s muse.”

“I’m not your fucking muse! I was your friend,” I sob.

“Ruth, come on-”

“You didn’t want anyone to know about us. You said you wanted to keep things private and then you go and pull this?”

“Ruth-”

“Ruth?” The voice comes from behind him. I look over Marshall’s shoulder to see Clara jogging towards us. “Are you ok?”

She cups my elbow and I want to curl into her warmth.

“Hey, this is kind of private,” Marshall starts. I cut him off with a glare that could melt a glacier.

“Oh, so now you want things to be private?” I spit.

“Look-“ He steps forward, but Clara shoves him away with a hand to the chest.

“I think you should go.” Her voice is as stern as I’ve ever heard it, all traces of sunshine frozen over.

“This really doesn’t have anything to do with you, you don’t know what’s happening,” Marshall sneers.

“She’s crying and you’re in her face. That’s all I need to know.”

I turn away from them as Clara keeps chewing him out. It takes a minute to unravel the coat in my hands enough to dig through the pockets for my phone. What I want to be doing is throwing it over my shoulders and disappearing into the night like the Phantom of The Opera, but as I’ve just made crystal clear to that asshole, my life isn’t a fucking movie.

I pull up my message thread with Rowan type out a quick message.

Ruth

please come

The wind makes it a battle to get my coat on, but almost as soon as I get it around me, I hear my name being called. My knees almost buckle at the sight of Rowan jogging around the side of the theatre, the relief so potent I could choke on it.

All at once, he’s in front of me, and those warm, calloused fingers are cupping my face, tipping my jaw up until he can hold my gaze captive.

“What happened?” His voice is a growl.

The words stick in my throat and I barely get them out as a whisper. “It was about me.”

“What was?” He threads a hand into my hair and pulls me into his chest.

“The movie. It was all about me, everything I said, and everybody saw.” I’m crying, and I know I don’t make sense, but my thoughts are racing so fast that the only thing I can really hold onto is the feel of Rowan’s shirt under my hands, and the way his chest rises and falls as he puffs out frantic breaths.

At last he seems to decipher some of what I mean. I can feel every muscle tense one by one until he’s completely rigid. “He did what?”

I try to get in enough air to speak but my chest won’t expand. Oh God, am I having a panic attack? Is that what this is? Am I dying?

His hands move to my shoulders, the tips of his fingers kneading tight circles into the muscles at my back. I focus on the feeling, urging my body to relax just an inch.

“That’s it. There we go. I got you, I got you,” he murmurs, dipping so that we’re face to face. “Eyes on me, I’m right here.”

I’m slowly able to get my body to obey, and it’s not until I’m breathing marginally better that Rowan speaks again.

“Tell me what happened.” It’s a low command.

In fits and starts, I relay the evening. Rowan’s body turns into a block of ice and I can tell he’s fighting to keep his hands gentle. With every word, his eyes get darker, and when I’m done, he’s breathing hard, his shoulders squared and the tendons in his neck popping.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment as he gathers himself, but when they open they’re not looking at me. Instead, they’re fixed at a spot over my shoulder, and from the venom in them, I can only assume that Marshall hasn’t left.

“I’m gonna kill him.”

He moves to step around me, but I latch onto his elbow. “Rowan, don’t,” I say.

“Let go.”

“He’s not worth it,” I plead.

“You are.”

I grip him tighter, desperate to stop him doing whatever he thinks he needs to do. Not out of any loyalty to Marshall, I’d beat him into the ground myself if I had the energy, but because if Rowan gets in trouble, it could fuck with his standing on the team. I won’t have him risking his spot- and by extension, his job for next year- out of a misguided need to defend me.

“Please just take me home.”

“Ruth-“

“Please, I just want to go.”

Those must be the magic words because his shoulders slump. He drops his forehead to mine, our faces so close that we’re sharing the same breath.

“I’m really fuckin’ mad,” he says.

“I know, me too.”

“You sure you don’t want me to break his legs? I’ll fuckin’ do it.” If this was anybody else, I’d have thought he was joking. But this is Rowan. If he was left to his own devices, Marshall would be ending the night in a ditch.

“I just want to get out of here.”

He sighs, gathering himself. “Then let’s go.”

I turn to see Clara watching us warily. She runs over to give me a quick hug and whispers in my ear, “this is Mr. Football Guy?”

I let out a watery laugh, shocked that I can manage it. “Yeah.”

“He’s gonna take care of you?”

“I am,” Rowan says. Clara and I break apart and Rowan takes the opportunity to pull me against him.

Clara nods, satisfied. “You’d better.” She fixes me with a stare. “You call me once you’re feeling alright.”

“Ok.” I give her a weak smile, all the fire burned out of me.

“I’m gonna take her home.” Rowan grabs the edges of my coat and pulls them tighter around me, pausing to do up each button before we start toward the truck.

“You better not do anything,” I warn him, knowing how much he’s hating walking away.

I can feel the eye roll emanating off of him. “Pinky swear.”

“Ruth!” Marshall calls from behind us. Rowan’s steps don’t falter as he slings an arm around me, keeping us moving.

“You better fuck off back to whatever basement you crawled out of,” Rowan yells without looking back. “Don’t make me break a promise to my girl.”

He guides us around the side of the theatre, and I see his truck parked under a streetlight. “Have you been here the whole time?” I ask, remembering just how fast he got to me after I texted him.

He opens the passenger’s side door and ushers me in until my back hits the cracked leather. “Didn’t have anywhere else to be,” he grumbles, reaching over to buckle me in before closing the door and rounding the front.

“You just sat here?”

“You were here.” He says it like it’s that easy, like he couldn’t even picture being anywhere else.

He turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the lot. I close my eyes as we pass the front, not wanting to see if Marshall’s there. I’m not sure what would be worse: him still standing there waiting for us to leave or him going back to his party like nothing happened. We don’t say anything.

Was that why Marshall’s been so weird lately? Because he felt guilty? Even as I think it I know that it isn’t true. There’s no way he thinks that he’s done anything wrong.

“I feel so stupid,” I whisper, my voice cracking on each word.

“What? Why?” Rowan sounds affronted.

I roll my lips, trying not to cry. How could I have let this happen again?

“I really thought he wanted to be friends again. After last year, things were kinda weird for a while, but since that night at the team house, he’s been hanging out and texting me a bunch. Yeah, it’s been a little much, but I really thought it was just his way of-I don’t know, apologizing, I guess? But what if he just wanted to be in my life again for his movie?”

Rowan reaches over and tugs one of my hands free, setting it on his thigh and gently intertwining our fingers together. I let the touch ground me, the feeling of his calloused fingertips against my palm and the warmth that starts to thaw something in me.

“I think,” he says the words slowly, carefully, placing each one like a chess piece, “I think that he does care about you. But also, maybe he got used to you being the one who was the most invested in the relationship. You always had the most to lose, so he had all the power, but now that you’re moving on, he probably doesn’t know how to deal with that.”

I pick over everything he’s said. I feel so raw, like I’ve been completely wrung out, and nothing makes sense. It’s like my entire friendship has been a lie and I’m wondering what the hell else I’ve missed. Am I just so naive that I didn’t see any of this until it all blew up in my face?

“So he just wanted me to go back to following him around like a puppy?”

“Look, I don’t know the guy. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in that narcissistic little head of his. All I know is that that first night, he was a guy who was really fuckin’ happy to play the hero. Since then, I guess he just wanted to keep his power. He didn’t like that you didn’t need him anymore.”

I slump down lower in my seat. “This is all such a mess.”

“You’re gonna be okay.” He picks up our joined hands and presses a soft kiss to the back of my fingers. “I’m gonna make sure of it.”