Page 108 of Fighting Spirit

“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?

---