Page 60 of Kill Your Darlings

“How was the flight?” Thom said.

“Bumpy.”

Since meeting at the Paulding Festival in January she and Thom had exchanged numerous letters and spoken on the phone at least once a week. They’d talked about Bryce, of course, Wendy’s dead husband, but nothing about the specifics of his death. It wasn’t that Wendy thought her phone might be tapped, although she supposed it was possible, or that someone might read her letters, another possibility, it was just that they were now playing roles, and it was important to stay in character.

They were driving through Hartford, and Thom pointed out where he’d gone to school, Mather College, its spires visible from the highway.

“You don’t want to give me a tour?” Wendy said.

“God, no. I still know people there.”

They reached New Haven by early afternoon, parking on a narrow street lined on either side by triple-decker apartment buildings, some beautifully painted and maintained, but most dilapidated, with slopingporches and faded vinyl siding. “Lower your expectations,” Thom said. “I live in a dump.”

“I don’t care. You know that.”

They kissed in the car, the bucket seats making it awkward. Wendy could feel Thom’s heartbeat through his rib cage. “God, I forgot how much I love kissing you,” she said.

“Do you?” he said.

“Of course.”

Thom took a breath, seemed to think of something, and snapped his fingers.

“What was that?” Wendy said.

“Nothing. An inside joke. I’ll tell you later, but let’s go upstairs first.”

He got her suitcase from the back of his Taurus, and Wendy followed him into the dim interior hallway of his building, then up two flights to his apartment. He was making jokes about the peeling wallpaper and the loose banister on the stairs, and Wendy was laughing, but they’d been a little awkward together ever since the airport. It was so different from their most recent phone call, just two nights ago, when they’d told each other how much they were looking forward to this trip. And now, as they stepped into Thom’s one-bedroom apartment, they felt like strangers. He gave her a tour of his place. It was cleaner than she’d expected, but that was probably because he knew she was coming. The living room was dominated by an enormous sofa in threadbare velvet. There was a coffee table that had been made by putting legs onto an old door. The table was cluttered with books and ashtrays and candle stubs. There was a large television set on top of an old bureau. A collection of videotapes was stacked all along the baseboard. The walls were filled with movie posters, some framed and some just nailed into the plaster. Wendy didn’t say it out loud, but it felt like a dorm room. Thom had left awindow open, and there was the smell of car exhaust and baking bread.

“I love it,” Wendy said.

“It’s a dump, you can say it.”

“No, it has character. I mean, my house in Texas, it’s definitely not a dump, but it’s also incredibly boring.” As she said the words, she remembered that he’d been to that house, or that he’d seen the outside of it, at least.“Where’d you get all these posters?”

“Most of them I get for free from the store, but there’s a few that are collectibles.” He brought her to two small framed lobby cards fromDial M for Murder, one of them Grace Kelly’s hand outstretched as she’s being strangled. Then he showed her a full-sized poster from a film calledThe Killing. The background was yellow with images that looked like they were from a gangster film. A tough-looking man with a gun. A woman screaming from her bed.

“I don’t know this film,” she said.

“Oh, it’s a masterpiece. I have it. On tape.”

“Hey,” Wendy said, touching Thom’s arm, “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but how’d it go in Texas? I need to know that you’re okay.”

“Should we get a drink first?”

“Oh, sure.”

Thom brought her into the kitchen. He had a small array of bottles set up on an enamel-topped side table with rusted metal legs. “What can I get you?”

“What were you going to have?”

“Either a beer,” Thom said, “or else I’ll have some bourbon with ginger ale.”

“That sounds good.”

“Which one?”

“Bourbon.”

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