Page 12 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Marlowe: Yes. I’m sure. This is what I want
She hitsendbefore she could continue debating the matter. The ellipses appeared almost instantly, making her jump, but no reply came. As the blank screen stared back at her and as she pictured Kelvin silently considering her reply, Marlowe’s stomach knotted. Her skin itched. Her mind searched for ways to soften her text, backpedal, add a note about how she missed him or hoped he was happy. Her text wasn’t even honest. She wasn’t sure about anything. And what if, in her bluntness, she came across as cruel?
Overcome with guilt, Marlowe started typing a follow-up message. She stopped partway through and deleted it. It would onlyconfuse matters or launch her into a stream of apologies she’d regret later. Cherry was right. Kelvin wasn’t adding anything positive to Marlowe’s life. Only guilt and doubts. Better to leave her text as is and work on believing it.
The office door eventually opened and Alejandra waved Marlowe in. Wes and Greg were seated behind the long table. A guy in a headset stood by the camera, as before. Angus leaned back on a windowsill to Marlowe’s right, his ankles crossed, one hand tapping the sill, the other holding an open script. He wore what she’d come to think of as his uniform: low-slung jeans and a plain white T-shirt that made him look a lot like his character, though his own clothes were far brighter and less weathered than his costumes. A pair of aviator sunglasses was tucked into his neckline while clean white Converse replaced Jake’s trademark dusty motorcycle boots.
Alejandra handed Marlowe a script and gestured to a spot in front of the camera.
“Test number two,” she said. “Chemistry.”
The knots in Marlowe’s gut yanked tighter as she shot a nervous look at Angus. His brows inched up but the tension around his mouth remained. Marlowe had never been good at chemistry tests and she had a feeling today’s performance would be no exception. Angus appeared to share her thoughts, which at least gave the two of them something in common. She considered calling the whole thing off, but if he was willing to go through with the charade, she could manage it, too.
“Page twelve,” Wes instructed. “Top of the scene. You’ll start. Angus will enter on his first line. You two will take it from there. Don’t worry about all the backstory. We just want to see you two together. Let us know when you’re ready.”
Marlowe found the scene and gave the first few lines a quick skim, trying to ground herself before starting.Ignore the camera,she thought.Ignore the people. Ignore the super-famous TV star who thinks you’re pond scum. Get this done. Get out. Move on.
She nodded at Wes. Wes nodded at the camera operator. And they were rolling.
“I’m sorry,” she read. “It’s not the way I wanted things to turn out.”
“It never is.” Angus’s tone was clipped, impatient. Acting? Probably not.
She locked her eyes on the script but in her peripheral vision she sensed Angus moving toward her. Her palms sweated. Her throat seized. She swallowed, focused.
“I—I’m not the only one to blame,” she stammered.
“You never are.”
“Don’t act like—”
“Like what?” His footsteps stopped beside her. She looked up, startled to see him so close. They were the same height. She hadn’t noticed before. She’d had no reason to. Now she couldn’t help it as he stood less than an arm’s length away. Other details hit her, one right after the other: three freckles on his left cheek, another on his ear, cowlicks, a slight chin dimple, a downward curve to his nose, golden lashes, amber irises edged with russet tones like a tiger’s eyes. He met her gaze, held it, used it to demand something of her, something she didn’t know how to find. “Like you have no right to be mad?”
“Like… like I have no right to be hurt,” she ad-libbed, unable to look away.
His brows flickered, barely, a fleeting moment of surprise. Then he inched closer still, holding his script low as though he already knew the words.
“I’m no villain,” he said.
“You’re no hero, either.”
“Exactly. I’m just a man. Why can’t that be enough for you?”
She blinked at him, confused. Was she talking to Jake? Angus? Kelvin?
“I, um…” She found her place in her script. “I can’t see how it would work.”
“Youcan’tsee how or youdon’t wantto see how?”
She shook her head, struggling to keep the words fake, scripted, meaningless. A moment ago they were high melodrama, but the underlying conflict felt too real and the anger blazing from Angus’s eyes reminded her too much of someone else.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say. It.”
“I don’t want to see it… with you.” A lump filled her throat but she forced it down. He ran a hand over his chin, holding it there while he studied her with the kind of intensity that usually made her back away from people. This time she held still. She let herself be looked at, judged, seen, and for some reason, it felt okay.
“Are you sure?” His words filled the room, too simple, too big, too familiar.
Marlowe checked her next line before lowering her script. Angus’s image blurred, warped by newly forming tears. At the sight of them, his expression shifted, softening into what seemed like real concern. He leaned closer, maybe, a hand raised toward her face. Just before he caught a tear, she shook her head and whispered, “Yes. I’m sure.”
