Page 38 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“No kidding,” he teased.
She snatched the takeout bag from him. “Nice. Really nice. Like I need to feel even worse about myself right now.” She spun away and started off toward the wardrobe building, but he followed close by.
“Why are you so determined to misinterpret everything I say to you?” he asked.
“So you meant that ‘no kidding’ as a compliment?”
“I meant it as a joke. A bad one, apparently.”
“I definitely preferred the garnish banter.”
“Duly noted.” He dodged out of Edith’s way as she crossed in front of him to sniff the corner of a building. “Seriously, why don’t we ever just talk to each other?”
Marlowe stopped and spun toward him. “You want to talk? Okay. How about starting with ‘I don’t do my own social media and I don’t have a girlfriend.’”
His not-quite-red brows knitted. “You thought I had a girlfriend?”
“Everyonethinks you have a girlfriend!”
“So that’s why…” He dragged a hand over his chin, slow and thoughtful.
“Yeah. That’s why.” Marlowe gave the leash a light tug, reining Edith in. “I know I owe you an apology. A big one. I made a lotof assumptions I shouldn’t have, but it isn’t a huge stretch of the imagination to think you had at leastsomeawareness of what was being shared onyouraccounts inyourname.” She stopped there and braced for a rebuttal.
Angus continued stroking his stubble, deep in thought, but no rebuttal came. Marlowe had no idea how to respond to his silence, so she tightened her hold on Edith’s leash and carried on to her meeting point by the wardrobe building. After a moment’s pause, Angus followed, sitting down beside her on the railroad ties that bound in a row of palm trees and a cluster of scrubby underbrush.
When the silence continued, growing more awkward by the second, Marlowe’s instinct to backpedal kicked in. This was the point in a conversation where Kelvin would question her right to criticize, or one-up her criticism with his own, or ask what had happened to make her so “crabby,” or—
“You’re right,” Angus said. “It’s my name. It’s my responsibility.”
Marlowe gaped at him, realized she was gaping, and shut her mouth. While she marveled at the simplicity of his reply, Angus picked up a bit of gravel and turned it over in his hands, scrutinizing it as though it held the great mysteries of the universe.
“I used to be more involved,” he said, “but I wasn’t good at filtering. Checking social media was like walking into a party full of people who weren’t invited, people who were all talking over each other, fighting for attention by being the biggest, loudest, most volatile voice in the room, and somehow, I kept wanting to engage with the vitriol, to explain or defend myself. So I left the party. And locked the door on my way out.” He skimmed the gravel bit across the mostly empty parking lot, watching it skid to a stop.
Marlowe followed his gaze, no longer angry. Just kind of… sad.
“But it’syourparty,” she said, softly, quietly, as if she was delivering bad news.
“I know.” He skimmed another gravel bit across the lot, like skipping stones on a lake. “I’ll remove the blocks when I get home. Take a look. Talk to my PR rep.”
“Or I can save you the wait.” Marlowe pulled up the shot of the two of them by her car and handed her phone to Angus. “I thought we were alone. Talking like friends.”
Angus frowned at the photo. “Alone. Yeah. Me too. I’m so sorry. I should’ve set clearer boundaries.” He squinted at the screen as he scrolled through more pics. Cute couple shots. Group photos with other cast members, all of them looking glamorous, flawless, and beautiful. Black-and-white close-ups that displayed Angus’s ridiculously fit body to best advantage. “I have no idea how you got the impression I was conceited.”
“Another stretch of the imagination.”
“And all the stuff about Tan.”
“It’s not exactly subtext.”
Angus nodded before shutting off her phone and handing it back. They sat quietly for several seconds, though this time the silence didn’t feel so fraught.
“I understand the instinct to walk away,” Marlowe said. “And I get why you’re tired of defending yourself, but a few basic truths shouldn’t be too much to ask.”
“How many is a few?”
“Truths? I don’t know. Five?”
He considered, nodding again. “Okay. Five for five. Go ahead.”
