Page 82 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
There he was, across the street, straddling a battered motorcycle in dusty jeans, a rumpled black T-shirt, and Jake’s trademark leather jacket. His hair was darkened with product but his cowlicks curled over his forehead as though they refused to be tamed. It was a good look on him, a little bit wild and open to tousling, or so it might be if Angus’s expression wasn’t so impenetrable. It held no hope, no joy, no questions to be exchanged or offerings of care and affection. Gone was the Angus who’d danced with Marlowe at a club or tumbled off her sofa in a tangle of limbs and laughter. The man facing her was someone else entirely. A stranger. A cold goodbye.
She watched him dismount, her stomach churning, her breath coming short and fast. As he stood beside the bike, she started toward the stairs. Olga’s hand wrapped around Marlowe’s arm, reminding her to stay on the landing. Angus was the one who was supposed to step forward. But he didn’t step forward. He planted himself on the sidewalk, his hands jammed in his pockets, his mouth rigid, his tiger’s eyes blazing with hurt and anger that felt so real, they brought tears to Marlowe’s eyes. She tried to blink away the tears but she only managed to entrap them in her stupid fake lashes.
Olga tightened her grip but Marlowe wrenched her arm free and ran down the steps, her dress billowing out behind her. As she reached the sidewalk, Angus’s hand rose to his ear. She stopped,waited, watched. He gave his lobe a little yank. A reminder of the blocking she’d abandoned? Or of the secret language they’d begun building together? Freckled ears. Silly garnishes. A question for a question.
His image blurred as her tears came faster. She was about to run across the street when she noticed Damon standing by the monitors, madly waving for her to return to the church. She caught Angus’s eye, holding it as she mouthed,I’m sorry. With a swift pinch of her ear, she turned and ran up the steps, carrying on into the church.
The door slammed behind her. Motion erupted a second later, suggesting that Damon had calledCutout on the street. Walkie-talkies hummed with conversations. Grips reset. Hair and makeup people scurried forward to pat down sweat and tame flyaway hairs. Marlowe swayed in place, bracing herself on the nearest pew. Someone asked if she was okay. She nodded, barely, while the crew made her camera-ready again.
Cherry soon appeared, followed by Babs and Elaine.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Not well.” The lump in Marlowe’s throat returned as more tears welled up in her eyes. “Seeing him… I messed up. I was a total coward. I told him I couldn’t handle the pressure. I ran away. I let him think he was only worth a fling. How could I do that?”
Amid the patting, taming, and fluffing, Cherry gave Marlowe’s hand a squeeze.
“You did the best you could,” she said. “Some people are drawn to the spotlight. Others aren’t. There’s nothing wrong with either. You have to do what works for you.”
“But I didn’t even try. That’s all he asked me to do. Try.”
For several minutes, Cherry talked Marlowe back toward aplace of relative calm, which at least allowed the makeup artist to do her job without battling a steady stream of tears. The art director swapped out a few smashed roses for fresh ones. Elaine brushed dirt off the underside of the train. Babs stood by, watching. Marlowe half expected her to make a caustic dig likeYou should’ve known what you were getting into. Instead she displayed a sort of mentor-ly patience, observing the conversation as though she was preparing sage advice, a little like Yoda, but taller and with much better hair.
Marlowe turned to face her. “You look like you want to say something.”
“Your love life is none of my business.” Babs pursed her lips without any apparent awareness of her irony. “Though if you’re open to a small suggestion…”
Marlowe stepped forward, ready for Yoda-esque wisdom to pour forth.
“I am,” she said. “Please.”
Babs plucked a bit of fuzz off her sleeve and flicked it to the floor, somehow managing to imply that Marlowe’s distress was of similar consequence.
“If you want to steer a dialogue about realistic representations of women, having a few cameras aimed at you wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world.” She caught Marlowe’s eye for the briefest of instants, a raise of a brow, a quirk of a lip, a hint of encouragement. Then her chin tipped up and she snapped back to business, barking at a girl with a comb about fixing a velvet ribbon before the entire lot came unraveled.
While the girl attended to the offending ribbon, Marlowe let Babs’s suggestion sink in. She recalled speaking up about Wes’s script changes, sharing her ideas with the theater director, standing up to Kelvin, and fighting for Cherry. She recalled Angus tellingher to use her voice. Not bury it. Not modify it to be more pleasant, likable, accommodating, or fun. She also recalled walking away from him, assuming it was the end, so soon after the beginning. She’d never want the kind of attention that came with his fame, but maybe she could face that attention not as a victim, but as a voice.
An AD approached and said they were ready to reset in the limo. Marlowe requested ten minutes alone. The AD got on her walkie-talkie and sorted out Marlowe’s request with the rest of the team. As the church cleared while the crewmembers headed out to the street, Marlowe sent Cherry to go find Angus.
Chapter Thirty-two
Marlowe was sitting alone in the quiet church, facing the empty altar and drowning in a mound of ivory ruffles when Angus slid onto the pew beside her. Without so much as a glance in her direction, he leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, his hands laced together, his eyes downcast. Marlowe gave him a moment to settle. Then she began.
“Do you remember what you wrote on the note you gave me with the flowers?”
“I think I said I was sorry for being an asshole.”
“You also said I deserved better. I spend a lot of time thinking about what I do and don’t deserve, but it’s not helpful thinking. Because, yeah, I do deserve better, but so do you. So do a lot of people. If that wasn’t true, and if it wasn’t such a universal problem, we wouldn’t have so many crappy vigilante movies.” She forced a smile.
He tapped a thumb against his linked fists, unamused and otherwise unmoving. His walls were up and they weresolid.
Marlowe took a breath and continued. “All this clickbait stuff is hard. I hate seeing my life dissected and my personal choices put on display for others to judge. I hate explaining to my friends andmy parents. I hate thinking up a million ways to defend myself while knowing every defense is futile against trolls and haters. But you know what makes it all harder? Knowing you’re dealing with it, too, and I don’t even get to be with you. Knowing I saidI can’t, when the truth is, I can. I just have to learn how.”
His thumb stopped tapping but his eyes remained locked on his hands. When he still didn’t respond, Marlowe gathered more nerve and carried on.
“I know we’ve only known each other for a few weeks. And things between us are new and unsure and complicated, but if you’ll give me another chance, I’d like to tell your fans the truth. They might not believe it, but I think I can find a way to live with that. It’s better than going silent. It’s better than getting small.”
“And what truth do you want to tell people?”
