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She doesn’t wait for me to turn around. She doesn’t wait for shit before saying, “Please tell me you aren’t doing it on purpose?” It’s not a question though.
“Hello to you too,” I say as I turn in my seat to face her. I feel wound tightly, the memory begging me to come back to it.
“I’m doing my best to believe that you aren’t completely sabotaging my role, but what happened today is complete horseshit, Hart.”
A rough sigh leaves me as I run a hand through my hair and look at the mini fridge rather than at her. I already feel like shit, but the worst part is that I just can’t bring myself to care about the production. It makes me a dick, but again, I just don’t care.
“You’re going to get fired--or worse, get me fired,” she says and it irritates me. “Don’t think I don’t know that you were the first choice. Stevens has a hardon for you but I’m replaceable. I’m not naïve, Nathan. If you wanted a different costar all you had to do was say so, but now we’re in production and it’s known that I’m on this project.”
“You’re fine, Jules. No one’s firing you,” I tell her as I stand up to go to the door and let her out. I’m not interested in this shit.
“I swear to God if you fuck me, I will fuck you back ten times harder.” It’s hard to look at her with a straight face. She’s angry, rightfully so. I’m not in the game, but none of this is about her and I don’t have time for this shit.
“I have plenty of respect for you, Jules, and I can promise you I am not trying to … fuck you.” It’s awkward even saying that to her.
“You need to get into the role,” Jules says, her tone completely changed. “Whatever needs to happen,” she says with a lack of conviction. “Whatever, just let me know how I can help you,” she says and her eyes flicker to the floor and then back to mine.
“Nothing,” I tell her before she’s even finished speaking. “I’ll get it right; I’m just not focused.” I need to talk to Hally. I need to settle this thing between us. Whatever the hell it is.
“Do you need help …” she starts in again, and I’m quick to shut it down.
“No.”
“And what about that girl?”
My body tenses and I hesitate to answer, but say, “What girl?”
Julie’s eyes roll as she puts her hands on her hips. “Don’t give me that shit.”
I let the anger simmer, not knowing what to say, but I settle on the truth. The bare truth. “She’s just someone I used to know,” I answer her.
She opens her mouth to give me her opinion or something, I don’t know what, but I don’t care to hear what she has to say. “I need to be alone right now,” I say curtly. I’m basically telling her to get out.
The anger comes back in response to my cold return as she snaps, “Well get it together, Hart. I don’t have time for this and I’m not going to be humiliated because you can’t play a role.”
The sound of the door slamming barely registers as I sit down on the bed and think about what I’m going to say to her.
The first question that comes to my mind is:What is there left to say?
And that answer is easy:Everything.
September 30
“Tell me what’s wrong?”she keeps asking me over and over like she thinks I’m hiding something. If this is what being together entails, I’m good on my own. I don’t have to tell her what a shitbag my mother’s boyfriend is, or that we can’t afford rent this month because he wiped out my mom’s bank account. I don’t have to, and I won’t.
“I told you,” I say as I slam the locker door shut and then face her. The wounded look in her eyes makes my anger wane. My words stay in the back of my throat, suffocating me as she visibly swallows.
“I just want to know,” she tells me softly as her doe eyes gloss over.
I run a hand down my face and let out a sigh as I clench my fists and lean my forearms against the cold metal of the locker. I can almost see my reflection in it. Almost, but I can’t. I can see hers though. The way she looks at me like she’s hurt.
“Is it because I told my friends you’re my boyfriend?” she asks me and then pushes the strap to her bookbag higher up on her shoulder.
If only it was that easy.The thought makes the corner of my lip twitch up into a smile as I turn back to her.
It’s stupid. Holding her hand and putting a label on us. I don’t get it. Anyone who looks at the two of us knows we’re not going to work out. So why put a title on it? Why fuss over the details of something that isn’t going to last?
“It’s not that,” I tell her simply and she looks back at me like she doesn’t believe me. I’m on the verge of telling her. Of confessing. It’d be a relief to just tell someone, but not her. I don’t want her to know.
