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“I’m going to go,” I say, becoming anxious, my mind a complete mess. Pete did deserve it, he did, but she would hate this. This scene would make her sick. And she doesn’t want to be with another violent fucking man.
Can’t keep her own baby alive.
I hear those words on loop, and I don’t know what they mean. As I walk out of the parking lot, in search of a stalled Uber or waiting taxi, I try and pull them apart, jump into the space between them and understand how they fit.
She’s never said she’s had a child. I think of her body, and remember the marks of growth and change along Valerie’s abdomen. Even her breasts bore those marks. I recall every mark on Scarlett’s body, and I didn’t see any of that.
But everyone is different.
Fatigue clings to me as I slip into the backseat of a cab, and mumble our address.
Her address. I gave him her address. And I use the key she put on my ring to get inside. I don’t know what I’ll say to her, I can’t seem to control my thoughts enough to solve anything right now. I’m still circling on those words and what they mean.
I lock the door behind me once I’m inside, but don’t use the chain. I lie on her couch and stare at the ceiling, frozen in the unknown. But I have to be here. With Pete angry and on the loose, I can’t risk her coming home and him being here or trying anything. Even if I’m just across the hall.
Guilt engulfs me realizing that she’ll have to drive home alone. We went to work together after a perfect fucking morning, and we should be driving home together, too.
I close my eyes, trying to let the confusion and anger settle, trying to find a sliver of calm and understanding before she gets back.
It seems like now is the time for that talk.
twenty-three
scarlett
He does so much.
My hands don’t want to work with me right now. My robe has slid from the wire hanger three times, and I’ve dropped my phone and keys once, too.
The scene was great, and I felt fantastic. When the lights flicked off, and Aug was up from his chair passing me compliments, I looked for him.
Cohen doesn’t watch my scenes, he never has, only now he assures me it’s for entirely different reasons altogether. And when I found him hard as nails in his office one day, reciting famous baseball games and tapping his foot, I knew what he meant.
It’s his place of work, and we both respect Crave far too much.
But he didn’t even have his back to the scene, working on something else, like usual. I went straight to his office, I almost rushed there. But it was empty. His utility belt was slung over the railing by the back door, and spotting it brought relief. He’s here just… probably busy with something else.
He does so much.
Now in my dressing room, after a crucial shower, I stumble through my jeans and nearly trip, and finally, after a healthy battle with my purse strap and the straw from my tumbler, I’m ready. I head out into the dark hallway, and lay eyes on Lance and Aug, near the backdoor.
Their faces are shrouded in the shadows from the back of the set, but their voices are low, tone vibrating with gravitas. I’m slow to approach, but they both spot me right away. Aug steps forward and I know something is off.
“Scarlett,” he starts, which is never good because a normal conversation very rarely involves a person's name at all. “We need to talk.”
I look at Lance, whose gaze is pinned on Aug’s profile.
“Pete came here this afternoon,” he starts, gathering my focus from Lance.
“Where’s Cohen?” I breathe, suddenly beyond anxious to lay eyes on him, especially after knowinghewas here.
“He’s okay, he just… he went home,” Aug says, his eyes darting between mine. He’s clearly waiting for relief to wash over me so he can breathe, too. But why was Pete here? Why did Cohen leave? We came here together.
“Why?” I ask, not sure which question I’m attacking first. “Did Cohen talk to Pete?”
Aug glances at Lance, a nonverbal passing of thethis is fucked upbaton.
“We’re going to delete the footage,” Lance says carefully, his intense gaze imparting the subtext. They love Cohen, and if they’re deleting footage, it’s to protect him.
