Chapter 12
TWELVE
Playing: Lonely Eyes by Lauv
I stare at my own text, unanswered and waiting in our text chain. The empty space leaves me anxious, especially since I’m standing in her yard waiting for a confirmation that I’m positive won’t come through.
After a few more moments of standing there awkwardly staring at my phone, I pull the car service back up on my phone. I’m praying that the same driver doesn’t get the request (that would be embarrassing) when the front door of Rory’s house opens.
“Uh… hello?” I look up to see an unruly array of red hair. She’s looking at me, mistrust in her eyes. “What are you doing in our yard?”
It takes me a few seconds to speak. “I… I’m sorry. Is Rory here?”
“Who’s asking?” she replies quickly.
“I’m her scene partner. We had plans to rehearse.”
That must have given her enough context to know I’m not a complete stranger because she nods. “Hold on.”
She walks back inside, and I’m once again left out on the pathway alone. I’m fiddling with my room key on my belt loop, anxious energy zooming through me, when the door opens again. This time, it’s my scent match. She doesn’t say anything, just leaves the door open and walks away.
I tilt my head to the side and squint. Well, that’s one way to invite someone in.
I close their front door behind me and follow Rory’s cranberry scent until we come into what I presume is their living room.
Instead of honing in on the shit-load of Halloween decorations, my eyes go right to the wall full of critically acclaimed movie posters.
Each one is framed and taken care of, not a single speck of dust in sight.
“Sorry about the space. I don’t like having alphas in my room so we’ll have to rehearse here.”
I nod, understanding. “You like The Irishman?” I ask as I point to the poster with De Niro. Pointless violence and morally corrupt business doesn’t really seem like her thing.
She looks up from her spot on the couch.
“It makes me feel sick, which I appreciate. That Jimmy Hoffa scene… it takes some hidden talent to make the watcher feel like they just witnessed a real crime. It’s almost magic.
” Our eyes meet, and I finally see how tired she looks.
There’s dark circles under her eyes, her hair is tied up in a messy bun that I don’t think is intentional, and she’s still wearing her pajamas.
They’re a black silk that compliments her dark hair really well.
She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.
I officially went off my blockers yesterday, but there’s no way to tell when my scent will come back. The internet says it varies and depends on how long you were taking them, which is literally years for me. Being in her presence with that kind of uncertainty leaves me feeling uneasy.
She yawns, and her scent is muted like her body is so tired that it can’t properly emit its pheromones. “Sorry I didn’t answer your text. Opal just woke me up and I’m a bit hungover.”
“Oh.” I don’t know why I’m surprised. We’re in college. It’s literally the best time to drink and have those kinds of experiences.
“You know, the smell of those sandwiches would probably make me vomit right now so don’t stand too close,” she says jokingly as she points at the paper bags in my hand.
I almost forgot I even had them, so she must recognize the restaurant logo on the side.
Her joke falls flat as I stay silent without meaning to.
“Damn, Jett, give me something . You can’t even joke about hangovers with me? ”
I crack a relenting smile. “It’s not that… I’m not judging, I swear. I just don’t drink so I can’t relate.”
“Really?” she asks curiously and I just nod in return. “But… wh at if you have to play ‘drunk guy number three’ in some big movie and it ends up being your big break but it doesn’t take you anywhere because you have no idea what being drunk is supposed to look like?”
I crack a laugh. “Come on, why can’t I be ‘drunk guy number one’?”
“Please,” Rory scoffs playfully.
“Fine, fine. I’ll give it to you,” I reply before giving her an honest shrug.
“I know what being drunk looks like. I’m very acquainted with it.
I don’t need to feel it myself to portray it accurately.
And if anyone were to pressure me to method act with alcohol, I would know that role isn’t for me anyway. It’s a hard limit of mine.”
She looks more surprised than she did a second ago, like the words I’m speaking aren’t reflective of the person she thought I was—which is probably a competitive, get-an-edge-on-anyone actor.
I’ve never been that guy, but I don’t blame her for thinking so.
The person I am around her, the role I play, is definitely competitive.
“You’re acquainted with it,” she restates and I should have known she’d pick up on that part of my spiel.
“Yeah,” I relent, finally taking a seat on the couch next to her. “My dad was an alcoholic. Still is, technically. I know what all levels of drunkenness looks like. Belligerent, psychotic, happy, sad, remorseful. I could play those roles in my sleep. Do I want to though? That’s another question.”
Rory listens intently, but there’s a slight grimace on her face that matches her slightly soured scent. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
I wave her off. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Still, I was being weird,” she says deprecatingly. “I feel so uncomfortable about how last night turned out. I’m not a drinker either. Socially, yes, but not to the point of getting drunk. I feel ashamed that I let it get so bad.”
“We’re young. You shouldn’t regret having a little bit of fun,” I reason.
“Yeah, I get that. But my best friend…” She hesitates, looking for the right words before continuing.
“She had some substance abuse issues last year and it was really hard for everyone involved. I try not to make a habit of drinking alcohol when I’m feeling like I was last night.
I don’t know why I let it get so out of control. ”
I cool my expression, but I’m freaking out internally. She’s opening up to me, and for some reason it splits something wide open inside of my chest. “I think being aware of that already sets you apart from people who abuse alcohol.”
She nods and takes a seat beside me. The silence continues so I ask, “What were you feeling? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Rory hesitates, like her body is rejecting the notion of telling me. But then she nods before rotating her shoulders in what I think is supposed to look like a casual shrug but looks more like she’s internally freaking out.
“My dad. He passed away when I was a teenager, and the anniversary of it hits me hard every year.” She clears her throat. “It was yesterday.”
The realization is instant. She fell into grief, let herself drink too much. It’s understandable. If I didn’t want to be everything my dad isn’t, I would have likely used it to cope a long time ago, too.
“It doesn’t get any easier,” I say. “I’m really sorry, Rory. The day is over though. You survived it.”
She gives a self-deprecating scoff but also smiles. “Barely. I puked in a bush.”
I hold in the snort that wants to escape, but she sees the amusement on my face anyway. “Well. It’s a college rite-of-passage, isn’t it?”
“I’ve had several rites-of-passage then,” she jokes. “It would be easier if it was just the grief, but it’s also my mom. She’s a horrible person, and she likes to spend this time every year harassing me about my inheritance. She called me three times this morning already.”
I feel a growl try to come up but I push it back down. “An inheritance from your dad?”
“Yeah,” she answers. “She didn’t know he had anything to give me.
It really grinds her gears that my dad was able to pull one over on her, even in death.
” She gives a sad smile, likely remembering her dad.
“My dad always let her win, and I always thought it was because it was easier to take it rather than fight it. But after a while—especially after he was gone—I realized that he was fighting, just in his own way. He was fighting for me . Protecting me.”
“He sounds like a wonderful person.” My hand flexes as I fight to cover hers, give her any amount of comfort, but I’m not sure if she will accept it.
“He was.” She pulls her script out of the bookbag on the floor. “And he loved Romeo and Juliet.”
A sincere smile finds its way to my lips. “Good tastes in classics. Did you get your acting from him?”
She gives a laugh. “He loved movies and plays. Actual acting, being behind the scenes between takes, that’s all me. I like the filmography of it, too.”
“But he helped light the spark,” I assume.
“Yeah,” she replies with a genuine smile. “Definitely. I’ve never really thought of it like that before.”
I pull out my own script with its notes in the margin and lines all over. It’s a messy representation of how I’m feeling, but I know that the notes help organize my character .
Rory fiddles her fingers a little. “You said your dad was… you know. Do you still speak to him?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s not in my life anymore. By the time I was applying to college I was tired of it. Then I presented as an alpha and my scent came in.” I give a rough swallow. “And I smelled just like him. It made me sick, so I started taking blockers.”
Rory blanches at that. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. I went on them immediately. It was rough enough to have that scent in my space, but to have it following me around everywhere I went… it was the best choice for me at the time.”
Rory’s empathetic gaze hits me right in the chest. “I thought not ending up a beta like my dad was the worst thing, but I can’t imagine how it would have felt to present as an alpha like my mom or to smell like her. I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “Again, you don’t have to apologize. It is what it is. Maybe one day I’ll feel comfortable letting it out, but for now, I’m fine with it.”
She nods, her features still blatant with sympathy. “Well, we both do this to escape our normal lives, don’t we? So why don’t we go ahead and step into our characters?”
I feel relief at her suggestion. Not only because it’s true in every sense, but because she understands. It’s another reminder, yet again, that she’s mine . I just have to be brave enough to reach out and accept it.