24. Veronica
24
VERONICA
I sprawl on the couch, my legs curled under me, my head resting against Maxim’s shoulder.
I tell myself it’s because the couch cushions are too stiff, not because I’m gravitating toward him. His warmth is distracting, but I’m not about to admit that.
He hasn’t moved or complained, though I swear I catch him sneaking glances at me out of the corner of his eye.
The kind of glances that make my skin prickle, though his expression remains as unreadable as ever.
“Are you even watching the movie?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement.
“Of course,” I lie, keeping my tone casual.
“Then what just happened?” His lips curve slightly, teasing me.
I squint at the screen, wracking my brain for a plausible answer. The plot has been background noise to my constant awareness of him, and now I’m paying the price. “Uh... the guy... did a thing.”
Maxim snorts, the sound more genuine than his usual composed chuckles. I feel the vibrations against my cheek, and it takes everything in me not to grin. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“And you’re a terrible couch,” I shoot back, sitting up slightly to glare at him. The movement shifts his bowl of popcorn, spilling a few kernels onto his lap.
He looks down at the mess, then back at me, one brow raised. “You’re not helping your case.”
I pluck a piece of popcorn from his thigh and pop it into my mouth. “I’m an excellent couch critic, thank you very much.”
His lips twitch, and for a moment, I think he’s going to retaliate, but instead, he leans back, stretching an arm across the back of the couch in a casual gesture. “Alright then, expert,” he says, nodding toward the screen. “What do you think of this movie?”
I glance at the TV. “It’s… fine,” I say slowly.
His gaze sharpens, and I can see the challenge in his eyes. “Fine? That’s it? Wow, Ebert’s got nothing on you.”
“Yeah, fine,” I repeat, sitting up straighter. “Like, I get it. Everyone’s cool and brooding, and the dialogue is snappy, but do we really need fifteen minutes of blood splatter in slow motion?”
His smirk widens, the kind that says he’s just found a new way to push my buttons. “That’s called style. Tarantino built an entire career on it.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, fully facing him now. “Style is one thing, but it’s just indulgent at this point. Did we really need a close-up of someone’s bare feet for three minutes?”
“It was five seconds.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You don’t get it. Those little indulgences are what make movies unique. They’re like signatures.”
I gesture to the screen, where someone’s delivering a monologue about killing bringing you closer to God. “Leaning into the absurd is fine, but it’s like he’s screaming, ‘Look at me, I’m a genius!’ every five seconds. It’s exhausting.”
Maxim tilts his head, considering me. “So what, you prefer movies that play it safe? No risks, no flair? Want me to find something Hallmark?”
“Not a bad idea,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “I just don’t think you need to beat the audience over the head with your style to make a point. Take someone like Scorsese. His movies have flair, but they don’t feel like they’re trying so hard.”
“Scorsese?” Maxim echoes, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You’re comparing Goodfellas to this? That’s apples and oranges.”
“Not really,” I argue, crossing my arms. “Scorsese has restraint. He lets the story breathe. This is just chaos.”
“Controlled chaos,” he counters, leaning closer. “Which is the point. Life isn’t neat and tidy. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes absurd.”
I bite my lip, trying not to smile. “Oh, so now you’re a philosopher of pop culture?”
He grins, the expression lighting up his face in a way that makes my stomach flip. “You started it. But fine, since you’re so critical, what’s your favorite movie, then?”
I hesitate, knowing whatever I say will fuel this debate further. “ The Truman Show, ” I finally admit, bracing for his reaction.
Maxim blinks, caught off guard. “ The Truman Show ? Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” I lift my chin. “It’s got everything: romance, adventure, comedy, sword fights?—”
“I don’t remember the sword fights,” he interrupts, though there’s no real bite in his tone. “You just complained about indulgence, and now you’re defending The Truman Show ?”
“It’s charming!” I argue. “And it doesn’t take itself too seriously. Plus, it has heart.”
He shakes his head, his smirk softening into something fond. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone describe a movie as ‘charming’ in an argument.”
“Well, maybe you hang out with the wrong people,” I tease, nudging him with my elbow. “What’s your favorite movie, then? Something grim and gritty, I’m sure.”
“ Heat, ” he says without hesitation. “Flawless filmmaking. Great performances. The coffee shop scene alone is better than anything in The Truman Show. ”
“Of course you’d pick something so serious,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Let me guess, you think the hero should always be morally conflicted and the ending should make everyone feel miserable?”
“No,” he says, his tone playful now. “I think the hero should earn their victory. Nothing should come easy. Like in life.”
There’s something in the way he’s looking at me—like he’s saying more than he means to—and it makes my chest tighten.
I settle back against him, my head on his shoulder again. This time, I don’t bother trying to convince myself it’s just because it’s comfortable.
The scene on the screen shifts. A woman falls into dark, churning water, her arms flailing as she’s pulled under. The camera lingers on her panicked face, bubbles escaping her mouth as she struggles to reach the surface.
My chest tightens, the room tilting as the memory slams into me like a freight train.
I’m back there. The icy grip of the Hudson River, the weight dragging me down, my lungs burning as I fought to breathe.
My hands grip the armrest, my knuckles turning white. My breathing comes in shallow gasps, the walls of the room closing in.
“Veronica?”
Maxim’s voice cuts through the haze but I can’t answer. My eyes are locked on the screen, the drowning woman’s terror mirroring my own.
“Veronica.” His voice is sharper now, and suddenly he’s kneeling in front of me, blocking my view of the TV. His hands are on mine, prying my fingers from the armrest. “Look at me.”
I blink, my vision blurry, and focus on his face. His dark eyes are steady, his jaw tight with concern.
I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.
He reaches for the remote, pausing the movie, then takes my hands in his. “Veronica,” he says again, softer this time. “You’re here with me. Focus.”
I nod, my hands trembling in his. “He threw me in like I was nothing. Like my life didn’t matter.”
Maxim shifts closer, his hands moving to my arms. “It matters,” he says firmly. “You matter. And you’re safe now. Do you hear me? He can’t hurt you anymore.”
I want to believe him, but the fear is a living thing, coiled tight in my chest. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I won’t let it happen,” he says, his voice like steel. “You’re under my protection, Veronica. No one touches you.”
Something in his tone—his certainty, his conviction—cuts through the fear, loosening its grip on my chest. I take a shaky breath, the room coming back into focus.
He doesn’t let go of me, his hands warm and steady. “Better?”
I nod, wiping at my eyes with a small laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin movie night.”
“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand.
He nods, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without a word, he stands and returns to the sofa, resuming his usual stoic posture.
“Let’s pick something else to watch,” he says, grabbing the remote. “How about something where the hero is called Truman and he doesn’t know his life is a TV show. Know any movie like that?”
“Nope, can’t think of anything like that off the top of my head.”