Chapter Thirty-Three
It wasn’t until warm theater lights brightened to life that Dimple realized her vision was blurry. In a blink, something trickled down the side of her cheek. She quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand. There was nothing but the ringing in her ears, the thump of her heartbeat.
Her character had died on-screen and yet Dimple felt born anew. Months ago, cradling a candle in her hands, this was what she had wished for. It was so much better than she could’ve imagined.
Someone nudged her from her left. Priyal, sniffling and laughing. It took Dimple a moment to realize why she’d been alerted. The rest of Insomnia’s cast and crew were standing, looking out over the crowd. The ringing in her ears cut out, replaced by thunderous applause.
Dimple shot to her feet. Hundreds of faces stared back at her when she scanned the audience.
The whole theater was on their feet, facing her as they clapped.
Her lungs felt too big for her body, her heart an endless abyss.
Her palms pressed together on autopilot, giving the audience thanks.
Bright camera flashes. The shutter of a lens.
She couldn’t recall if she’d remembered to smile.
Only when she registered that her cheeks hurt did she realize she’d been doing it all along.
Small fractions of her soul scattered across the theater, taken into the audience’s memories. How this movie made them feel, the atmosphere, maybe even Dimple herself. Even if she died tomorrow, she would live on through them.
When Dimple turned to her left, Saffi was already looking back at her, eyes ablaze. She gave Dimple a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Something loosened in Dimple’s chest. She could’ve sworn the applause only intensified after that.
It was unclear how long she stood for, but it was enough for her legs to turn to jelly. Dimple could remember standing and knew that she was sitting again now, but had no recollection of what had happened in between.
She blinked and an announcer was walking onto the stage.
Another blink and Jerome Bardoux was beckoned to join him.
It was the first time Dimple came to realize that the director was a bit of an actor in his own regard.
The persona he put on now was in stark difference to that of on set.
Barked orders and frowns replaced with fake laughter and over-politeness.
Dimple saw Shyla shake her head in her periphery.
Even as Jerome began explaining the process of creating the movie, Dimple felt the scrutiny of a hundred people fixed on her. This time, she knew it stemmed from more than her anxiety. She tried her best to keep her expression frozen in place.
Her co-lead’s name, shouted out by an audience member in the form of a question, broke Dimple abruptly from her trance.
“Why hasn’t Chris Porter joined the cast for promotions? After all the work he’s done to recover from his addiction, it would be nice to see some support from his co-stars instead of outright shunning.”
Dimple’s head snapped up and she scanned the audience for the culprit, but came back empty-handed. She did, however, notice several cameras trained on her.
She immediately turned back around. A hundred ants crawled across her skin. Dimple clenched her fists in her lap, barely able to keep from shaking.
Money, it seemed, solved all the world’s problems. The producers throwing away box office proceeds. Chris employing people to start a foundation on his behalf. Just like that, it became everyone else who was the issue.
Onstage, Jerome’s facade broke. He couldn’t speak and began picking so harshly at his fingernail, he must’ve drawn blood.
He always seemed like such a natural on set, it hadn’t registered to Dimple before now that he too was new to all of this.
Keep it together, she tried to convey to him.
Every single one of the cast straightened and adopted a poker face.
With a glance in their direction, Jerome mirrored them.
Hopefully no one else had been studying him close enough to notice the lapse.
“We are all very proud of Chris,” Jerome said carefully.
Dimple got the feeling that the public relations team had helped him with this statement beforehand.
“I’m sure you’ve seen how vocal he has been about the rest of the team working with him behind the scenes to get him the support he needs.
And as you know, a portion of box office sales will be going toward the foundation Chris created in order to help victims of DUIs. ”
“But what about the rest of the cast? Like Dimple Kapoor. Weren’t they dating? Why hasn’t she made a single statement about the situation? It really says a lot about—”
The volunteer was finally able to wrench the microphone away. “Next question,” they said breathlessly, cueing a few awkward chuckles from audience members.
Meanwhile, Dimple’s heart thudded even faster, the pit in her stomach opening so wide, she feared it might collapse in on itself.
Her hands were visibly trembling now. She could feel every camera lens trained on her.
Every hair on the back of her neck stood upright.
She understood now why Jerome had cracked.
If this was how she felt in the safety of her seat, how much worse did it feel onstage?
To stand up there and pretend to be virtuous in front of all these people?
The next audience member began reciting their question, but Dimple was hardly listening.
How had everyone forgotten that Chris was a killer when his character in the movie they’d just watched met such a gruesome and fitting end for that very same reason?
All it took was checking into a fancy rehab—more akin to a resort than anything else—and he was in better standing than ever before.
Dimple was blamed for not making a statement.
Dimple was blamed for not offering Chris enough support in his recovery.
Dimple was blamed for associating with Chris at all when he himself faced no consequences.
She couldn’t stand another minute of it.
Ducking forward, Dimple stumbled her way out of the theater. She didn’t bother looking back at the crowd, too afraid of what she might find there. Or rather, too afraid that her face might betray her own turbulent emotions.
The back exit that she took led to an empty hallway. At the end of it was a bathroom sign. She nearly tripped over the fabric of her dress as she made a break for it.
Shoving the heavy door open, Dimple flung herself back against it, blood-red dress spilling over white tile. The glacial climate inside the bathroom compared to the temperate theater sent a shiver down the entire length of her body. Short breaths echoed across the small space.
The first thing that came up when searching her name online were photos of herself on the red carpet.
Priyal had already reposted some of the best ones.
Dimple looked into the mirror at her left.
Her hair frizzed up in odd patterns, her mascara smudged.
She might as well be a completely different person than the woman on her screen.
There was already a video of her during the standing ovation.
Her fingernails dug into her biceps as she watched.
It was her face. It betrayed her every emotion, despite how hard she’d attempted to control herself.
How hadn’t everyone immediately clocked her for the fraud she was?
Dimple’s stomach dropped. Had she similarly given away her true feelings while Jerome discussed Chris?
Was that how the audience member had clocked her disregard?
There weren’t any videos of that exchange yet—nor of her stumbling out of the theater—but that only made the itch under Dimple’s skin worsen.
This wasn’t how she wanted to be remembered.
She paced the length of the bathroom before stuffing her phone back into her pocket and wrenching the sink tap on.
This was all wrong. She was supposed to show Saffi—to show herself—that everything she’d done had been worth it in the end.
That all you needed to achieve greatness was the drive to do so.
That she was finally done with setting fires.
The water was cold when she shoved her hands under the spray, and it did nothing to soothe the invisible ache deep within her. Soap foamed and water splashed, running up her sleeves until they too were wet.
A damp stain formed at the front of her dress.
This was too familiar.
In the mirror she saw a pair of innocent brown eyes. Falling.
Falling.
Dimple shouted, fist coming up and slamming against the mirror with all her force.
The action came of her own volition, yet she gasped when the glass cracked, spiderwebs creeping up in every direction.
Something tickled. Blood, probably, trickling down from her knuckles onto her fingers, dripping onto the floor.
It had been months since she’d relapsed. Of course Irene would choose now of all times to trouble her again. Was Chris haunted by his mistakes? Dimple doubted it. She tried to see her reflection through the cracks, but it was too distorted to make out.
The bathroom door clanged open, and Dimple inhaled sharply, cradling her injured hand to her chest. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t immediately pinpoint the blood on the floor or the cracks in the mirror, giving her time to clean up.
Her wishes went unanswered.
They cursed, their footsteps echoing as they edged closer.
In the back of her mind, Dimple could recognize them by gait alone, and if not that, then surely by their voice.
But with the mirror so distorted, her mind could conjure up whatever sick fantasies it desired.
Suddenly, she was a child again, just as aware that the blows would come as she was that she couldn’t stop them.
Dimple could sense the arm coming for her and reached out to intercept it, slapping it away.
She was unable to repress the violent shudder when she finally made contact.
It wasn’t until the hand closed around her wrist that Dimple registered its gentleness.
She opened her eyes, met Saffi’s gaze, and breathed.
Which made no sense—Saffi was the last person she wanted to see in this context.
“Are you done with your meltdown?” Saffi asked. Dimple’s blood was smeared across her palm, but she didn’t seem to care.
Dimple attempted a scoff, but it came out as more of a choke. Saffi leaned over to inspect the stalls, likely checking that they were empty. A wave of shame washed over her. She should’ve thought of that—what was wrong with her?
“Can I help you?” Dimple asked, attempting to yank free, but Saffi only held on tighter.
Gradually, her heartbeat began to slow. There were no ghosts here. Only Dimple and the sickening twist of humiliation in her stomach. She didn’t know who to blame. The heckler in the audience or her traitorous, unfortified mind?
Saffi seemed content with her findings. “You look terrible,” she commented, studying Dimple’s bloody knuckles. “Did that guy really get you this worked up?”
How Saffi could stand to look at her like this, she would never understand. Had the fire in her finally been put out? Dimple was too scared to check.
“I came in here to make sure you weren’t up to anything,” Saffi said when Dimple didn’t respond. “But clearly you’re as much a danger to yourself as you are to anyone else.”
Had Saffi been checking for dead bodies along with living ones? The thought was amusing. Surely Saffi didn’t think Dimple would be stupid enough to allow herself to be caught red-handed. Not even in this state.
“Well,” Dimple said. “Have you reached a satisfying conclusion?”
The ceramic of the sink dug into Dimple’s back as Saffi pressed her against it, but the pain hardly registered in her mind.
This close, Dimple’s nose was nearly pressed against Saffi’s neck.
She smelled of the ocean. So little time in California and already it had made its mark on her.
Then Saffi pulled back, armed with damp paper towels.
“What are you—” Dimple cut herself off with a hiss when Saffi began cleaning her knuckles. It was humiliating. She didn’t pull away.
“Not sure yet,” Saffi admitted, carefully extracting a piece of glass. “I am pleasantly surprised to see that you’re capable of guilt, though.”
“And what would I have to be guilty of?”
“Would you give it a rest?” Saffi sighed. “I’m getting bored with this game.”
For some reason, that irritated Dimple. She pushed off the sink, stepping into Saffi’s space.
Their eyes met like stone striking stone.
That was once how people fashioned tools, wasn’t it?
One stone was always stronger, sturdier, but it was used to turn the other into a weapon.
Between the two of them, who was the sword and who was the forge that shaped it?
“You’re lying,” Dimple shot back. “You love this.”
“There’s nothing I hate more than hypocrites,” Saffi said.
“I am not a hypocrite.”
“Yeah?” Saffi asked. “Then why are you letting other people weigh you down? Where’s your hunger?” She punctuated her words with a sharp jab at Dimple’s chest.
There wasn’t the roaring campfire that had been reflected in Saffi back at the theater, but it wasn’t entirely put out either.
Wisps of smoke curled against coal black, occasionally joined by a flicker of red.
Dimple wanted to set them ablaze again and again until the whole world burned.
This time when the icy phantom fingers threatened to choke her, the electricity of Saffi’s touch was enough to incinerate them.
“Right here.”
Dimple grasped Saffi’s collar and pulled her down into a bruising kiss.