Rat-tat. Tat.
A knock on the door, not one he recognises. It's a call to adventure right there; open that gateway and anything might happen. He wrinkles his nose. Or not. His head aches. Fuck it.
Rat-tat-tat. Tat.
The knocker persists. Sort of. There's something about the hesitant end to the whole thing that suggests they might be just as happy if he doesn't answer. At the foot of his bed, Lenny whines softly.
"Hey," he says, "if you want to know who it is so badly, you go." But he's moving anyway, shrugging out his stiff shoulder. Slept on it funny, after he fell to bed somewhere down bottle number two. He pulls open the door.
It's too bright. Too fucking sunny for a man whose eyeballs have apparently been lined with towelling while he slept. Ruth gradually resolves out of the effulgent haze, blinking at him like a startled owl. "Uh," he manages, "what do you want?"
She cringes slightly, "If it's a bad time I can—"
"No, no," he manages. "Well, yes. I mean I…" He stops, squints. "What time is it, anyway?"
"Three. In the afternoon." And then, because he looks like he needs it: "Saturday?"
"Right, right." A lightly fermenting brain cell fires a synapse. "Why are you here? How did you even find where here is?"
"I just, um, I wanted to think about our next steps. You know, now that… the pilot's out there and…"
"Of course you do." Fuck, she's even got a binder full of them, he realises. "Should you not...? You know…" He waves his hands, trying to shape the invisible dough of his thoughts. "Be out celebrating? Or something?"
"Sam," she says, suddenly more sure of herself now she can see a route through to teasing. "For some of us a party lasts a little less than three days."
"Oh, haha," he returns. "This isn't- this isn't partying. This is..." He gropes for the right words, but she gets there first.
"A pity party?"
He nods, defeated. "Something like that."
It's send her away or invite her in time. He can't bear the light any longer. He jerks his head and lets her make the decision as to whether it's assent or marching orders. Of course, she steps inside. "My place is a mess," he hears himself mumble.
"Uh-huh," she returns brightly, keeping her face carefully blank. My, my, how those acting classes have paid off. She sits down carefully on his couch, sets the pink binder down on the seat. Primly carving out a little space amongst his musty clutter. She doesn't fit. Dewy and earnest amongst dry dust and yellowing paper; empty bottles.
"So, what happens now?" she says. "We don't want to lose momentum. I was thinking we should get everyone together at the gym, go through notes on Friday's performance..." She continues in this vein for some time, as he listens glassy-eyed.
"Ruth," he says eventually, surprised to find that when he speaks her mouth snaps shut like a trap. "You're fifty steps ahead of yourself. As usual."
"Oh. Well—"
"I mean you're right," he continues, raising a hand to prevent further interruptions. "But we have to wait for the network to talk to us first. Give us a sign of intent."
"Okay," she says, like a woman taking bad news stoically. "Well, I guess I'll…" She gathers up the pink binder, about ready to leave. Bites her lip for a moment, weighing up options. "Sam, do you want to… talk about whatever this is?"
"What d'you mean?"
"Well, the show was great. Everything we could have hoped for. We're all on cloud nine and here you are passed out at three in the afternoon."
He opens his mouth to snap something, closes it again. "Why do you care?" Same words, softer tone. His therapist would be proud.
She goggles for a second. "Why wouldn't I?"
"I dunno. I mean, this is really just a stepping stone for you, isn't it? Get yourself known, get yourself cast in something a bit more mainstream… What does it matter about any of us?"
She recoils slightly, stung. "Well, what's it to you, if not a stepping stone?"
He runs a hand through his hair, meeting her eyes after a beat. "A lifeline?"
She smiles at that, hugs the binder to herself. "You should get out of here for a while. Get some food."
"Yeah. You're right. Wanna come with?"
"Sure."
"Just let me find my sunglasses."
Her smile quirks. "Maybe-maybe change your shirt too."
"Is it that bad?"
She wrinkles her nose. It makes her whole face soften when she does. For a second she seems less conspicuous in the sea of his belongings. "Yeah," she says, "it is."
Caffeine. Nicotine. Ruth is at the counter, sourcing a heart attack in a box burger. He blows cigarette smoke in a stream through the car window as she pays, watches it curl against the blue sky.
"Hey," she says, handing him his change when she returns. She settles into the passenger seat, sipping her milkshake absently as he demolishes his burger. The bun is stale and the meat slimy with thick grease. He doesn't care. This is the holy trinity of hangover remedies.
"Better?"
"Maybe," he replies thickly.
"You Americans are all the same," she says, as Zoya this time. "With your imperialist King of Burgers and Ronald McDonald. No wonder food tastes funny when chef is clown."
He chuckles. "You write these all down in that binder of yours?"
She flushes slightly. "Not-not all of them."
"Relax. I'm just messing with you."
"I know." She finishes her milkshake, declines his wordless offer of a cigarette as he lights a second. Silence stretches between them companionably. Which is fucking weird. She's more tightly wound than a slinky, and he can never resist putting his foot in his mouth.
He risks a glance at her, completely absorbed in watching the other patrons of the diner. Takes a drag of his cigarette, and another. Eventually she catches his eye.
"What?" She doesn't bat her eyelids or lower her gaze, like he's used to. Just stares back at him levelly, somewhere between amused and confused.
"You're like Jane fucking Goodall or something, that's all."
She laughs, adopting a breathy English accent. "And here we see the alpha male… providing for his pride..."
"Is that a bit?"
"What?"
"The accent."
"… It's David Attenborough."
"Who?"
She shakes her head. "Never mind."
"No, c'mon. Tell me."
"He's a British nature documentarian. See, it's nerdy. You didn't really want to know."
"No, no." He manages to get control of his laughter. "Your dad was a high school science teacher, right? It makes sense you'd be… you know. Into that kind of stuff."
"I'm not…" she tries, but gives it up in the face of his knowing smile. "I can't believe you even remember that."
"Gee thanks. It's nice to know you think I'm totally fucking self-obsessed." He finishes his cigarette, buying time for his temper to burn out. "Sorry. I'm just…" He frowns, trying to find the right words. "It's just all such a big fucking mess, you know?"
"Yes," she says, emphatically.
"I mean, you're right. It did go great and we should all be fucking high right now. Instead I'm trying to remember what a-a fucking one time lay from nineteen sixteen nine looked like. Fuck." He punches the steering wheel lightly. "Do you think I should go and see her? I've been thinking about… thinking maybe that would be a good thing to… What would you do?"
She lets out a long breath. "Honestly, I don't know—"
"Oh, well, thanks a fucking lot for that advice. Glad we had this chat—"
"Jesus, Sam, let someone else get a word in edgeways," she snaps back. "I don't know if it's a good idea. Obviously Justine's mom—"
"Rosalie—"
"Rosalie, right. She obviously told Justine who you were, showed her your work. She let Justine come here to try and find you. You weren't a secret. If she wanted to see you, don't you think she'd have been in touch already?"
And there it is, the succinct summary that saw him crawl into a bottle of bourbon when he reached the same conclusion. "I mean," he says, devil's advocate, "I don't know that she exactly gave Justine permission…"
"Mmm. Ok." Clearly sceptical.
He huffs. "Don't sit on it, say it."
"I just think… You turn up and say her daughter ran away to find you; that you cast her in a wrestling television show, put her up in a sleazy motel and filmed her fighting. What's her next reaction going to be?"
He sniffs. "Probably to punch my fucking lights out." He sighs. "Fuck. How does one night of clearly forgettable sex turn into such a problem?"
She rolls her eyes. "Oh jeez, yeah. I wonder what that would be like?"
There is a beat of silence, and then her shoulders start to shake with supressed laughter. Maybe it's hysteria but he finds himself laughing along with her, crying with it; howling.
"I mean," he eventually manages, hiccoughing slightly, "in fairness you did fuck him twice."
"Well, maybe you did too," she giggles back. "You just can't remember."
"God, those were the days." He rubs his forehead, at the lingering ache in his sinuses. "You wanna go get a beer?"
"No," she replies flatly. "But I'll go catch a movie or something, if you still want to hang out."
He considers this. "Okay," he says, and turns the ignition.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
They are sitting on a low wall outside the Cineplex. Sam is flicking ash from his cigarette disconsolately into the gutter. "Fine. I'm fine."
She seems unconvinced. "I did say we should go for the zombies…"
"No. I had to know." He sighs. "It's true. Mothers and Lovers is killed my baby. The one I've been carrying around for ten years."
Her nose twitches. He's coming to recognise that little tell.
"What?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Not out loud, no."
She makes a face. She's probably not even aware she's making it—an oh God kind of grimace. A tiny part of his brain files that face away for future reference; a scene yet unwritten, framed only in his mind's eye. A comedy, probably—
"I just mean… I've seen you work. I know what you can do when you want something badly. Don't get me wrong, we all helped to get that pilot made. But we wouldn't have done it without you. Mothers and… and—" The rest of the title seems to be stuck in her throat.
"And Lovers," he prompts.
She can't quite hide the wince. "I think it was just too personal, Sam. You needed it to be perfect."
He folds his arms. "No it wasn't."
"You actually described it as auto-biographical."
"Semi. Semi auto-biographical."
"Right. Right. Naturally I assumed it was the time-travel part that you were drawing from experience," she deadpans.
He shakes his head, too angry to speak. Normally he has to be naked to feel this vulnerable. What the fuck is wrong with him?
She rubs the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry. I just think you're… looking backward when you should be going forward."
"Well I wonder why that is? The past seems to have come back to bite me on the ass." Her nose twitches again, like he's slipped into a fucking episode of Bewitched. "Just say it."
She shrugs. "I just don't think that's it."
He considers her for a moment, blue eyes seemingly full of concern. He can't work out her angle; what she can possibly want out of all this. He touches the carton of cigarettes in his pocket with one finger. He could really do with an edge right now, but he's snorted his way through a stash that would normally last a week. Think it out. Maybe it's just consideration of the ideas in her binder. Worth the trade.
"I… I thought the worst thing in my life was insincerity, you know? People wanting things and me… me just being something that came as part and parcel of getting that. And once they get what they want, they don't need me anymore." He expects her to interrupt, to offer false reassurances. Instead she is watching him with the same intensity as the unwary diners. He sighs. "Actually, it turns out the worst thing in the world… is people who want absolutely nothing from you when you have something to give."
Her eyelashes flutter. "Yeah," she says, voice cracking slightly. "Yeah, I think I know what that's like."
His first instinct is to snap – how can she? How can she—young and talented and possibly kind of hot, at least from the right angle—how can she know? And then his brain cuts in, cursing the slowness of his sober self: that's how things are for her with Debbie.
His fingers find hers, on the wall next to him. A brief squeeze of comfort, comradery. Good to know that they are not all alone in the world in this feeling. She returns the pressure for a moment, mouth turning up at the corners. Her eyes are sad.
"Thanks," he says, and he means it. He lets go of her hand, makes his own sad smile. "You want to show me some of the ideas you've got in that binder?"
She shakes her head, and the foundations of his cynical worldview along with it. "Not right now."
"Right…" He scratches his ear. "You okay?"
"Not yet. But I will be."
"Yeah." He considers this. "Yeah, me too. Come on. I'll drive you back to the motel."