That Wasn't in the Script, page 17
“The pictures end after the few he’s in,” I sulk. “I wonder if he didn’t make it.”
Rowan reads over my shoulder and runs his finger across the bottom of the page. “Check this out!”
As the letter ends, the man concludes his long-winded tirade on barracks protocols by leaving a personal message to Winifred.
‘I hope you don’t mind that I told everyone about you. They’ve all been asking who the beautiful broad on my nightstand is. I tell them you’re no broad. You’re mine. Always yours, Robert.’
My bones morph into mashed potatoes, holding the letter like an artifact and closing it tenderly back inside the book. This was the type of thing everyone I knew would roll their eyes at, especially Pru, but to me, it was precious.
“I would love this,” I sigh.
“The photo album or the dead boyfriend?”
“Not funny!” I yank his hipster utility belt. “I’ve always thought love letters were one of the best ways to get to know someone. There’s something freeing about saying things on paper that you can’t say in real life. You have permission to be cheesy.”
“Dearest Josephine,” Rowan recites the greeting like a piece of Shakespearean theater. “I guess it beats Tinder.”
Costumes in hand (or, more appropriately, on our backs), we approach the register to the aloof reaction of the redhead female cashier. She taps her long, clear acrylics on the counter and leans over to check the colors on our tags, typing each figure into her geriatric register.
“Told you this wasn’t the weirdest thing,” Rowan says under his breath.
The woman hits the tally button with a loud clicking noise. “Your total comes to $22.98.”
Rowan unfolds the pants from his pile of discarded clothing and reaches to pull money out of his back pocket. A few moments of digging later, he looks over at me, minorly horrified.
“I’m out of cash.”
My weight sinks into the floor. “You’re kidding me.”
“Between the tattoo and everything else today...” His voice fades off.
“That’s really all the money you had?”
“I kind of borrowed it from someone in my camp.” His eyes shift. “It’s a long story.”
“So, you were stealing from your entourage?”
Rowan hisses with a curse and points to my clothes. “Look, can you cover it?”
I bite my lip. “Pretty sure I only have ten dollars’ worth of tips from last night.”
Even with the mask, his expression is so quintessentially Rowan. You couldn’t miss his shrewdness if you tried.
“You’re telling me we can’t afford clothes off the clearance rack?” This must be a hard pill to swallow for the guy who is used to wearing designer everything.
“We can still afford most of your clothes!” I point to the five-dollar long johns and mask. “That’s mostly what counts right now.”
“Hold up,” Rowan smizes. “Let’s try something.”
This never ends well. I’ve only known him for a day, and I know this never, ever ends well.
The woman behind the register grows impatient with the two of us whispering back and forth. Her tapping ceases. “You got it or no?”
Rowan inflates his cheeks and leans over the counter, rubbing his thumb and pointer fingers over the nose of his mask like he’s massaging a tension headache.
“No, ma’am,” his voice goes raspy. “No, we don’t... have it.”
Dear god. He’s becoming Hunter Cade.
“Then put it all back,” the woman sluggishly demands.
“Please!” Rowan holds out both hands. “Just hear me out!”
The woman rests her head against the wall and tilts back in her stool. “I’m listening.”
Rowan searches for his next line of dialogue, pouting and pointlessly brooding behind the mask. If I weren’t actively playing a part in whatever this scheme was, I’d be rolling on the floor in blanched agony.
“This is my girlfriend.” He motions to me, my chest thudding at the lie. “She’s dying. She has a rare blood disorder, and her doctors don’t think she’s going to make it much longer.”
I fake a mucusy cough as if that would ever have anything to do with a rare blood disorder. Unfortunately, I know exactly where he’s headed with this. My mother secretly watched enough soap operas during my childhood for me to accurately predict the outcome of every major plot twist.
Rowan licks his lips. “Her parents disapprove of us getting married so young, but I can’t let her die without being able to spend at least a few days together as husband and wife. She says I’m her superhero.”
I may actually laugh at that bit, briefly, and only because it’s the most cringeworthy, Dawn Heights explanation for his costume he could possibly fabricate. If nothing else, the boy is damn convincing, even working up a few tears as he continues his dramatic monologue.
“Please,” he pleads, “the man at the courthouse said he’d wait for us as long as we were back by eight. This sweet angel doesn’t have much time left. Please, let her have this.”
The woman listens intently, her face neither flinching nor showing signs of disbelief. She pauses for a moment to see if Rowan has anything further to add, but he’s already buried his face deep into his hands to muffle fake, moist sobs.
She finally tilts forward and presses a button on her register. “Your total comes to $22.98.”
Well, shit.
If your next guess were like mine, you’d assume we’d put our tails between our legs, humbly put all the clothes back, show up to the Halloween block party dressed in our street clothes, and make every effort to help Rowan blend in with the masses while managing my time with Aaron.
You’d be wrong. Because I, too, was very, very wrong.
“RUN!” Rowan screams.
As if it were some sort of immediate instinct, I grab my phone from my pants pocket, and the two of us drop our piles of clothes onto the floor. We bolt towards the front, me clumsily dragging the extra foot of skirt behind me and praying I don’t trip on the way out. Rowan grabs the door and shoos me out, following closely behind. We book it all the way down the sidewalk till the only people watching us are the strangers on the street wondering what the hell they’re looking at.
“I don’t think she’s even following us!” I gasp for air.
Rowan glances back and slows his pace to a steady walk, looking over his shoulder every few seconds and firmly positioning the mask on his face.
“That wasn’t part of my plan,” he breathes, “my plan was for her to buy that.”
I clutch my aching side. “Stick with acting. Writing isn’t your strong suit.”
The reality of what we’ve just done sinks in. Alongside all of the other laws I have broken today for Rowan’s sake, both providential and local, I can now proudly add ‘stealing’ to the list. When I said I saw a new and improved, confident Josie in that bathroom mirror, this is absolutely not what I meant.
“I can read your mind.” Rowan taps his forehead. “And don’t worry, I’ll send them some money.”
“If you ever make it back,” I snark with a huff.
“Won’t know till after the party. How do we get there?”
I’m on the edge of bragging about having the foresight to actually grab my phone before making an escape. Then I see the notification. “Oh no.”
Rowan pauses and sets a hand on his belt. “What’s ‘oh no’?”
I flash the screen for him to read, the critical bits blinking in red. Low Battery. 10%.
“It’s a miracle it made it this long.” I shrug. “Now what?”
He ponders for a moment, pacing the same four sidewalk squares till he finally throws his hands in the air and gives up.
“Just get us walking directions to the party and screenshot them. Get directions to my hotel from there too. Between the two of us, we can memorize them.”
I don’t expect the words ‘my hotel’ to come out of his mouth.
“You’re leaving after?” My voice sounds like a kid asking their mom to stay home from work and play.
“I have to eventually.” He darts his eyes to the ground. “That way, Aaron can take you home.”
I don’t want Aaron to take me home, the selfish voice in me cries. I want YOU to.
Rather than play off the bubbling volcano feeling above my organs that best be left dormant, I give my hair a wild shake and move fast to load the app, smiling nervously.
“Are we really doing this?”
Rowan looks down at his ankles and groans. “I look like I defend a Canadian underwear store. There’s no ‘really’ about it. Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 20
ROWAN
I’ve grown accustomed to a certain setting when I hear the word party. They typically involve alcohol, lots of it, and the occasional use of hard recreational drugs. Meanwhile, I’ll sit on the couch of whoever millionaire producer’s house we’re at and sip a Perrier while people twice my age scurry by and dance like any of the music they’ve selected is relevant. It’s like the senior prom I’ll never get, only way worse, and I’d rather be in bed or doing just about anything else by the time everyone swears they’re getting good.
Needless to say, my social standards are skewed. To me, a block party sounds like the equivalent of a Costco-sized children’s birthday party. There are likely a few fun games, some mass-produced cake, cheap trinkets for everyone to take home, and if you’re really bougie, dance music that makes the adults question the other adults’ parenting choices.
That was all before I stepped foot into Boroughween.
There’s no questioning where the party is happening. Once Josie and I have walked for roughly a mile, we could feel the sidewalk start to vibrate underneath our feet from a set of speakers blasting “Monster Mash” nearby.
“How far?”
“Still three blocks,” Josie answers. “I guess the Boys & Girls Club doesn’t screw around.”
The swell of music isn’t the only thing getting louder. Before anything is within viewing distance, you can hear the heard of people on the block cheering and clamoring. This isn’t a rinky-dink block party. It’s a full-blown street festival. Police barricades pop up at the end of the road.
An officer keeping an eye on the back end stops us and instructs us to go back and make a left in order to get in through the main entrance. At this point, my feet are screaming. If I hadn’t just tested my luck at the thrift store, I would’ve limboed under the barrier and ran in anyway.
“Look at you following the rules,” Josie teases, nudging my side with her elbow.
In my defense, I don’t steal things regularly. I don’t necessarily have a need to, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Josie wasn’t leaving without that dress. Seeing her walk out of that bathroom was like watching someone realize they were alive for the first time. I couldn’t let her miss out on that feeling. Selfishly, I didn’t want to either.
After we’ve gone another quarter mile up the next block, we round a sharp corner and make it to the front, guarded by several more police and shiny garland-wrapped barricades. The Boys & Girls Club absolutely wasn’t screwing around. We’re greeted by a twenty-foot banner with the words 7th Annual Boroughween Festival swaying high overhead. A scroll of sponsors is listed underneath. It explained how there was clearly so much money poured into this event.
The entrance was designed to be Instagrammed. Bales of straw are stacked high enough to climb with an assorted variety of pumpkins scattered throughout, both orange and plain, and carved with spooky faces. A long rope of orange twinkle lights is sewn between the layers and dimly lights the picturesque scene.
As you move past that, you’re immersed in a small, carnival-like atmosphere, minus the overpriced deathtraps. Red and white striped tents line one side of the street, each with hand-painted signed for street games like Soda Toss and Cornhole. Kids in costumes make up most of the lines, while nerve-stricken adults toss handfuls of candy into their bags regardless of if they’ve actually won the games.
Food trucks are parked on the opposing side of the road. They smell like actual meat-scented heaven to someone like me who has spent the entire day living off sugar and caffeine.
“What should we do first?” Josie shouts above the noise.
“Wanna text Aaron?” I ask.
Her face falls. She seems offended I’d bring up the idea of meeting her date. Had stealing the dress really bothered her that much?
“Sure,” Josie finally replies, moving quickly to make contact. Her phone had gone down to eight percent, and if hers was anything like mine, there was no five percent. You’d move down to six and then hear it make a The Price is Right whomp-whomp sound effect. Then you were screwed.
The event is crowded, but it’s not overwhelming. Those who’ve stumbled upon it while trick-or-treating walk around and do everything once before getting bored and leaving. Only those waiting for food and music seem to be the ones camped out.
“There’s the stage!” I point to the end of the road, back where we’d try to come in before.
We walk further down past several more booths, mostly radio stations handing out free swag and more candy. The stage is nothing on the level of a Springsteen show, it’s barely big enough to house a handful of instruments and a few large amps on both sides. Think school auditorium on a DIY budget. There is a huge open space for people to gather near the front, with a sign directly in the center with a schedule of events. We’d already missed the costume contest. Up next was the live music.
“Fate’s Bitch,” Josie announces. “That’s Izzy Ezra’s band.”
I point to where the word Bitch has been scratched out with a black sharpie and replaced with the word Fish.
“Fate’s Fish,” I correct. “Probably because there are kids here.”
“Because that’s the worst thing a child could see.” Josie points to the little boy walking past in a Michael Meyers costume, complete with a severed head.
“Should we wait for him here?”
“Who?”
“Aaron!” I shout again.
Her mouth cracks open as if she’s about to say something, just as a guy dressed in full Heath Ledger Joker garb comes up and taps her shoulder from behind.
“What’s up, pussycat?”
It’s the jerk from King Kone, putting an emphasis on pussy. My eyes nearly roll back into my skull. He would be the Joker. Josie’s face goes pale. You can almost hear what she’s thinking. ‘Not here, why here?’
“Julian!” She shouts. “Have you seen Aaron?”
Julian taps his lipstick smeared cheek. “Yeah, he’s around here somewhere, probably trying to cop a kid out of their candy.”
Why would he need to steal children’s candy? Everyone here was handing out candy. That was sort of the point.
“Can you tell him I’m here?” Josie asks. She tugs at the skirt of her gown like it’s regenerating more tulle as time goes on.
Julian squints as he gets a load of me standing next to her, pulling the rubber pencil out of his pocket and giving it a toss in the air. “Are you her bodyguard or something?”
“Or something,” my voice goes icy.
Josie refuses to let it escalate. “Julian, this is my cousin. Cousin, this is Julian.”
“You look really familiar.” Julian chuckles. “Are you at Bedford?”
My heart speeds up. Maybe ditching the hoodie and sunglasses was a premature decision.
“He’s from Montana,” Josie lies effortlessly. “He and his aunt are here to visit my mom.”
Yeah, she was much better at making up a convincing story than I was. Stealing the teen marriage b-plot from season two back at Save Rite wasn’t my smartest decision.
Julian snaps his fingers and stomps one foot. “The guy from TV with the huge nose! The one in that movie about the stupid mute people with the deaf kid! Jim from The Office!”
There were at least four horrible things in that one sentence alone, but as long as he wasn’t about to say ‘you’re Rowan Adler,’ I’d happily take Jim Halpert.
“I get that a lot.” I sound dubious.
Julian crosses his arms and gives a bypassing Wonder Woman elevator eyes. “I’ll let him know you’re here, Flosie.”
“It’s Josie,” I correct.
Yikes. It was this exact chivalrous, overprotective nature that got me in trouble with Michael Brewer. Ashanti may have appreciated it, but I wasn’t about to go down that path again. I was risking things enough as it was by being here.
“Whatever, Mr. Incredible.” Julian knocks my shoulder hard before creeping away to find where Wonder Woman wandered off—try saying that five times fast.
“Thanks.” Josie’s head hangs to the skirt-laden pavement underneath her feet. “Told you he was the worst.”
Anger continues to course up inside me. “You know, you’re allowed to be an introvert. That’s not a bad thing,” I state above the noise, “but that doesn’t make you a doormat.”
The hollows beneath her eyes sink, slowly nodding in agreement.
A group of frazzled stagehands appears behind the drum kit to prepare the stage for the band, hurriedly twisting at chords and strumming guitars to see if any noise bleeds through the amplifiers. I had no clue what time it was, but if they were prepping for showtime, it must’ve been close to eight.
“JOSIE!” A deep voice calls out.
Her face glows as she spots Aaron running towards her with a wave. He’s dressed as... a basketball player. Hot AND not original. What a catch.
“Hey!” She smiles. “Did you get my text?”
“I saw it right as Julian told me you were here. Hi, cousin!” He awkwardly waves to me and closely studies my outfit, trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be.
“I don’t know who I am either.” I shake my head.
Aaron passes me over and grabs Josie’s fingers. It causes my chest to grip so tightly, I wanted to scream. I barely knew her. Why was this bothering me so much?
“There’s free face painting over there.” Aaron points to the small booth near the Ameritrade table. “Wanna do it?”
