“I don’t understand,” I say. We’re both breathing frantically now. “Marius, do you know how talented you are? You could work with anyone. Why wouldn’t you just leave the movie after that?”
“It’s not that simple.” He shakes his head. “It’s not like I’m some white kid. I—I have to take opportunities I get. My parents are so proud of me, and so is everyone else. If I pulled out now, everyone would think something happened. I’m not allowed. He said no one goes against Roy Lennox without killing their career. He said things wouldn’t go so well for me if I told anyone. I don’t even want to. I’ll just shoot the movie in February and go to press events and never work with him again.”
“No.” I feel guilty and mad and angry and I want to punch Roy Lennox in the face until his eyes fall out. “You shouldn’t have to keep working with him when you don’t want to, when he did something like that to you. Maybe you could talk about it with—”
“Josie.” His voice sounds strained, like he’s spent the night screaming. “Talking about it won’t solve anything. All it’s going to do is make sure everyone knows. Half of them won’t believe me. And—fuck, then my parents would know. My mother already doesn’t want me acting. She thinks I’m going to lag behind in college. Can you imagine what this would do to her?”
“But you can’t just work with him.” My mouth is dry. “Marius, you can’t.”
“I have to.”
“Maybe…” My throat hurts and I’m going to be sick and I just need to make this better. “Maybe the article I’m writing will come out before he starts production and you won’t have to go because everyone will get mad at him and the studio will take away his budget.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” he says. His eyes are red. “The women you’re interviewing for whatever you’re working on, they’re gonna get called liars. They might never find work in Hollywood again. Talking about it won’t help. We just have to pretend everything is normal.”
“We can’t just not talk about it.”
“We can’t talk about it,” he says. “It won’t fix anything, Josie. He has the power. He can end any of us in a second. It’s fine. I just won’t get in a room alone with him again.”
“But what about the people who don’t know?” I ask. “What about the people who are new to the scene and think Lennox is gonna give them their big break? Somebody has to warn them. We at least have to try.”
“There’s no point in trying,” he says. “I’m not telling anyone what happened. You can’t just force people to talk about it. He can deny it all he wants and turn around and fight dirty. I know exactly what people would say if I ever told: that I wanted it because I’m bi.”
His words hit me like a slap. It hurts because I know it’s true.
“Marius—”
“So why should I try?”
“For other people!” I’m waving my hands now, just like he does when he talks. “You aren’t the only one wrapped up in this. God, Marius, think about them.”
His face looked horrible before, but it fucking crumples. It makes me want to cry. Before it was because of what Lennox did. Now it’s because I made him feel this way. I yelled at him and pushed him into telling me what happened and now I’m treating him like shit. I feel like dissolving into a puddle of tears.
He steps away, arms folded so tight, they look like they’re the only thing holding together his narrow frame.
“Marius,” I say again. “I—I want to make it better. Tell me what to do.”
“I think,” he says, not meeting my eyes, “you should go.”
His words make my chest ache. I’ve never fucked up this badly before. I want to fix it. I want to erase Roy Lennox from history. I want to go back in time and make sure none of this ever happened.
But this is my fault.
I can’t just run away, and yet that’s what my body wants me to do. I still feel sick. It’s the worst sort of panic attack. This isn’t because someone was talking too loud or because I had to give an order at a restaurant. This is because I fucked up. I hurt Marius, the nicest person I know, by stepping on an open wound.
He told me to go, so I do.
@JosieTheJournalist: pleased to say i built a new timeline where Ava DuVernay won every single Oscar for being perfect and I’m moving out of this dimension
“Fuck.”
I’m pretty sure this is the fifth time my computer has shut down and deleted my draft. I don’t know whether to scream or cry. It’s not like it was a good draft, anyway. I have no idea how to combine all six of these women’s accounts in a way that makes sense. Normally, I make a story as good as I can before sending it to an editor, but I need this one to be perfect. I need to make sure whoever edits this story immediately wants to take it on and defend it to the ends of the earth. It needs to be amazing. Most of all, I need to make sure these women are represented well.
It’s early Monday morning, and since our flight is tonight, I have to get everything done now. It doesn’t help that I’m not even sure I should be writing this story. Every time I reread the sentences, I picture it happening: the groping, the fear, being trapped in a corner. Then I think about Marius and want to puke. After what happened at his apartment yesterday, how can I be the best person to write this
