He chuckles, like he hasn’t orchestrated this entire night.Like he didn’t choose this club as his setting, Billie as his sidekick, me as his love interest, all so he could direct his warped idea of romance.So he could manufacture something as elusive and essential and enduring as love.
“You were meant to be mine.Nothing was going to stop thatbecause you’re the one.You are perfect for me…” He pauses for effect, or maybe it’s so when he reaches the edge of the dance floor he can time it with the music when he says, “This is our love story.All you have to do is say yes.”
Doesn’t listen to much of her music, my ass.But I’ll give it to him.The delivery is good, though he gets zero points for originality.I’ve heard all the things he’s said before, from other nonassuming, floppy-haired, misty-eyed men.I’ve soaked them up and dreamed of being on the receiving end of these kinds of declarations, but it just doesn’t have the intended effect when you’ve witnessed the person saying it split someone’s head open with an ax.
“Jamie?”he says, and when I meet his gaze, he nods.That little crooked smile twists the corner of his mouth.He’s done his speech and now he wants my response.He’s the Leading Man, after all, and I’m supposed to respond accordingly.
“I…”
When I open my mouth, the words refuse to come out.I can’t make myself shape out the consonants and vowels without wanting to throw up.It’s one thing to look the part, another to act it, and the thing with these admissions of love is that they are requited.The audience knows the two leads feel the same way about each other.John said himself that the other women—his victims—had said they loved him, and he could tell it wasn’t true.What if they all got to this part?What ifthisis the final test that everyone fails?
The silence extends, and I see his smile falter.My window to keep the scene running smoothly is closing.There’s a split-second difference between a pause for effect and one that kills the mood.The stakes are even higher when the mood isn’t the only thing that could get killed.
I can’t say the words he wants to hear and make him believe them, but I’m still determined for this to end the way I know it has to.I canplay my role, but it has to be one of my choosing, not his.Because I’m not something that falls neatly into a category on Netflix… I’m one of a kind.
I still need him to come closer for the scene to play out the way I want it to, and if I can’t compel him to come toward me I have only one other option.
I have to provoke him instead.
“I kissed Wes.”
His face drops.He looks genuinely hurt, but before the social conditioning can kick in and I feel too bad, he shakes it off.One foot finds its way onto the dance floor.
“You made a mistake.”
Even with the understanding look back on his face, he’s not asking.He’s telling me.His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion, but he’s ready to forgive me.I’m his dream girl, after all.
“Twice—No.Three times… Maybe more.”
I wait until it seems like he’s fully processed that, and when he looks like he’s ready to reason it away, when both of his feet are on vinyl instead of carpet, I say, “Oh, and I fucked him in the janitor’s closet.”
Andthatis the plot twist he did not see coming.His face loses its swoony, infatuated expression as if I’ve slapped it off.When he takes another step forward, it’s longer, quicker than the others, and I have to stop myself from taking one back.
He needs a little more time to mull over that bit of information, head tilted like he must have heard me wrong.“…You what?”
The hypocrisy is out of this world.His body count doesn’t matter, but suddenly mine does?
“I thought you were dead,” I say, as he pauses.I think he’s trying to recalculate the fantasy, reconcile what I’ve told him with how he wanted the story to play out and still come up with a happily ever after.
“Well then, I guess—”
“But I would’ve done it anyway.”
He is so stoic.We’re well into “Love Story”—the drum really kicks in at this point and the beat resounds throughout the club, so it’s more the fact he’s closer, he looks somber, that makes it feel like the volume drops.
“Why would you do that?”
Without his mask—not the pink, bloodstained one hanging out of his pocket, but the nice-guy one he wore when we met—it isn’t hard to imagine him fileting strangers for the better part of the night.Without the head tilt and reluctant smile and imploring eyes, he’s… scary.Terrifying.
“Honestly?”I release a heavy sigh over the roses and the moment of faux contemplation draws him closer.“After everything that happened tonight, I just needed a distraction.And Wes, well…” I let the pause extend, let John fill in the blanks and watch as his shoulders rise before I say, “He delivered.”
He shakes his head, disheartened, disappointed.I’m just like the five other women who didn’t make the cut.Five beautiful, vibrant, innocent women who didn’t love him back, so he had to take everything away from them.And that thought steels me, because they didn’t deserve it—I don’t deserve it.None of usdeserve that.
“Everything I did, I did for you.”
He takes another step forward.My hands tighten around the stems and the divots of the removed thorns press into my fingers.
“I would’ve been happy with just the roses.”
