“Don’t go into the house,” he warns Fred MacMurray’s character. “She’s waiting for you!”
When Barbara Stanwyck shoots him, Thad sits back with a sigh, like all of this could have been prevented if only people would listen to him. “Women,” he says with a grin, shaking his head and biting wolfishly into his pizza.
I know he’s joking, but something about it sits wrong with me. I wait, busying myself with cleaning napkins and other pizza detritus off my bed, until the final credits play. “Are all women like that in film noir?”
Thad finishes his last bite of pizza and reaches for another piece. “Like what?” He offers the box to me.
I hold up a hand, motioning that I’m full. “You know, either a Lola or a Phyllis. Either an angel or a she-devil?”
He considers it. “I guess so.” He frowns at me. “Why, you didn’t like it?”
Despite the frown, I sense a tenderness in the question. He’s shared something with me that he genuinely loves, and I don’t want to shoot it down. “I loved it,” I tell him honestly. “The tension, the buildup, that denouement. It was all incredible.”
He grins, looking visibly relieved. “I only know what half those words mean, but, yeah, it’s great.”
“And Barbara Stanwyck was incredible. Her shoes, her attitude.” I couch my thoughts with compliments so he knows I’m not trying to tear the film apart. I decide to pose my criticism as a question. “I wonder why these films use the ‘good versus bad women’ trope? It’s really entertaining to watch, but not all women are either good or bad, you know? There’s a lot in between the Lolas and the Phyllises of the world.”
Thad’s grin fades into his usual frown, despite my best efforts. “Not really. At least in my line of work. There are bail jumpers, cheats, liars…and then the nun librarians.” He gives me a tentative smile. “Don’t worry, you’re a Lola.”
I know that’s an olive branch extended, but it still bothers me. “But don’t you feel like that’s a lot of pressure on women? What about librarians who sometimes lie? Or bail jumpers who dream about being small-business owners?”
Okay, that was a stupid example, and I somewhat deserve the pitying look that Thad gives me. “That’s cute you think so, Sister Helen. That’s why you’re a Lola.”
I scramble for a better example. “Look at Phyllis. Evenshecouldn’t go through with killing Walter in the end because she realized she loved him.”
“And that makes up for everything she did before?”
I’m not explaining myself right. I shake my head, frustrated. “No, but…I’m just saying that it’s not fair that women have to be all one thing or the other. Is Walter a bad guy because he fell for Phyllis’s schemes, or does he get a pass because he had a conscience? Women should get to be complicated and complex, too, that’s all I’m saying.”
Thad raises an eyebrow at me. “And you don’t think men get put into categories in your romance novels?” At my impending protest, he sits up a little straighter. “Either you’re Prince Charming or you’re the guy who deserves to get strung along because you’re just the filler boyfriend until Mr. Right comes along.”
I sit up, shaking my head at him. “That’s not true. You obviously haven’t read enough romance if you think that.”
He motions to me. “What about your book—the one you were reading at the writing group? Rosamund has Wilfred lapping along after her, but he’s all but scum beneath her boot once Axel turns up.”
I glare at him. “Wilfred is not Rosamund’s boyfriend. Him expressing an interest in her does not entitle him to dibs. And he isn’t a bad person, he’s just not the right person.”
“Film noir splits it up into bad and good. Romance splits it up into Mr. Right and Mr. Wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”
I shake my head, determined to make my point. “But people aren’t all bad or all good, that’s the point?—”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his own head. “Come on, Sister Helen. You can’t really believe that. What about those assholes downstairs? You think there’s good in any of those motorcycle creeps? Would you have invited them in for a Bible study if I’d let you have your own room?”
I’m about to retort, when my brain snags on something he said. “Let me have my own room?” I echo. “What does that mean?”
Thad, finally, has the good grace to look ashamed. “I…may have asked the clerk to lie to you about only having one room.” Seeing my mouth drop, he sits up, protesting, “But it was for your own good. I was just trying to make sure you were safe.”
The confession knocks the wind out of me. For a moment, I can only stare at him, and then I’m surprised by the sudden tears that blind my eyes. “You know, I’ve spent a long time with people making my decisions for me. Taking my choice away. I didn’t think you’d be one of them.”
I don’t wait for a snarky reply, or a stammering apology, or a defensive explanation for why he’s so right and I’m so stupid and naive that I can’t take care of myself—because frankly, I’m pretty sure any one of those three responses would make me break down sobbing. Instead, I stand up, pulling my toiletries bag back out of my luggage. “I’m going to brush my teeth.”
If he responds, I don’t hear it, just the sound of a sweeping film score coming through the thin bathroom door.
Chapter 26
Thad
I’ll be relieved once we put the Road View Inn in our rearview mirror, for more than one reason.
