Chapter 22: Movie Night at the Club
The scent of popcorn butter, artificial and glorious, hit Lily-Anne the moment she pushed through the heavy black door marked ‘PRIVATE.’ It was a welcome assault, cutting through the club’s usual cocktail of perfume, sweat, and ozone. The back room was a world apart from the polished bar and thumping main floor. Here, the music was a distant, forgiving hum, and the lights were low, cast from a string of fairy lights tangled in the velvet-draped ceiling.
It was also full of people.
Her grip on her satchel strap turned vice-like. She’d told herself it would be smaller, more intimate. But clusters of people lounged on the vast landscape of floor pillows. A little girl in a dinosaur onesie was braiding another’s hair near the front. A man with a gentle smile was quietly adjusting the glasses of a young man clutching a plush octopus. Everyone looked so effortlessly inhabit of their space. She felt like a trespasser in her own skin, the floral sundress suddenly feeling like a costume.
“Hey.” The voice came from her left, a calm eddy in the current of her panic.
Marcus was leaning against the wall near the snack table, a paper plate laden with brownies in one hand. He was in dark jeans and a soft-looking grey henley, his gaze steady and familiar. He didn’t approach, just waited. The simple sight of him, solid and unsurprised, let her lungs work again.
“Hi,” she breathed, scurrying over to him as if pulled by a magnet.
“You made it.” He set the plate down. “Traffic okay?”
She nodded, unable to form a sentence about the fifteen-minute internal debate she’d had in her car outside. Her eyes darted around again. “It’s… busy.”
“It is. Good crowd.” He watched her for a second, then tipped his head toward the far corner. “I’ve got a spot over there. Back of the room, near the exit. Quiet-ish.”
He’d staked out a territory. A nest of pillows in a burgundy-blue heap, slightly apart from the main groupings. It wasn’t hiding, but it was a retreat. The careful consideration of it—for her—unlocked something tight behind her ribs.
“Okay,” she whispered.
She followed him, stepping over outstretched legs and abandoned juice boxes. He sank onto a large pillow with a sigh, his back against the wall. He patted the space beside him, not looking at her, his attention on wrestling the plastic wrap off the brownie plate. She arranged herself carefully, tucking her legs under her and setting the satchel in her lap, her fingers finding the worn leather and, through it, the soft shape of Button’s sock.
On the massive screen, the opening credits of The Emperor’s New Groove began to roll, the colors bright and slapstick. A ripple of happy murmurs went through the room. The overhead lights dimmed completely, leaving only the screen’s glow and the twinkle of the fairy lights.
For twenty minutes, Lily-Anne existed in a state of rigid observation. She watched the movie, she watched the other littles giggling at Kronk, she watched Marcus methodically eat a brownie. She was a satellite, orbiting the scene but not entering its atmosphere. Her shoulders ached with the effort of holding herself so still.
Then, during a quiet scene, Marcus shifted. His arm, which had been resting on his knee, came down along the back of the pillows behind her. He didn’t touch her. He just created a curve of space, an invitation. The warmth from his body radiated across the small gap.
Slowly, molecule by molecule, she began to relax. Her focus narrowed to the screen. A smile tugged at her lips at a silly line. She let her head lean back, just a fraction, until a few strands of her hair brushed the wool of his sleeve.
When the scene exploded in a chaotic avalanche—llamas screaming, buckets clanging—the sudden volume made her jolt violently. A small, involuntary sound escaped her throat, a bitten-off whimper of surprise.
In an instant, his arm was no longer just behind her. It was around her, firm and grounding, pulling her gently into his side. His hand came to rest on her far shoulder, his chin close to her hair.
“Just the movie, honey,” his voice murmured, a low vibration she felt more than heard. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Every muscle in her body, wound tight for what felt like years, went slack. She melted into the solid wall of him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if it were a custom-fit space. The satchel slid from her lap to the pillows. He was warm and real, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum under her ear, out-pacing the frantic comedy on screen. Safe. The word wasn’t a concept anymore; it was a scent, a temperature, a feeling of weight and surety.
She didn’t remember closing her eyes, but she must have, because the next thing she knew, the screen was bright and the credits music was playing. The room was stirring, lights coming up a notch. She was curled on her side, her cheek pressed against Marcus’s chest, one of his hands resting lightly on her hair.
She blinked, disoriented and deeply embarrassed. She pushed up, wiping at her mouth in a panic. “I fell asleep. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s movie night, not an exam,” he chuckled, his arm loosening but not letting go entirely. “You missed the popcorn intermission. Hungry?”
She nodded, her stomach answering for her with a soft rumble.
He got up, stretching, his back giving a faint pop. “Extra butter. Be right back.”
She watched him cross the room, exchanging easy nods with a few people. He looked so comfortable here, a part of the landscape. She tried to imagine bringing someone else here, someone from her past, and a cold shiver ran through her at the thought of their mocking confusion. But Marcus just… knew.
He returned with two overflowing red-and-white striped bags. The smell was divine. He settled back down, closer this time, and handed her one.
They ate in companionable silence, listening to the chatter around them as the next movie was cued up. She felt floaty, languid, the last edges of her anxiety sanded smooth. She ate one kernel at a time, until she had a particularly fluffy, golden piece pinched between her fingers.
On an impulse that felt both terrifying and utterly natural, she held it out to him.
He looked at the offered kernel, then at her face. His eyes, those kind, tired eyes, crinkled at the corners. He didn’t make a big deal of it. He simply leaned forward and ate it from her fingers, his beard brushing her skin, a brief, scratchy warmth.
“Good piece,” he said, his mouth full.
A giggle bubbled up out of her, sweet and unforced. The sound of it seemed to surprise them both. His grin widened.
The second movie was a blur of colors and songs. She remembered resting her head against him again. She remembered his hand, heavy and warm, on her knee over her dress. She remembered the feeling of his chest rising and falling, a rhythm that slowly pulled her under once more.
She woke to gentle motion. The world was dark, supported, and smelled like him and popcorn. It took her a groggy moment to understand—he was carrying her. One arm under her knees, the other cradling her back, her satchel hooked over his shoulder. She was curled against his chest, and he was walking through the now-empty, dimly lit back room toward the door.
“Shhh,” he murmured, feeling her stir. “Just getting you to the car. Go back to sleep.”
She was too drowsy to protest, too comforted to feel ashamed. She nuzzled her face into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Toolbox,” she mumbled, halfway to a dream.
She felt the chuckle rumble through him. “Tomorrow. Workshop tomorrow. We’ll finish the daisy.”
Satisfied, she let the warm, rolling darkness take her again. The last thing she was aware of was the cool night air on her legs, the secure, unyielding strength of his arms, and the soft click of a car door opening.