Page 16 of Ripped

The bag of peas is getting a little mushy in my hand. If nothing else, I should stick it back into the freezer. I can bring my laptop down to the kitchen and try to do some work. There was that huge window down there that might be nice to sit next to.

I navigate carefully down the stairs, bag of peas in one hand, my laptop in the other. Between the bottom of the stairs and the kitchen is a living room with a comfy-looking sectional and a large gas fireplace. Then a formal dining room that has enough seating for ten. The kitchen is sleeker than I remember from yesterday. A big island runs down the middle, separating the cooking area from the casual dining table we sat at last night.

And the windows. Which are actually massive sliding doors that open onto a patio. There’s a barbecue sitting in one corner and a set of stairs that lead down into a backyard. Holy shit, Donnie has a backyard. It's not huge and it’s kinda messy with the last remnants of winter, but it’s there. Whoa.

This house is no joke. Spin instructors don’t make that much money, do they? Maybe Roger had a well-paying job. From the looks of his office, probably something in management, probably something important. Damn.

I hesitate while tossing the peas back into the freezer, not sure if Donnie really wants to eat them now that they’ve been on my foot. I put them in anyway. He can throw them out later if he wants. I settle at the table, facing the window and the bright sun that’s shining through it. Donnie’s left the WIFI password and his phone number on a slip of paper for me.

The second my computer connects to the internet messages start pouring in. Ding, ding, ding. They’re syncing automatically from my phone and every last one of them is from Miles or Wyatt. I cover my face with my hands, but it’s too late. I’ve already gotten a glimpse of them and they’re all, “it’s not what it looks like,” and “we can explain.”

“We.” Like they’re a unit and I’m the outsider. Like they’re a team and I’m the one breaking them apart. I slump down in my chair and drop my head back to stare up at the ceiling. It takes forever for the fucking ding-ing to stop.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Okay, I can do this. I have to do this. The sooner I get it over with, the faster I can get on with… I don’t know, the rest of my fucking life. My heart is in my throat and my hand trembles as I swipe my finger across the trackpad. I fist the fabric of the sweatpants just to have something to hold on to, like it can keep me from getting swept away by Miles and Wyatt’s bullshit.

And it is all bullshit. The messages from this morning are more, “where are you,” and “we’re worried about you.” Yeah, well, if they’re so fucking worried about my well-being, maybe they should’ve kept their fucking dicks in their fucking pants.

There are a couple messages in the group chat with my cousins. Mostly memes that aren’t really all that funny. And then there’s one that makes me stop and curse.

Wyatt: Check your email. They want to interview us for the grant.

Jesus fucking Christ on a stick.

I pull up my inbox and find the email Wyatt forwarded to me. It’s from a film production grant we applied for months ago. Thirty thousand dollars to young, queer filmmakers for a cutting-edge project. It was a long shot when we applied for it and I honestly didn’t think we had a chance.

But here it is. An invitation to move on to the next phase of the application process. An interview with the granting committee to talk about our vision for the project and how it’ll further queer filmmaking.

My jaw is on the floor. I want to cry except I don’t know whether they’re happy tears or sad tears. This is… huge, like fucking ginormous. I should be jumping up and down and shouting at the top of my lungs. This is as far as we’ve ever gotten with grants like this—it might be the furthest we ever get.

I push away from the table and pace over to the window.

The thing is, Wyatt’s not just my best friend from film school. He’s my creative partner too. We collaborated on almost every film project we had at school and we’ve been working together ever since graduation. I’m the creative genius. Wyatt’s the business wiz. Together we were going to make quirky independent films and then take the world by storm.

But now…

Now, I don’t know if I can stand being in the same room as him. I don’t even want to see his fucking face. How am I supposed to go to an interview with him, put on a smile for film industry bigwigs, and pretend that everything’s still hunky-dory? I can’t. I just can’t.

I bang my head against the window and the coolness of the glass sends shivers down my spine.

If this interview doesn’t happen, there’s no grant. No grant means no film. No film means I’m right back where I started—worse off than where I started. At least back then I had a creative partner, a dream, and a plan for how to get there. With Wyatt out of the picture, the dream starts getting hazy and the plan is null and void. Making films without Wyatt was never an option. I’ve never contemplated having a career where Wyatt wasn’t an integral part.

This city is filled with wannabe filmmakers who think they’re going to be the next Martin Scorsese or Stanley Kubrick or Francis Ford Coppola. Most of them never actually produce a film, they never see their names in the credits, they barely get close to a film set. Wyatt and I are supposed to be different. We’re supposed to go places, do things, and become respected members of the industry.

This grant is supposed to be the first step.

I don’t know what to do. It would be idiotic to throw away an opportunity like this and I don’t want to throw it away. But I don’t know how I’m going to keep working with Wyatt either. I can’t trust him. How do I work on something so important with someone I don’t trust?

I glare at my computer and the mess that waits for me on it. I can’t deal with it right now. I need to get out of my own head.

The stairs leading down to the basement are between the kitchen and the dining room and it’s calling out to me. The theater room is down there and Donnie said—explicitly—that I could use it. At the very least, I can check it out.

I close my laptop and take it with me downstairs. There’s a small hallway with three open doors. A bathroom. A gym with a wall of mirrors, a treadmill, and a full set of weights, mats, and exercise balls. Then, the theater.

My jaw hangs open as I stare. The room is tiered like an actual movie theater, except instead of fold-down seats, there are plushy recliners and a couch. A projector is mounted to the ceiling and beside the door is an alcove in the wall with all the controls. This isn’t some random dark room with chairs and a TV. This is a legit theater.

It doesn’t take me long to get my computer hooked up to the system and even less time for me to find the movie I want to watch.

Kill Bill Vol. 1. Uma Thurman and Lucy Liu in an all-out battle of blood and gore. It’s the best revenge movie of all time and Quentin Tarantino at his best. It’s exactly what I need.

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