Work Text:
Spring 1982
“Ruth, it’s me,” she calls, as she lets herself into the apartment. “I’m coming in. So, if you’re naked or doing something weird… put your clothes on.”
Ruth is, in fact, sitting on her bean bag in front of the television. She has her notepad in hand, still chuckling to herself at Debbie’s ridiculous herald of entry. “How’d it go?”
“Terrible.” She flops down onto Ruth’s mattress. “I’m thinking of getting some, like, little googly eyes. I could put one on each boob, you know? Since that’s what they’re going to stare at anyway.”
Ruth laughs again, in spite of herself. “I was going to make coffee, but you know what? This sounds like a box wine kind of story.”
“Oo, box wine. You know, the life of a jobbing actress is every bit as glamorous as advertised…”
She props herself on one elbow as Ruth goes to pour them both a glass. Well, Debbie gets a glass. Ruth’s wine goes into a mug with a teddy bear on it.
“Cheers.”
“Here’s not to Paradise Cove,” Debbie toasts.
“May they live to bitterly rue the day they didn’t hire you.”
“Mmm.”
There’s still a chance they might offer her a call-back, she almost says. But it’s easier to commiserate together now and be surprised later, rather than hold out pathetic hope. She takes a swig of her terrible wine instead.
“Ruth?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that..? Um, is that my shirt?”
“Oh, um…” Ruth runs a self-conscious hand down the silky fabric. “Uh, maybe, actually. I think you left it here that time after Tim’s mixer… I’m sorry! Do you mind?”
“It’s fine. It looks good on you, actually.”
Ruth smiles, almost coy, in response. “You wanna stay over tonight? We can… watch trashy movies?”
“Ooh, and maybe later we can get really wild and split a pizza?”
“I mean, that sounds good to me,” Ruth beams.
And to me, Debbie doesn’t say. She raises her eyebrows and downs her wine instead.
And to me.
Spring 1986
She puts her key to the lock of the cramped little room and knows a brief moment of deja-vu.
“Ruth?” she calls as she enters their space. “If you’re naked or doing something weird—”
“You are the one who’s practically a naturist,” Ruth returns drily. She’s sitting at the desk, feet up, script in hand.
“What is that, homework?”
“Yeah,” Ruth returns. “But I’m almost done…” She dots an I and fastidiously crosses a t, or so Debbie imagines, before putting down her pencil. “So. How’d the meeting go?”
“I don’t know. Not… exactly terrible.”
“You wanna tell me more about if over some dinner?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure I can face Vegas this evening.”
Ruth nods. “Alright. I mean… I like room service too.”
She smiles, almost coy, and nostalgia washes over Debbie once again. Only these days the cringe and cower is gone; the Ruth that turns hopeful eyes up at her a better match. “Oh, thank God,” she says.
Ruth rings the kitchen while Debbie takes a shower, scrubbing away the grit and grime of the day job. She emerges flushed pink, hair in a towel, boyish shorts and—
“Isn’t that my shirt?” says Ruth.
“Er, no. Just because you stole it in the first place doesn’t make it—”
“I take it back, I take it back,” Ruth laughs, holding up her hands. “Food is on its way.”
“Mm,” says Debbie, coming to sit beside her on the bed. “I mean you can.”
“Can what?”
Those big blue eyes, looking up at Debbie from under Shirley Temple lashes. An invitation, she thinks. What happens in Vegas stays, after all, within these four walls.
“Take it back,” she says, and kisses her.