Despite only being together for less than a year, you always knew when Demi was lying to you.
"What's that?"
"Nothing," she said, pinning her elbows to her sides, hands clasped rigidly in front. You danced a little on the spot, trying to dispel the chill she brought in with her when she arrived home from the studio. She didn't even lock the door behind her as she usually does when she gets in, usually smiling at you as if to say: just us now; finally.
"It's not nothing. I can see it," you smirk now, pointing at the plastic folder poking out from under her jacket. "It's not another parking fine, is it?"
It's a risky move, but one you're confident she will take well. Since knowing her, Demi has received no less than three fines for unlawful parking and, despite the fact she's never actually driving the car herself, she always insists on paying them on behalf of Rick, her driver, as it is her who insists on making him stop directly outside the studio entrance. It's part of the reason why you adore her so much. And most of the reason why you're sure she will bear the jibe and throw another one right back at you.
Instead, she walks away.
"D?"
"It's not a parking fine," she grumbles, not even looking at you. You follow her into the kitchen.
"Okay?" you drawl out. "What is it then?"
She drops her bag on the table, keeping her back to you. You let another few seconds pass before you approach her from behind, reaching out to pinch her tricep which - usually - emits a squeal of surprise.
"Stop, Y/n," she growls, wrenching away from you. Immediately, you back off, hands in the air. She's never used that tone with you before and you can't help but start catastrophising every single vision of the future you've imagined for the two of you. You watch as her face flicks between frustration and regret before she eventually just shakes her head, moving past you out the kitchen again.
"D, what's going on?" you call after her, trying to keep the neediness out of your voice. "I'm sorry if I've done something to upset you...but if you could just tell me what it is...?"
You snap your mouth shut to stop yourself from rambling. Which is closely followed by the slam of the bedroom door upstairs. You look up to the ceiling of the kitchen, counting the number of downlights over and over until your eyes burn and you can no longer remember which one you started on.
Pulling yourself together, you pad slowly towards the stairs. Your hand grazes the bannister, the cuff of your jumper gliding over the polished wood, as you climb the steps one by one. You ignore the fist gripping your insides at the memory of when Demi asked you to move in. When the excitement of things moving forward, heating up, was simultaneously marred by the burning shame of bringing next to nothing to the relationship. Demi told you you were being ridiculous, on more than one occasion. You don't need to compete with the insane world of showbusiness and she doesn't want you to. She likes you being...normal. Average, in the best sense of the word. And you're already giving her so much already, more than she could ever hope for.
Right, you nodded. Yeah. And so you don't need to feel guilty when this whole thing falls apart and you move out and the paps frame you as some sort of freeloader who she finally saw through. It's not like there isn't a track record. One which she's implored you not to worry about.
You reach the bedroom door, not used to seeing it shut. There was never a need. You knock twice.
"Dem? Demi?"
Twisting the handle, you open the door a couple of inches, edging one foot inside.
"Can I come in? I just want to talk."
Nothing. Which, seeing as you're on the verge of losing everything, pulls you in further. You see her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at something in her hands. Her face is still, blank even. Unlike the usual animation you're used to when she gets home from work and is asking excitedly about your day. How you'll miss it. How you'll cope? You shake that thought out your head, focusing on the person who has illuminated your life for the past eleven months.
You shuffle over towards the bed, watching for any sign that she doesn't want you there. When she doesn't move, you slowly lower yourself onto the space beside her, feeling the soft cotton sheets under your thighs. Despite this, you keep your spine stiff as a rod. You see now, in her hands, is an unlabelled disk, gleaming inside a plastic wallet.
"Do you want me to go somewhere else tonight?" you ask in a low voice. "To give you time?"
She frowns, a look of genuine confusion. "What?"
"I can go to a hotel. Just until you feel able to talk."
That's it, take it nice and easy. No need for snap decisions that will see you permanently banned from her residence. There's another long pause until she finally responds.
"Why?"
"I just...I don't know, I just feel like you're wanting some space? Away from me?"
She's looking at you, that is, her eyes float in your general vicinity. But they retain the glassy quality of someone not really seeing anything.
"I don't want you to go," she mumbles, almost as if she's speaking another language. But you take it, all the same; your whole body sinks into the mattress, your spine folding over on itself.
"Okay," you breathe. Okay, good. "I'll stay." You drop your gaze to her hands, to the disk. "Do you...want to talk about that?"
That. That which you don't even have a name for. That which, for some reason, appears to have caused this whole scenario in which your stomach has fallen out of your ass. She runs her thumb along the edge of the plastic, leaving an angry red mark on her skin. You say nothing, do nothing.
"It's finished," she says, so quietly you almost didn't catch it.
"Finished?"
"The...documentary."
It takes your brain a second to catch up. The documentary? Yes, the documentary she told you was scrapped because of everything that happened in 2018. The documentary you heard was destroyed because of how irrelevant, how negligible the content now was, that there was no point in keeping it. The documentary she cried about - the first time she ever cried in front of you - because she hated to think how in denial she was at that point in her life. And you held her, blind-sighted by her sudden shift in mood that evening on Roe beach, whispering in her ear that that was then, and this is now, and things are different.
And you thought that was it.
"I thought," you begin, choosing your words as carefully as one picking their way across a minefield, "that you weren't releasing that documentary?"
She releases a puff of air from her nose, a sort of sad laugh. "We're not. It's a different one."
You press your knees together, pinching your hands between them. Immediately, you feel your heart pulsating in your thumbs. "Okay." Then, unable to decipher the answer yourself, "So, you made another documentary?"
She nods, wordless.
"And...and this is it finished?" you ask, pointing your eyes towards the disk. "This new documentary?"
If she thought you were being dense, she doesn't show it. She nods again.
"When did you even make this?"
She places the disk beside her, on the opposite side to you, and drops her head into her hands. "This year," she groans. "Just little bits at a time. When you were out. Or when I went to the studio."
This feels too much to process yet, at the same time, altogether unimportant. A new documentary. Okay. Filmed right under your nose. Okay. This year, almost the exact duration of your relationship.
Right.
"And is it...? I mean, I'm guessing it's bad? Like, it has to be bad...about us...or else you wouldn't be...you wouldn't be acting like this and...okay, I'm just trying to catch up 'cause..."
Word vomit. You stand, pacing around the room as if warming up for an Iron Man in which you are beaten, bruised, and electrocuted by the unexpected documentation of your current relationship, your dirty laundry caught on film. What if they went through your drawers when they were here? What if they made assumptions about the little notes you left on the fridge. They were all innocent, you swear, but sarcasm doesn't translate on paper, isn't that what they always say? What if Demi watched the whole thing back and realised how much she hates you? What if everyone else who watched it told her to get the hell out of there, that you're some sort of monster? You're sweating now, beads of the stuff squeezed out like ants all over your face. You barely even notice when her hands appear on either side, her forehead resting against yours.
"Y/n," she says, voice now strong and assured. "Y/n, it's okay."
You try to lean away. To shake your head and tell her it's fine, she doesn't have to explain, I'll grab my stuff and go. But she just holds you closer, one pinky finger hooked in the front of your shirt, pulling you back towards her.
"Shhh," she exhales. "It's not about us. It's nothing bad about you. I promise."
Despite feeling like you're trying to hear her through water, like you're trying to lip-read, you grab onto her words. You let her wrap her arms around you, swaying back and forth.
"I promise," she repeats, "That's not what this is. Not at all. I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you."
You breathe in deeply, breathe in her scent. Almost like a spell, it calms you as you let yourself be led back to the bed, shuffling further up the mattress until you're both lying, side by side.
"Really?" you croak. Now it's you who can't meet her eyes.
"Of course!" she exclaims as if the opposite is too outrageous to even consider. "What gave you the idea I didn't?"
You just shrug, not wanting to go into the effect her earlier behaviour had on you. Maybe you read this all wrong?
"I didn't mean to...scare you," she says close to your ear. "It was just a shock, you know? Seeing it there on James' desk. Ready."
"You haven't watched it yet?"
She shakes her head. "They asked if I wanted to do a screening. Like, with the whole team. I said I didn't think I was ready for that."
You purse your lips together in understanding, glad she made the right decision for her. Yet this is the woman who is always so ready to share, to be transparent with the world. And, up until now, you believed her to be completely transparent with you. What could be in this documentary that she is so wound up about watching?
"It's about everything after...that night...isn't it?"
She swallows. Yes.
"And other stuff," she says. "My recovery. They interviewed my parents and that. Friends."
So, everyone except me, you want to say. But you don't want to turn this sour. "Is Max in it?"
She takes a second before replying, almost for dramatic effect. "No. He's talked about. But he's not in it. I would have refused if they'd suggested it."
You're well aware of how decimated Demi's confidence was after she broke up with Max. When a mutual friend first introduced the two of you, you were led to a shielded area of a restaurant and threatened with an NDA by some security guy on the way out. It wasn't until Demi waved him off that he finally backed down. And she asked for your number.
She runs her fingers through your hair. "You're wondering why I didn't tell you."
You roll onto your side so that you're facing her. "I don't want you to feel like you have to tell me everything. You don't owe me that. But...yeah. I guess so."
"I wanted to keep you out of it," she says. "I wanted to keep you all for myself."
"Is that right?" you smirk, raising your eyebrows. What you don't do it reveal how, all at once, what you're really thinking is how much easier it will be for her to erase you from her life if you're not in her documentary that she spent a year making. She matches your smile, the one you've been yearning for, expecting, since you first heard the front door open this evening. Although, almost as soon as it appears, it fades.
"I'm just worried about watching it, you know? Re-living it all. Sorry, that's so dumb."
"No, it's not," you say quickly as she begins to turn away from you. "Not at all." You snake your hand down between you until you can feel her fingers between yours. "Do you want to watch it together?"
Her eyes snap to yours. "No. No, I don't want you to see it."
You nod quickly. "Okay. That's okay."
You don't know how to feel. On one hand, you always said you didn't want to get sucked into that part of your girlfriend's life. The press events, the small talk. The products endorsements. But here, now, being shut out completely from a whole section of her life, you feel...inadequate? Unworthy? As if you're not integral enough to share this moment with her. Maybe you shouldn't have taken as much of a step back in her recovery as you have. Maybe, when she said to leave it to the professionals, you should have insisted on coming to those appointments.
"Or maybe..." she starts, and you wonder, suddenly, how long she's able to read minds, "we could watch it. Together. Maybe."
"It's up to you," you smile softly, squeezing her fingers again. "Completely up to you. I don't want to make you feel pressured."
She thinks for another moment. "I do. I want to. If...if you don't mind?"
An hour later, you're beginning to realise why she was so insistent on you being out of the picture. To stop you from holding your hands up over your eyes, you tuck them further under your legs, unable to even glance at Demi who is curled up beside you.
You don't know what you were expecting. Perhaps some scrubbed clean, clinical account of the whole thing. The actual OD briefly mentioned, what you already knew from the newspaper articles, quickly covered by the accounts of how well Demi's been doing since. But when the digital sketches started scrawling across the screen, the voice of Jordan, of Max, of Dianna, you realised, all at once, that you know nothing at all.
The screen cuts to Demi's face, staring blankly. The real Demi, the one beside you, is still, as if she's stopped breathing. With every second that passes, you're wondering when they're going to stop. Surely they're not going to tell the whole story. Not the part about this. Not the part about that. But, with each new cut-away, each new sketch, this and that are revealed. It wasn't just the documentary Demi didn't tell you about. You look down at your lap, blinking fast. You don't even realise the volume turning off.
"Y/n?"
"Hm?" You lift your head, pulling your lips into a smile. Through blurred vision, you see Demi looking at you, examining. She looks away.
"I knew this was a bad idea," she murmurs.
"What? No!" you exclaim, rushing to take her hands in yours. "It's fine! I'm fine!"
"People don't need to know all this. It's too much."
"It's not! If you're comfortable sharing it, it's fine. It's good!"
"You can't even watch it, Y/n! You can't even look at the TV!"
"It's just--" you blurt, but realise she's right. "It's just a lot to take in. I...I didn't even know all this stuff. And I'm supposed to be your girlfriend."
"Supposed to be?" she whispers, frowning.
"I am. I am your girlfriend. I guess I just...I just thought you'd have felt comfortable sharing this with me before you shared it with the world."
"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry. It sounded more like: and?
"It's not a bad idea. It's fine. Press play," you say, pointing at the remote.
"No."
"Okay, then what do you want to do?"
"I want you to stop being so awkward! I want you to be supportive!"
"I'm being supportive!"
"Actually supportive, I mean. Not looking under every rock for a reason why I might be stabbing you in the back, or double-crossing you, or any of that shit."
"Sorry, Demi. I just figured this whole 'making a documentary without your knowledge, about things you know nothing about despite living together' was a big enough red flag. Forgive me."
"You're such a bitch," she growls. "I told you how anxious I was about watching it and this is how you behave?"
"For the last time - I'm not saying you shouldn't have made it, or even whether or not you should have included everything that's in it. It would have just been nice if you'd trusted me enough to tell me all of this."
"I'm telling you now!"
"You're telling me what you're telling the whole world! Which is fine! I respect that. God, Demi, the number of times I've commended you for sharing your story. But if I'm going to be your secret, what secret do I have? What is something that only I know?"
"You want something you can go to court with and sue me for."
"I want you to feel like you've got something to lose! Like I feel every time you're annoyed with me, or tell me you're meeting up with some new girlfriend from LA, or going out for dinner with the people from work! I want you to feel like this relationship is special and that you want to protect it. Sorry if that's selfish."
You're both standing now, and you didn't even realise when it happened. Your breathing is hard and fast, your cheeks hot. Your hands are balled into fists by your sides. Demi turns away from you, walking slowly towards the far wall but looking up at the ceiling. She does this when she's learned about a push back in release dates, or when a new press event clashes with a birthday party she had planned to go to. As more time passes, you begin to replay exactly what you've said, and begin to doubt how any of it was supposed to make things better.
"You're hot when you're jealous, you know that?" you hear from across the room.
"Excuse me?"
She turns, eyes dark, staring right at you. "You heard me."
"Demi, I--"
"Tell me again how you're jealous of the other girls I see."
"I don't--"
"Say it," she presses, moving closer. Soon enough, her hand is pressed against your chest, pushing you down onto the sofa. She leans down, lips on your face but not actually kissing you.
"I'm jealous of the other girls you see," you say robotically. Her hand scrapes through your hair.
"You want me all to yourself."
"I want you all to myself," you say.
"You want to bring this upstairs."
"I want to bring this upstairs."
You're disorientated, not solely because of what's just happened, but at the flash-fry argument you and your girlfriend apparently had half an hour ago. You shiver, cooling now, as you rearrange the white sheet wrapped around you.
Demi, beside you, blows out through her lips. "That was fun."
You don't reply, more so because you don't know what to say rather than any hesitation about saying it.
"I need to give James the go-ahead by the end of the week."
"And are you?" you ask, looking towards her. Her hair is messy and you dread to think what yours looks like.
"Do you think I should?"
You shrug, as careless an appearance as you can muster. "Whatever you want. I think it's good. I mean the production value must be off the scale."
Her hand slaps against your shoulder. "Stop being cheeky. I really want to know."
You exhale slowly, thinking. "Yes. I think you should. You've already seen how many people you can help just by being honest. Just by being you. I think you should be true to yourself."
She looks down towards the end of the bed with a smile. "Okay."
Then,
"You want to know a real secret? One no one else knows?"
"Sure."
"I've never felt as happy as I am when I'm with you."
You reach out, smoothing one of the many stray strands of hair behind her ear.
"Ditto."
Prompt from the lovely CarolCunha7! Sorry it took so long for me to actually write it 😅
Thanks to everyone who has sent me suggestions - I'm getting round to them!! ❤️
happ1ending