It’s 1:40 by his phone when he walks into the back office. He changes into his Regal Cinemas shirt, tucks it into his jeans, pins on his name tag. Shoves his long-sleeved T-shirt and hoodie into his locker. His manager, Norma, walks in. She’s in a good mood. She’s always in a good mood. She’s somewhere in her sixties—“You kids don’t need to know exactly how old”—and is working because she likes it. Her husband is retired military, and he’s been driving her crazy at home, so the job at the theater and her two grandkids keep her out of the house. Claims the movie theater gig has saved her marriage. She sees Jessup, starts telling him about her granddaughter’s dance recital. Jessup smiles and nods, pretends like he’s listening.
Deanne comes in, says “Hi,” puts her car keys in her coat and then her coat in her locker. Norma, oblivious to how fragile Deanne looks, says, “Oh, I’ll head out into the lobby, give you two lovebirds a few minutes before your shift starts.” Norma imagines herself a matchmaker, thinks it’s “adorable” that Jessup and Deanne are an item; since she found out, she’s been scheduling them so their shifts line up, start together, end together. Jessup likes working for Norma. Everybody likes working for Norma.
As soon as the door closes, Deanne crumbles. She’s not gulping in air, but she’s crying hard. Jessup freezes. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, and he’s relieved when she moves to him, presses against him. That makes it easy for him: he knows enough to know that he’s got to put his arms around her, hold her tight.
“I just—” she tries to say, but chokes up. She gathers herself. Still crying, but she can talk: “I just, I got all these texts, and Megan called me and she said that Kristen was at the party and she said that you and the running back from Kilton Valley got into a fight and this morning they found his body and—”
“Hey, hey, no,” Jessup says. “Just hold up.” She has her face cradled between his neck and his shoulder. He feels like he’s pretending to be an adult.