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December, 1988
The air inside the townhouse was thick with tension, the kind that had been building for months. Renée had been pacing the kitchen for the last hour, trying to calm her thoughts, but the sight of John lounging in the living room, cigarette in hand, flipping through yet another magazine, had pushed her to the edge.
She stormed in, arms crossed, her face a mask of frustration. “Are you ever going to stop this?”
John didn’t even look up. “Stop what?” he asked lazily, taking a drag from his cigarette.
“That,” she snapped, pointing to the magazine. “You sitting there, obsessing over her like some lovesick teenager.”
His eyes flickered to her for a brief moment before returning to the page. “You’re imagining things,” he said coolly, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
Renée’s voice rose, her anger bubbling over. “Don’t patronize me, John. I’m not blind! I see the way you scan those magazines, looking for any mention of her. I see the way you shut down after every encounter with her. You think I don’t notice?”
John slammed the magazine shut and stood, his expression darkening. “And what if I do? What’s your point, Renée?”
“My point,” she hissed, stepping closer, “is that you’re still obsessed with Valerie. You’ve never let her go, and it’s killing us.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he shot back, his tone defensive. “Valerie is in the past. Whatever you think you’re seeing, it’s not real.”
Renée let out a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the room. “Not real? John, you’re constantly keeping tabs on her, reading every interview, dissecting every photo. Even when you claim you’ve moved on, it’s obvious you haven’t. You’re lying to yourself and to me.”
John’s voice rose, matching hers now. “You think this is all about her? Maybe I look at those magazines because it’s part of my world, Renée! This is the industry I’m in. Valerie is just... part of that.”
