The Greatest Showman#1380 - forget me

Rooney Mara sat cross-legged on the ground, watching intently as Renly played the drums. There was no judgment in her gaze, just quiet observation.

After a grueling year of filming five back-to-back projects, Rooney had decided to take a well-earned break. The relentless schedule had left her drained, even making conversations feel laborious. Staying in New York, she immersed herself in the city's simple, everyday rhythm, free from the demands of work.

She and Renly occasionally exchanged emails—not texts, not calls, not handwritten letters, but emails. It was neither trendy nor nostalgic but had the air of formality found in professional correspondence. However, given Renly's response time, if this were an actual workplace, the entire project would have collapsed by now.

Last week, Renly had emailed her about attending a jazz concert at Lincoln Center with Damien Chazelle, Justin Hurwitz, J.K. Simmons, Melissa Benoist, and a few others. He asked if she'd like to come. Surprised by the invitation, she readily agreed. It was only afterward that she learned the concert was part of Renly's preparation for his new film, The Bursting Drummer.

To deepen the actors' understanding of jazz, Renly had generously covered the cost for the entire creative team to experience a live performance. Damien was thrilled—he had always wanted to attend such a concert but never had the budget to bring the whole team along. He had even sent Renly a heartfelt email of gratitude.

Learning about the project piqued Rooney's curiosity. What kind of film could reignite Renly's passion for performance? And after his long break, what was his current mindset?

Since Renly was rehearsing in Greenwich Village that afternoon, Rooney decided to drop by before the concert. She wanted to see his preparation firsthand, which led to this moment.

Dressed in a long black evening gown, she sat cross-legged on the floor, completely unconcerned about appearances. Her black heels lay discarded beside her, bare feet peeking out like a rebellious punk girl. She exuded a mix of elegance and defiance, her expression playful yet contemplative.

When Renly quipped, "Yeah? You feel it too?" she chuckled softly. "Do you want me to comfort you, or are you looking for validation?" There was no subtle teasing—just direct honesty, laced with amusement.

Renly shrugged, his expression nonchalant.

Rooney raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? A month ago, you knew nothing about drumming. And now, after just a few weeks, you're at this level? That's insane. Wait—" Her eyes narrowed. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you? To impress some poor girl who'll scream in admiration?"

Renly smirked. "Haven't heard any screams yet."

Rooney's lips curled into a knowing smile. She bit her lower lip, amusement flickering in her eyes. "I'm not just any girl."

"Exactly," Renly countered smoothly. "So why are we even discussing this? There's no one else here." His tone carried a subtle hint of mischief, the temperature in the room shifting ever so slightly. Their shared glances held an unspoken understanding.

Rooney finally relented, breaking eye contact. "I'm serious, though. I may not be an expert on drumming, but even I can tell you're already exceptional. The level you've reached in such a short time—it's incredible. But pushing beyond this? That takes years of practice. What are you aiming for?"

"Buddy Rich," Renly answered without hesitation.

Rooney's eyes widened. "Are you insane?"

Any jazz aficionado knew Buddy Rich was a legend, one of history's greatest drummers. Aspiring to reach his level in mere months was absurd.

Renly, however, simply nodded. "So you think so too? Me too."

He stood, walked to the corner of the rehearsal room, and retrieved a CD. Placing it in the player, he gestured for Rooney to listen. "This is Buddy Rich. His speed is mind-blowing, but that's not all..."

Without another word, he returned to the floor, sitting cross-legged beside her.

As the pure drum beats filled the room, the absence of other instruments—no piano, no saxophone, no trumpet—only heightened the richness of the rhythm. It was mesmerizing.

Rooney, born into privilege like Renly, had been exposed to fine arts from a young age. She knew enough about jazz to appreciate its nuances. As the music played, she stole a glance at him.

He had yet to change into formal attire for the Lincoln Center concert—where evening wear was mandatory. Instead, he remained in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, sweat glistening on his forehead. Yet, there was something captivating about his intensity, a passion that eclipsed everything else.

The absurdity of the moment struck her. One minute, they were analyzing drumming techniques; the next, they were sitting on the floor in a dingy rehearsal room, lost in music. Rooney, in an elegant evening gown, looked like a misplaced Cinderella at midnight. And Renly? He was still in rehearsal mode, oblivious to the time.

A small smile played on her lips. It was ridiculous. And yet, it was fascinating.

For six full minutes, neither spoke. They simply listened.

When the song ended, Renly stood and pressed pause. Instead of talking about the concert, he dove straight into analyzing the performance—breaking down the technique, the rhythm, the near-impossible control at high speed.

Rooney listened, then shook her head. "If you're trying to convey emotion, you have no problem. But technically? This level takes years to master. And let's be honest—you lack the natural talent for it."

Renly didn't argue. He nodded. "I don't. But Andrew does."

Rooney blinked, then laughed. "Fair point. I can't argue with that."

Renly grinned. "That's why we live out our unfulfilled dreams in movies." He paused, considering his own words. "Which, now that I think about it, makes actors kind of pathetic—forever chasing dream worlds instead of facing reality."

Rooney pondered this in silence.

Finally, Renly spoke again, breaking the reflective moment. "If I remember correctly, we should probably get going. I still need to grab something to eat before we head to Lincoln Center."

Rooney arched an eyebrow. "Oh, you just remembered?"

He smirked. "What can I say? Jazz is hypnotic."

She rolled her eyes, but there was warmth behind it. Rising to her feet, she slipped back into her heels. "Come on, dreamer. Time to face reality."

With that, they left the rehearsal room, stepping back into the real world—at least, for now.