Forcing myself not to think, I cut us off from each other on every social media account I have. It’s not like she won’t see me or have opportunities, but maybe now realization will set in that I’m serious.
She’s not good enough for me.
A knock hits my door, and before I can look over, Army peeks his head in. “Tickets?” he asks.
Tickets?
Oh, the play. Oh, shit. How did I forget that? I’m only an understudy, so I won’t be performing, but I made the costumes, and Army and Iron like to be supportive. I quickly check my missed-call list to make sure there’s nothing from Lambert.
“On the desk,” I tell him.
He steps in and finds tickets for all my brothers. I get one for everyone, even though only two or three of them ever show up.
I don’t see anything from the theater director about performing tonight. I would’ve loved it if Callum kept his word, but on the other hand, I’m kind of glad he’ll now be off my back.
I look up to Army. “You don’t have to come.”
“We want to come.”
I smile coyly. “Dallas doesn’t want to come.”
“Dallas will be a pain in the ass until the day he dies.”
Yeah.
Army plops down next to me, a full head-and-a-half higher than me, and I don’t bother to strain my neck looking up.
Digging something out of his pocket, he hands me a key on an old ring.
I take it. “What’s this?”
I examine the silver key that looks vaguely familiar.
“Call it Macon’s belated birthday present,” he says.
It takes me a minute, and then I remember. “The Ninja?”
The bike he bought when he was in the Marines and had only himself to support. He hasn’t driven it in years, though. It’s been in the garage under a tarp.
“I thought you’d be jumping up and down,” Army says when I don’t smile or do cartwheels over finally having my own transportation finally.
“When do I ever jump up and down?” But I smile. “Why didn’t he give this to me himself?”
“Because you know why,” he retorts. “And don’t thank him. He’ll just get pissy about it.”
I chuckle as he slides off the bed. I’m pretty sure he’s right.
So instead, I tell Army, “Thank you.”
He winks at me and leaves, taking tonight’s tickets with him.
I stare at the key—my key to my very own bike—remembering what Clay felt like hanging on to me that time she rode with me.
My phone rings, and for a split second I close my eyes, the urge to answer too much to deny.
But then I remember, I blocked her number. It’s not her.
And then it occurs to me… Ms. Lambert.
My heart kicking up speed, I answer the phone. “Hello?”
“Olivia?” Lambert says. “Hi, it’s Jane. I need you to come in now.”
My stomach sinks just as an electric charge warms my blood—dread and euphoria hitting me at the same time.
“On my way,” I almost whisper and then hang up.
He did it. I’m on stage tonight.
I’m playing Mercutio.
A text rolls in, and I look down, reading.
Congratulations. I can’t wait to see your performance.
And my mouth goes dry, Callum’s double meaning of ‘performance’ hitting me like a steel rod to the kneecaps.
• • •
“I wanted to thank you,” a voice says to my right.
I look up, seeing Lizbeth, our Juliet.
She steps forward. “I was so over the old costumes,” she says. “Every little girl wants to be Juliet with her romantic hairstyle and princess dress, but…you know.”
“Shit changes.”
She breathes out a laugh. “Yeah, exactly.”
We stand backstage, a whirl of activity up and down the hallway as people rush to get their makeup on, repair last-minute tears or lost buttons, and pace back and forth, practicing their lines. I lean against the wall, trying to get my head straight. Trying to push Callum and Clay to the wayside for the next two hours, because this is my time. I’ve begged for this for four years, and I’m not going to let them take it.
Lizbeth’s gaze falls down my body, taking in my gothic, black coat and black leather pants and boots. “Now I’m kind of wishing I was Mercutio.”
“Yeah, me too.” My heart won’t stop racing, and I feel sick. I can’t seem to channel him all of a sudden. God, I’m nervous.
She smiles, much cooler than me, but she’s been on stage several times before. I need to do this no matter how much I’m dreading it, though. How can I expect to do this for life?
“Well, break a leg,” she tells me.
I smile tightly, too afraid I’ll puke if I talk. She passes by in her black jeans and flowing, white peasant’s blouse, a black military jacket with gold buttons covering it, and her hair spilling down her back. I wish I could’ve rewritten the script like I rewrote the set and costuming, but that was a fight for another day.