Читать книгу Some Days Are Diamonds - Stephanie Surma - Страница 6

On the following Friday, Elle got to the theater almost two hours before her usual call time of five-o-clock, called in by none other than Greg himself. A call from Greg wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, but they were only three weeks into the ten-week run, and auditions for the next show weren’t until next week. That could only mean a crisis— and if Greg had a crisis, Elle had a crisis.

The moment she walked in the door, she could feel something was off. “Greg?” House lights were already up, which wasn’t unusual if someone beat her there, but the stage lights were also up, which was highly unusual. Elle reached the tech booth door and peeked into it. “Greg?”

“Elle!” Greg, a portly, dark skinned man in a classy navy suit, smiled the moment he saw her, bouncing on his toes just outside the booth window. “Just the young lady I wanted to see.”

“I kind of figured that when you called me in,” she told him flatly, but— as was their routine— went to hug him anyway. He seemed to need it, practically vibrating at a low level as his arms came around her waist.

Inside the booth, Ben was sitting on her stool with mics already started, and loitering beside him was Hank, a wiry college kid with a red face and a ballcap. In Ben’s chair, a greasy looking man with thinning yellow hair and aviator sunglasses turned to leer at her.

“Elodie,” Jim drawled, by way of greeting.

“Jimothy,” she replied, her disdain for him loud and clear in her voice. Jim scowled at her, but she ignored him, one hand still lingering on Greg’s shoulder. “What’s the panic? You sounded upset on the phone.”

Greg didn’t exactly smile. It was really more like a grimace. The second Elle stepped away, he pulled a dark red handkerchief out of his breast pocket to wipe it over his brow. “Sarah’s still out sick.”

Right, Elle thought. Poor Sarah had caught the plague, as they liked to refer to illnesses in the theater. She had been hoarse as a frog last Friday, and out the following two days. “So, Bridget tonight?” Although, Elle mused, Bridget had been a little rusty herself, last night. Elle glanced back at Ben, who was decidedly not looking at her. “Are we going to run the lifts? Logan and John were right behind me—”

“I know you’re incompetent, Elodie, but Greg wouldn’t have called me in with both Hank and Ben here, if you were gonna be in this booth.”

Instantly, Elle’s entire body went tense. She turned her gaze onto Jim with the most patronizing expression she could manage, and said, “So, two weeks ago, you just, what— turned into a corn stalk backstage?” She gave a reflective hum, looking him up and down. “Explains why they were crooked.”

Jim’s face went red. “I—”

“Bridget called in,” Greg cut in, before they could continue to bicker.

That got Elle’s attention. “What? Oh no!” Oh, shit, they’d have to refund a whole load of people. “With the same thing?”

Greg nodded. “I could barely hear her. She was crying something awful.”

“Poor thing!” Elle put a hand on her chest. Behind her, the theater doors swung open, and John and Logan strolled in. “Hey, Bridget and Sarah are both down for the count.”

“Oh, shit,” Logan said. He stopped at the threshold with his hands on his hips. “Well, I guess I can finally play Laurey.”

John nudged Logan further in, until they were both standing with Elle in front of Greg. “If you say I’m playing Curly, I will quit,” he said, his face and voice both devoid of expression.

“You’re Jud, actually.”

“I stand by what I said.” Logan swatted at John, breaking his stoic facade into a smile.

Elle snorted. “I think you’re safe, big guy,” she said. “Logan looks sallow as a blond.” Despite Logan’s dramatically offended expression, she smiled patiently at Greg. “So what’s the plan?”

Behind her, Ben coughed, the sound noticeably forced. When Elle glanced back at him, he looked like he’d rather sink into the floor than look at her. Hank was right there with him, scratching the back of his head and staring at the ceiling. Jim sneered at her, his feet propped up on the table.

Elle narrowed her eyes, and slid them back to Greg.

“Well, Elle…” Greg meticulously began to fold his handkerchief. “You’ve done the show before. You know all of the lines. You practically put this show together with me.” He waved his arm up and down at her. “You’ve even played Laurey. You could do it.”

Elle blinked. Her mind was surprisingly blank. Probably a side effect of the shock that was rapidly replacing all of her other emotions. “You want me to what.”

“Just until one of them is back!” Greg said. “It’s only one show tonight, you’ll be fine.”

Elle looked Greg up and down. She’d known him for years, now; ever since he took over the theater from the last director. He’d talked her into joining the theater while she was in college. She’d done several shows with him, at this point. She’d even been known to fill in for dancers after she switched to tech a couple of years ago, anytime he asked.

Besides, he’d seen the terrible YouTube video of her as Laurey in high school. She’d drunkenly forced him to watch it when they were deciding on this season’s lineup, so it wasn’t like she could deny knowing the show. He was right— she knew the show so well, she could step in for Curly if she really wanted to.

Except that she didn’t want to.

“No.” Decided, Elle spun on her heel, fully intent on walking out of the theater. Maybe she could go get lunch before—

“Oh, please, Elle,” Logan said, looping his arm around her waist and swinging her around to face the rest of the group again. “You haven’t performed in ages , and you’re so good.”

“I can’t remember the last time you were actually in a show,” Ben supplied, propping his arms on the counter, and his chin on his joined hands.

“You stay out of this,” Elle snapped at him. “And it was Bye Bye Birdie , two years ago, thank you.”

“God, no wonder you stopped,” John muttered.

“I miss performing with you,” Logan continued, his best puppy dog eyes trained on her as he propped his chin on her shoulder.

“We wouldn’t even interact!” Elle said. She shoved him gently off of her and turned for the door again, only to find her way solidly blocked by John.

“I’ve actually never performed with you,” he said, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, because you spent two years performing at the Opera House uptown instead of here with me,” Elle reminded him. She’d had enough of this. “Look, I’m sure any of the girls would be ecstatic to take over, but—”

“I told you she’d flake,” Jim cut her off.

Silence fell. It was as though the entire group had collectively sucked in a breath and held it, waiting for her response.

Elle turned, very slowly, to face Jim. She could feel heat spreading up her chest and into her face, not from embarrassment, but from sheer rage. It coiled in her throat like a cat about to pounce. Her voice, however, was deceptively soft and even. “Say that to my face, Jimantha.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing you in a lead,” Jim sneered, leaning forward over his propped up legs toward her. “High school doesn’t count for shit.”

Her anger went icy cold.

Logan opened his mouth, probably in an attempt to defend her, but Elle grabbed his arm and squeezed. Hard. The rest of the men were, wisely, silent, waiting for her reaction.

Eyes slitted dangerously, she slid her gaze back to Greg, then beside herself, to Logan. “How fast can you get my dance bag and my makeup and get back here?”

Everyone exhaled in unison. “Thank god,” Greg muttered, wiping his brow again.

Logan’s lips curled into a smug grin. “Give me half an hour.” With that, he turned on his heel and sailed back out the door, nabbing the car keys from John’s outstretched hand as he went.

“God bless you, Elle,” Greg said, reaching for her hands. Elle let him take them, pressing both to his lips in reverent gratitude.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said after a moment, shaking her hands free from his grip. “While you grovel, I have a last minute costume to pull together.” Greg, at least, had the decency to look sheepish. Elle threw a look over her shoulder at John. “You should go get ready while I find myself something to wear. I wanna run scenes when we’re both set.”

“Why not wear one of the other girls’ costumes?” John asked, following her.

Elle made a disgusted noise. “And catch the plague?”

He grimaced. “Fair point.”

They crossed through the empty kitchen into the back half of the theater, across the hall from the green room, through the servers’ break room with its enormous TVs and scattered, cheap table and chair sets. In the back of the break room was an extra door, and beyond it—

“Welcome to Narnia,” Elle said, staring at the enormous room full of racks upon racks of clothing. “Ever been back here?”

John looked like maybe he’d rather be anywhere else, staring at the racks like they might suck him into the mass of fabric, never to be seen again. “Once or twice.”

“They don’t bite, I promise.” She turned a sweet smile to him, then went back to surveying the room. So much junk had been crammed into such a small space. Hat and shoe boxes lined an entire wall, so high they almost reached the ceiling. The other wall had almost the same amount of boxes, filled with wigs. Poor John stood out like a sore thumb, with all of the racks almost half his height, not even as tall as Elle.

It occurred to her, like getting hit in the face with a brick, that she’d actually be performing with John. She’d have to dance with him, to talk to him, to—

Her shoulders tensed. She’d have to kiss him. And not just once, nor in a sweet romantic way.

Oh, no. Oh no. She’d never— she didn’t— this was—

God, they were friends. If anything, that should make her feel better. He would never do anything to intentionally hurt her, and the scenes where they— where he had to—

“Right,” he said, clearly doubtful. His voice jolted Elle from her brain’s panicked rambling, and she shook herself, forcing her focus onto him just as he gestured over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go get ready. Yell if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Elle waved him off, and then faced the room as a whole. She’d personally organized this room two years ago, and since then, it had fallen into chaos. Kind of like what her mind was doing right now, thinking about— about everything.

Definitely about that kiss.

Yikes.

“Right,” she said into the empty room, her voice strangely loud in the solitary silence. “We’ll just— deal with that later.”

God, her mind was racing. There was so much to think about. Lines, songs, choreography, costumes. Rubbing her hands over her face, Elle ran through the costume basics— she’d need a wig, and some underpinnings, before she did anything else. Best to start with that, then.

Not bad, she thought, once she had the wig in place, about fifteen minutes later. The fluffy, honey-blonde bangs and sweeping sides did a great job of hiding her hairline. Once she dolled up her face, it would look close to natural. It hung in fat sausage curls down below her shoulders, a little heavy, but nothing a few extra pins couldn’t handle. Or, actually, she thought, grabbing her purse, one of the enormous claw clips she kept for her real hair.

It was certainly a look, she decided on her way back out, regarding her reflection in the mirror. The only things she had so far were her corset, bloomers, tights, and boots, all in white. It wasn’t even the weirdest look she’d sported in this theater. Wild .

No sign of Logan yet. Elle strolled back into the costume closet, humming through one of her songs. She needed a dress for most of act one, a party dress, a wedding dress, one for the dance sequence. There was a dress she’d seen in here a few months ago that—

“Hey, Bridget.” Elle jumped at Davy’s deep Southern drawl, whipping around toward the door as he came through, in his usual flannel and jeans. “Greg said—” His eyes found her amidst the sea of fabric, and he faltered. “Oh. ‘Scuse me, Ma’am.” He looked around at the racks, like he was considering getting to her to greet her properly, but apparently thought better of it and lifted a hand to wave at her instead. “You must be covering for Laurey tonight. I’m Davy, I’ll be—”

“Davy,” Elle cut him off, trying desperately not to laugh. “You have known me for two years. I’ve been giving you a mic every weekend for the past month.”

Davy’s smile dropped. The shock on his face was downright comical, as was the way he blatantly looked her over. “Elle?”

Laughter swelled in her chest despite her best efforts. “Did Greg forget to tell you?”

“He said he wanted me early to run some scenes,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “I figured he wanted me to practice the lifts with Bridget, since she keeps doing the thing—”

“Where she just doesn’t jump?” Elle nodded. “Yeah, that drives me nuts. Is it better or worse than launching Sarah into the catwalk?”

Davy shrugged. “Six in one, half-a-dozen in the other.” He had yet to stop looking her up and down like a swimsuit model. It would have been uncomfortable, except Elle had the sneaking suspicion he was trying to find her amidst all the period-clothing and blonde curls. “You look…” He cleared his throat, looking at his feet. “Blonde looks nice on you.”

“Thank you.” Elle felt herself blush, touching one of the curls that slipped forward over her shoulder. “Listen, I’ve still got costumes to find,” she told him, gesturing to the room at large. “Give me, like, ten more minutes, and I’ll come out to run scenes, okay?”

“Sure thing, Ma’am.”

“Elle,” she reminded him, smirking, and then went back to browsing the racks.

“Right.” A beat, and then, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, as long as you don’t mind me not looking at you.” Not that she’d be able to see him from where she was headed, anyway.

“You just moved in with John, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Weird question. “He and Logan gave me a room when my ex-roommate pulled a fast one on me.” And in the week since she’d moved in, they’d already created a routine between the three of them, one that felt natural and steady. She was honestly pretty floored by it— but then, that was Logan for you. Always trying to make safe spaces for her. “Why do you ask?”

“Just heard it through the rumor mill.”

Elle hummed a response and ducked behind one of the racks, which proved to be filled with several bright pink monstrosities. “They’ve always been really good friends,” she said, when nothing else came to mind.

“Y’all have known each other for awhile.”

“Yeah, since college.” She could almost see Davy now, as she worked her way back toward the front of the room, not finding anything resembling the dress she wanted to find.

“That’s mighty kind of them, taking you in.” Again, Elle hummed her answer. Davy was silent for a moment, and then—“Miss Elle?”

Elle sighed— eventually, she would find her damn dresses— and turned to Davy with a droll expression. “Drop the Miss, and then ask me whatever you want to ask.”

Davy swallowed, nodded, and then swallowed again. “M—Elle, would you… um… would you go to dinner with me?”

“I—” Elle blinked at him stupidly, as his words slowly sunk in. Clearly, she’d used too much hairspray to set the wig. It was ruining her brain cells by the second. “What?”

Davy had exactly the look of someone who had made it all the way to the vet and then realized they’d left their pet at home: some mixture of horror, shock, and embarrassment. Clearly, he was just as surprised at his question as she was. “Um...”

“Like…” Elle intertwined her fingers in front of herself, flexing them nervously. She found she couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds at a time, her eyes dancing sideways as she worked through his words at a snail’s pace. “Like… a date?”

He ducked his head. “Um. Yes, M—” He caught himself before he could call her Ma’am again, and cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Well. That had come from nowhere . Davy barely even spoke to her on a regular basis. He was just so shy . Though, perhaps that was the reason behind his shyness… he liked her.

Wild.

“I’ve been…” Davy was having trouble looking at her, too. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but I didn’t know if you were…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Elle could pretty much guess one of the several things it could be. Straight , for one, since theater people were notoriously not— though, honestly, she had no particular preference. Not that he needed to know that. Single was probably another, except the only people she consistently hung around outside of work were her roommates, Ben, and Haley. Logan was gay, Ben had a girlfriend, and John… well, he clearly wasn’t interested. They’d been friends for ages, and he’d never made a move.

Dinner. It wasn’t a marriage proposal. Just a nice date with a nice guy from work. Besides, it wasn’t like she was getting any other offers right now.

Davy shifted on his feet, visibly uncomfortable. “You don’t have to—”

“I’d love to.”

They both spoke at once, and Davy cut off sharply with a strangled noise.

What she’d said appeared to sink in after a few seconds of him just staring at her. “I— really?”

Apparently. Elle smiled at him, and nodded. “Really.” Maybe this show would be… testing the waters, or something. Not that she could put stock into how he treated her in character, but maybe it could help her put him into perspective a little easier.

Oh, god, she thought suddenly. She’d have to kiss him, too. Though at least with Davy, the kisses were supposed to be loving, happy moments in the show, and not—

Gah. She was overthinking this.

“Oh.” Poor Davy looked so relieved, Elle almost laughed at him again. Pretty flattering, really. “Okay. Uh, how about… next week? Tuesday?”

“Sure— no, wait, Little Shop auditions are next Tuesday.”

Davy frowned. “You’re auditioning?”

“No, I’m stage managing, but I’m on the casting committee.” She bit her lip, running through her schedule in her head. “Wednesday?”

He smiled. A real smile, which showed the dimples in his cheeks. It was actually pretty attractive. “Alright, Miss Elle. Wednesday.”

“One condition.” Davy’s face fell at her tone, but Elle wasn’t feeling particularly serious. Her lips twitched at the corners as she said, “You stop calling me Miss Elle or Ma’am .”

“Can’t do that, Ma’am,” Davy said— and, she realized from his sly smile, he was teasing her. “It’s in my blood.”

Elle rolled her eyes at him. “Yeah, yeah, Tennessee blood, and all that.” She waved him off. “Go get yourself ready; I’ll be out in a little bit to run scenes.”

With a nod, Davy left her alone to her sea of costumes. Elle sighed, her heart fluttering in her throat with… excitement? Anxiety? She wasn’t sure, really.

Still. A date. She hadn’t been on a date in… god, years . Since college. For the past two, at least, she hadn’t wanted to deal with Gina’s reaction, or trying to explain anything regarding her apartment situation to a potential lover. Though now she had roommates who, so far, actually seemed to like her, and to enjoy living with her. People she was comfortable spending time with.

Speaking of, Elle thought, finding— at long last— the dress she’d been looking for on one of the racks, crammed into so much taffeta and tulle she had to fight to get it out. She should probably tell the boys that she might, potentially, have a…thing. A thing going on, with another man. Logan, she knew, would be ecstatic about her developing a social life beyond work, but John… who knew what he’d say?

God, the thought of him being upset with her about it— or, worse, annoyed by it— made her heart stick in her throat.

“Hey, Doll, Davy said you were back here?” Logan’s voice preceded him; he breezed in with her pink dance bag over his shoulder, scanning the racks to find her. “Sorry I took so long; there was an accident up the—” The moment his eyes landed on her, his jaw dropped. “Wow!”

Elle felt heat rising in her cheeks and chuckled, touching the side of her wig gingerly. “It works, right?”

“Again: wow.” Logan gave her an approving nod. “Girl. I’m shook.”

“Thank you.” Elle wiggled the dress by her face. “You’re just in time to help me finish finding dresses.”

“Ooh!” Logan dropped her dance bag by the door and began to work his way in toward her. “I know exactly what I want you to wear for the party scene.”

“Of course you do.” While Logan wiggled his way over to another rack, she held up the dress she’d found. “Do we like this one for act one?”

“Isn’t it one you donated?”

Well, yes, Elle thought, but that hadn’t answered her question. It may have been hers once, but it wasn’t like she was going to wear it anywhere outside of the theater. The thing went down to her ankles, white cotton dotted with red and blue flowers, trimmed with yellow ribbon. The pillowy sleeves went to her wrists and cuffed there, and the collar was high and lacy.

Not exactly high fashion, unless it was early twentieth century America. “I’m going with it.”

“At least you know it will fit.”

“And come off easily for Many A New Day.” Though, why Greg had decided to have Laurey change in that number, when she just had to change into yet another dress later in act one, was beyond her. “Isn’t there a gray dress from Wizard of Oz I can use after that?”

Logan huffed a dry laugh. “Somewhere. How about this for your party dress?”

Elle looked up as pale lavender checks became visible over the rest of the costume hoard. The front had a bib-like structure, dainty lace encircling the neck and wrists. When he turned it for her, she grinned at the big, matching bow snapped to the waist. “I love it.”

It took them what felt like another year to find the other dresses she needed, though it was probably no more than a grueling five minutes. Time seemed to be slipping away from them faster than Elle could keep track of it, and she still needed to run blocking.

“I think that’s it,” Elle said, finally freeing herself from the confines of fabric.

“Finally.” Logan came out of the clothing wall beside her and looked her over. “God, John and Davy are going to have a stroke when they see you dressed like that.”

She snorted. “Davy basically did. He was in here talking about running scenes before the show.”

“I bet.” Realization lit up Logan’s face, brightening his eyes. “You have to kiss him!” He draped an arm— the one not holding half of her costumes— over her shoulders. “You gonna be okay?”

“I mean he’s already asked me on a date,” Elle announced with a shrug. Logan’s jaw dropped. “So at least he’s covering his bases.”

“Girl, when?” Logan demanded.

“Just before you got back.”

Logan pulled away from her, putting a hand to his heart in mock distress. “And that wasn’t the first thing you told me?”

“I was preoccupied!” She pushed into the green room, finding the ancient leather couches still empty. What a relief. “Besides, I have to kiss John, too, and you don’t seem too hung up on that.”

“He never actually kisses the girls,” Logan says dismissively, a comment that made Elle frown. Logan, of course, didn’t give her a chance to ask about it. “Girl, back up to the Davy thing. I need details!”

***

“Oh my god. You’re blonde. ”

Haley breezed into the cramped little dressing room like a summer storm, her makeup and hair already done as usual. “You’re awfully early,” Elle noted. They still had a good hour until call time.

“Greg called me in to practice with you.” Elle watched her, a human tornado, as she dropped her purse under the vanity beside Elle’s, fell into the next chair over, and placed two mic packs on the vanity between them. “When Ben told me to bring your mic back, I just about died. I’m so excited!”

“Thanks.” Elle sighed at her reflection in the vanity mirror. “How do you do that, with your makeup? I look like a clown!”

It was true and there was no denying it. Compared to Haley’s effortless, natural olive complexion, Elle looked like an escaped mime. Or maybe a ghost with blue eyelids.

“It’s all about blending,” Haley said, spraying down her braids with Aquanet. As Elle regarded her makeup brushes with increasing panic, Haley sighed. “Lord, Elle, you’ve been off the stage for too long.” Shaking her head, Haley capped her hairspray can and set it down with clatter. “Here, let me help you.” She snatched up a sponge and began to dab at Elle’s face, holding Elle’s chin firmly in one hand. Elle tried not to grimace as the sponge stretched and smooshed her skin. “Where’s Logan? I thought for sure he’d have put you together already.”

“He’s giving John stubble,” Elle mumbled, despite Haley smearing her face beyond recognition.

“What’s John need stubble for?” Haley asked. “He’s perfectly yummy the way he is.”

Was he? Elle attempted to shrug. “I think that’s the point. The stubble makes him look rugged, or something.” Elle scrunched up her face as a brush sent powder up her nose. “Bleh. We’re running scenes as soon as you’re done mutilating my face.”

“Oh, hush.” Haley leaned back to observe her work. “You’ve been practicing your lines, right?”

“Haley, at this point I could do this entire show by myself.”

“Fair.” Haley nodded, apparently pleased with the outcome. “You’re all set, sweet pea.”

Elle looked in the mirror, turning her face from side to side. Everything was smooth, just a hair more defined than her natural makeup. “God bless, I don’t look like a French whore from the nineteenth century.”

Haley snorted. “My work here is done.”

“Wait, not yet!” Elle stood, gesturing to the gaping zipper of her dress. “Could you zip me, please?”

A moment later, assembled and with her dance shoes in hand, Elle stepped back into the still deserted greenroom. She’d been in the sound booth for so long, she hadn’t really seen it since they’d redecorated. The vanity along the back wall had new lights, though the clutter of donated stage makeup was the same as always. The leather couches had seen better days, maybe back in the nineties. Above one of them was a bulletin board filled to bursting with pictures and newspaper clippings from their shows.

One newspaper article caught her eye, and she grinned, bending over to read the text below the picture. Elle Williams, “Chava”. From when she’d done Fiddler on the Roof. It was one of her favorite pictures of herself, a candid snapshot of her reading on the set during their downtime, in full costume.

“Hey, have you seen—”

Elle straightened to face John when she heard his voice. He stared at her, lips parted, and… did nothing. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was struck dumb by the sight of her.

The thought was just ludicrous enough to bring a smile to her face. “Hi. Ready to go?”

“What?” John’s gaze snapped up to hers. He seemed to shake himself from wherever his mind had wandered. “Oh. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, and then moved past her to open the door, holding it for her. “You look… pretty.”

“Thank you.” Elle flashed him a grateful smile as she strolled out past him. “I prefer being brunette, though.”

“Dark hair suits you better.” She didn’t know what to make of that, or how to respond, but he thankfully didn’t give her a chance. “You nervous?”

“Not really,” Elle said, and meant it. They still had plenty of time before the rest of the cast would even get here. They could run practically the entire show before they even opened the dining room to guests.

As she climbed the stairs into the wings, she caught sight of Davy waiting, checking his props. He looked over at her as she approached and smiled. She waved back. “Ready, Davy?”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded over her head at John, then gestured for her to lead them out to stage.

“Elle, you look stunning.” Greg’s voice boomed from the narrow pit, where he stood with the only two people he could apparently bring in early: Tommy, a bald, hooked-nosed pianist, and Anthony, a grinning, heavy set banjo player with enormous square glasses.

“Thank you,” Elle said, and then waved excitedly at the musicians. “Hi, guys!”

“Welcome back,” Anthony said. “You’ve been off the stage for too long!”

“She’ll stay on it, if I have my way,” Greg said. Before Elle could protest, he waved his arm at the stage. “Alright, start from Laurey’s entrance— actually, Davy, your line before it— and we’ll go from there.”

***

He had to kiss Elle.

He had to kiss Elle.

John locked himself in the men’s room and started to pace. They’d just finished the run of the first act, which had been a combination of Greg lamenting Elle’s refusal to audition and Elle muttering her lines while John or Davy herded her around like a sheep. Or, in Elle’s case, it was more like herding a cat. The dream sequence had been right out of a horror story, what with John having to manhandle her the entire time, to sneer and snarl at her like some sort of deranged, rabid dog.

He didn’t even really get to kiss her, either. Just one aggressive, villainous lip lock, and then otherwise, he basically just buried his face in her neck or against her chest. Really, a lot of antagonistic, one-sided action.

Oh, god. He needed to talk to her. Ask her if she’d be alright with him pawing at her like a bear. She was so tiny, and he was a monster in comparison, so big he could easily hurt her if he wasn’t exceptionally careful.

God, she’d hate him after this, if he didn’t take care of her.

He had to talk to her.

John stalked out of the men’s room, fully prepared to pull her aside and double check with her about all the ways he was probably about to traumatize her. He was headed back toward the green room when he happened to glance through the stage door, catching sight of her standing backstage.

With Davy.

John could see them through the door to the back of the stage, just on the other side of the glass windows. Elle was smiling, that sweet, heart-melting look she gave people she enjoyed being with. He’d been on the receiving end of it once or twice, and it was her baseline expression whenever she was with Logan, but Davy? He barely even talked to Elle, let alone saying anything worth getting that look from her.

The man was practically on top of her, too. Close enough to—

Oh. Oh.

John immediately felt like an asshole. Of course, Davy would need to talk to her. He had to actually kiss her. She had to pretend to be in love with him. And he—

Well. From the look on his face, he wouldn’t need to do much pretending.

The thought put a bitter taste in John’s mouth.

“Hey, John.” John turned sharply away from watching Elle and Davy and tried not to glare at his roommate. Logan merely raised his brows. “You good, buddy?”

“Yeah,” John lied. “No problems here.”

Logan’s eyes slitted, and then roamed over John’s face. “You wanna try that again?”

Not really. But this was Logan, and one way or another, he’d get the truth eventually. Even if it meant getting John shitfaced and then nagging at him until he spilled his heart out like a heartbroken teenager. No use putting it off.

“What’s up with Davy?” He asked, jerking his head toward the doors.

“What, you mean with Elle?” Logan shrugged. “She seems pretty okay with it. I didn’t even realize he had a thing for her.”

“No kidding.” Do not scowl. Do not move your face. Stay completely calm.

“Still, she seems excited. She hasn’t dated anyone in years ; not since Gina went off the deep end about her having people over and spending time with anyone that wasn’t her. How she managed to live with that for three years, I’ll never know.”

“God, Gina sounds—” John’s thoughts cut off like a scratched record. “Wait. Dated?”

“I know, right?” Logan shook his head, almost in a disapproving way, but he was smiling. Weird, weird, this whole situation. “Bold move, asking her out before the show. As though she wouldn’t be nervous enough.”

John couldn’t feel his face anymore. He was grinding his teeth so hard they’d crack any moment.

“Though she seems like— John?” John swallowed, fully intent on answering— whenever his voice came back— but Logan gasped, realization dawning. “Oh my god, she hasn’t even told you yet, has she?” He clapped a hand over his eyes when John mutely shook his head. “Great, now I’m the shitty best friend.”

“I’m sure she won’t mind,” John mumbled. Maybe he should sit down.

“It’s not my news to tell.” Logan glared at him. “Don’t tell her you know. She’ll hate that. Make sure she’s the one to tell you before you talk to her about it.”

“Why would I need to talk to her about it?” John snapped. At Logan’s utter lack of reaction— save a singular raised eyebrow— he closed his eyes. “She’s a healthy, consenting adult. She can do whatever she likes.”

“You have got to be the most air-headed man on this earth,” Logan told him.

John laughed bitterly. “Apparently.”

With a sigh, Logan patted his chest. “Don’t worry, big guy. Things will work out.”

What things? John wanted to ask, but he knew. Logan knew. The waitstaff passing them to go set up knew. Chef Rossi definitely knew. Everyone who had ever seen John probably knew.

Everyone except Elle.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t talk to her. Not right now. Not feeling like this.

It was… fine. It was really...fine. He’d just talk his way through act two with her in a few minutes, and then during the show, he’d do his best not to get too handsy while still giving a decent villain performance. Maybe when this weekend was over, he’d even manage to be able to look at Elle without his brain cells evaporating on him.

But probably not.