“Too many things can go wrong,” I said, my voice suddenly dry. Somebody shut me up before I gave away just how unbelievably anal-retentive I truly was. Too late. “The actors can forget their lines. The backdrop can . . . fall apart.”
I even sounded neurotic to my own ears.
He grinned knowingly. As if he had me figured out. And I probably already told him too much. From this point on, I’d just have to have faith that he wouldn’t make fun of me.
But he had told me some personal things as well. So maybe it was about mutual trust.
After he hammered a nail into the wood, he said, “But theater is where all the magic happens.”
I replaced the lid on the can of stain and reached for a rag to wipe my hands. “What kind of magic?”
“When things are spontaneous—that sensation of something happening that’s so unexpected you feel it dead center in your chest—your heart is pumping hard, your stomach starts buzzing.”
He made it sound so enticing. Still I wasn’t buying it. But the way his lips moved over the words gave me this warm and strange twinge in my chest. He looked so alive and animated. I almost wanted to experience that, too. Almost.
“Sounds dreadful,” I said, and he laughed hard in that unreserved way that made me feel light-headed.
“You should try it sometime,” he said, reining in his amusement. “Being spontaneous, that is.”
“Maybe,” I said, circling the wood to catch the light for flaws.
He stared hard at me, finger brushing his chin, puzzling away at something. “Wouldn’t you consider your outfits spur-of-the-moment?”
“No way,” I said. “I plan what I’m going to wear the night before.”
“Of course you do,” he said with a twitch to his lip.
God, how pathetic was I? So basically I’d just made myself sound like some tragic spinster girl who sat at home watching old movies and deciding with great effort what clothing to lay out for myself for the next day.
I was about to tell him I was done for the night so I could go home and lick my wounds.
But then he got this solemn look in his eyes. “You’re kind of like a canvas that needs to be studied.” In order to prove this point, his eyes scaled painstakingly slowly from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, catching every last nerve ending on fire.
“Your lips and eyes and how you style your hair—even down to those sexy heels you wear.”
My lips trembled as he stepped closer.
“You’re like a work of art.”
Normally I’d think he was making fun of me, but his gaze seared straight through me as he moved nearer still. I could feel my breaths flying out in fluttery whispers and I tried to tamp them down.
His fingers reached for a stray piece of hair that had come loose from my vintage barrette and he gently moved it behind my ear. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Truth or dare?”
And I didn’t know what it had been—my mood, our closeness, how we seemed to bridge the gap between us by sharing personal information, or the beginnings of my undeniable attraction to him—but I stared him dead in the eye and said, “Dare.”
He looked momentarily dumfounded before relief washed over him, relaxing his features. As if I’d said the one thing he’d been dying to hear.
And then as though maybe I would change my mind, he gripped my arms and said, “I dare you to go see a theater performance with me.”
“Um . . . sure,” I said, relieved it was something that needed to be planned, tickets to be purchased. My head was not screwed on straight in that moment. “When?”
“Right now.”
chapter six
Chloe
It’d been a long time since I let a guy lead me anywhere. But there we stood in front of a tiny lopsided playhouse that looked like it might collapse in a heap at any moment.
“I think you’ll love it,” Blake said, clutching my elbow and steering me to the ticket window.
I looked around the dreary and deserted streets and wondered just who in their right minds would want to come to this theater. “What is this place?”
“It’s a different kind of live theater,” he said almost in awe. “It’s amazing. You’ll see.”
He led me through doorway into a very dark room, and next thing I knew, I was being jostled by this crowd of people milling around and looking toward the ceiling. No seats to be had, it was standing room only, and I felt very out of my element. Nervous about what I was about to experience. “Can’t you at least give me a heads-up?”
“There’s no way to describe it.” His eyes were glowing with excitement. “You just have to experience it.”
But as soon as the first trapeze artist came floating down from the ceiling quoting Shakespeare, I was utterly mesmerized. For the next hour these thespians-artists continued to impress me with their capabilities of swinging, tumbling, and hanging upside down all while reciting their lines. My heartbeat was erratic, my cheeks were flushed. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before, and truth be told, I loved every minute of it.
Blake moved us into the far corner against a wall. He stood behind me, as if in protective mode. I felt safe with him, but also completely turned on. I could feel the heat of his body and I welcomed every nudge or bump—whether by accident or on purpose, I didn’t know.
Regardless, I wanted more of it. As he explained what was happening above us, his hot breath fanned against my neck and then in my ear, and I longed for his lips to drift across my skin.
It’d been ages since I’d had this kind of feeling about a boy. Every time his fingertips came in contact with my body, my skin broke out in a fresh trail of goose bumps.
At the end of the performance, he gave me a heads-up that the artists were about to spray water into the audience and then his hands formed a shield to protect my head. But in a daring move that came from some other girl trapped inside me, I slipped from beneath his shelter. Not because I wanted to get away from him, but because I had this undeniable urge to be free, bold, alive.
I held out my arms and turned my face to the ceiling as water splashed down upon me. It was shocking and liberating and it helped douse the flame burning me alive from the inside. When I looked over my shoulder, Blake was grinning, his eyes wide with astonishment.
We spilled out of the theater in a sea of people, laughing and joking and wet. Well, at least I was wet. Blake only had a few beads of water in his hair. For the first time in forever, I realized I hadn’t even looked over my shoulder to see if I recognized anybody from campus or from my mother’s circle of connections. Regardless, nobody I hung out with would go to such a place off the beaten path.
“Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Blake asked, almost tentatively.
I grinned. “It was pretty great.”
Suddenly I wanted to know more about him. Much more. “Do you miss it?”
His steps faltered. “What?”
“The stage,” I said, feeling bold again. “I could see it in your eyes—the way they lit up.”
“I do miss it, but I don’t stress about it,” he said in a low voice. “Because I know I’ll be back . . . someday.”
I liked his optimism. He didn’t hang on too tightly to one emotion or idea, it seemed. Given his family situation, he probably needed to be ready for the unexpected. I could use a similar lesson. My life felt too scripted—too suffocating—and though there had been a time that I’d reveled in that security, lately I felt too molded in place. Too pinned to plans. Too damned much under my mother’s thumb.
The only thing I could look forward to was breaking away next year. Even the idea of that scared the hell out of me. Would I really go through with it?
Maybe next year, there would be room for a boy like Blake, when I’d be venturing out on my own in a new city and trying to make a life for myself. I had Blake to thank for showing me what I might have to look forward to—but I knew I needed to wait until the time was right. Because now? The time didn’t seem right, for either of us.