When Charlie skipped the curtain call, Nick knew she had seen the third row.
He spotted Charlie in the backstage hall, grabbed for her hand as she walked by, already apologizing. “I don’t know why she’s here, believe me.” But Charlie shoved him out of her way, pushing her hand into his chest, his heart, strong enough to slam him into the wall. Without even slowing down, she walked past her dressing room to the stage door and outside. The cast disassembling after their bows, the stagehands, the end of show chaos quickly engulfed him, erased him, and he couldn’t get to her. By the time he made it outside there was no trace of her.
Matteo caught his eye as soon as he came back inside, yelled from down the hall, “Nick, man, what the hell?”
“I know, it’s a long story. I have to find her.”
“Give her space...”
But Nick didn’t hear the rest. Over Matteo’s shoulder in the distance, Nick spotted Jasmine Beijao, being led backstage by Taylor. Nick ran in the opposite direction, weaving around apprentices, stage crew, and up the side staircase to the safe confines of his office. He locked the door and called Charlie. And texted her. And called her again. Each time it rang and rang. He left voice mail after voice mail. Apology after apology.
And then he made another call, to another voice mail box. “I never agreed to this, Taylor. You’re not the artistic director here. I am.” He hung up and threw the phone at his desk. He couldn’t remember the last time he had behaved as though this place was actually his. It was time.
A knock rattled his locked door, the knob shaking.
“Niiiiick? It’s me. Are you there?” Jasmine’s voice oozed. “We have sooo much catching up to do!”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He waited until she left, until the crowd flowing out of the lobby had died down, and then, just to be entirely sure the path was clear, he opened the window of his office and climbed out.
It was just half a story, eight feet max. But this wasn’t the sort of thing he did on a regular basis and he landed poorly, twisting his ankle, hobbling all the way back into town, to the house on Avon.
All around Ethan, the greenroom buzzed with the night’s gossip. “Jasmine Beijao!”
“OMG, did you see her?”
“OMG, did CHARLIE see her?”
“She was in the middle of the third row, who could miss her!”
“What is she doing here?”
But Ethan tried to ignore it. He didn’t want all the noise to bring him down from that high. He let Alex and the others go ahead, told them he would catch up on the apprentice bar crawl, though he wasn’t sure it was true. He just needed a few moments alone to fully absorb the charge of playing Mercutio opposite Charlie Savoy’s Tybalt tonight.
His pulse still raced. Battling Charlie was so unlike battling Chase or even Matteo, and certainly Danica. It required everything he had, every bit of fire in his veins, there could be no holding back with her. If not for the rounded tips, she really might’ve killed him. The adrenaline of that scene had been otherworldly, addictive. And, it had played out like all the best experiences in life: your body knowing what to do and your mind content to let it happen. He wished he could be killed by Charlie’s Tybalt every night for the rest of this run. For the rest of his life. It pained him that he knew of only one other night like this on the schedule. Charlie had passed him in the hallway immediately after, slapped him on the back. “Nice. You sure you’re not a professional fencer?” She kept walking before he could even formulate a “thank you,” but her praise meant everything.
He opened the stage door at last, stepping out into the clear night, shocked to find Sierra on the bench by the loading dock.
“I thought I missed you.” She hopped to her feet. “But I took a chance.”
“You waited. For me?” he asked, a pang in his heart. Tonight had broken him open, like a dial turned up so high he quaked from the feedback.
“I thought I’d give you the full groupie experience.” She smiled, holding out what appeared to be a photo. “Well, not the full groupie experience,” she corrected, embarrassed. “But you know what I mean. The partial groupie experience.”
He laughed. “I’m honored. Either way.”
“Glad to hear that because—” she waved the photo as they began walking to the dorm “—I couldn’t help but notice, in my important, vital artistic work tonight, that you didn’t sign any of these.”
It was the cast photo autographed by the four main stars. He shook his head. “Oh man, I’m lucky they even let me into this picture.” He remembered the day of the shoot: trying to draw as little attention to himself as he could, feeling completely unworthy of his place in that group.
“You think I’m kidding but—” She uncapped a Sharpie. “I’m totally not.”
He looked up from his feet long enough to be ensnared by her bright, sincere eyes, which shone on him in a way he couldn’t deserve but felt lucky for. “I can’t believe you’re making me deface a perfectly nice picture.” He took the Sharpie, scribbling an arrow to himself and a message.
“See, is that so bad?” she joked, then read aloud, “‘How’d this guy get here? Thanks for running lines with me, best scene partner anyone could hope for.’”
He tried not to blush hearing his own words.