In Harmony(34)

“Awesome,” Justin said. “I live in Emerson Hills, too. About three blocks down from you.”

“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”

I walked up to where Martin and Isaac were talking. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to say thanks again for having me. Justin is going to give me a ride home.”

Now you know where I am and whose car I’m getting in.

Isaac slung his hands in his pockets and gave me a blank look as Justin joined us.

“Wonderful,” Martin said. “Brotherly love in action. Have a great night and good work, you two. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Thanks.” I started to go, then turned to Isaac. “Bye.”

His chin moved imperceptibly up and down, but he said nothing.

Like a text that says No, thanks and nothing else.

Justin and I headed downstairs.

“Brotherly love,” Justin said. “Martin takes this stuff so literally.”

I smiled faintly through my pressed lips. My entire body was stiff and when we stepped into the bracing cold night, my muscles bunched together tighter, drawing my shoulders up to my ears.

Justin led me to his shiny black, Ford F150 in the parking lot across from the theater, and held the door for me on the passenger side. Stiffly, I climbed in and was a bombarded with Justin’s scent—cologne, leather and the air freshener tree hanging from his rearview. He kept his truck immaculate. There was nothing in it to fear, but when he slid his large form into the driver seat, my heart took off at a gallop.

Calm down calm down calm down.

I put on my seatbelt with shaking hands.

“Cold?” Justin said. “The heater should get going pretty quick here.”

He let the truck idle for what felt like an eternity, and then finally began the drive to our neighborhood. He chatted easily the entire time, not seeming to notice my one-word answers to his questions.

“This is me,” I managed when he pulled on to my street. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He parked and glanced up at our huge white house. “You don’t have a car? I can give you a lift every night after rehearsal if you need it.”

“Thanks,” I said, climbing ungracefully out of the truck. “Great.”

I practically ran for my front door as if chased by a serial killer, my keys fumbling in the lock, unable to breathe until I was inside. The warmth wrapped around me, thawing my stiffened muscles a little.

Mom was sitting in the living room, a glass of wine in one hand and an interior design magazine in the other. HGTV’s House Hunters was on the flat screen TV. A young couple was wandering through a beach house, complaining mildly about everything.

“How was rehearsal?” Mom asked.

I stared. “You said you couldn’t pick me up every night.”

“And you said you’d find a ride.”

“Because you said you couldn’t pick me up.”

She sighed and turned a page. “Willow, after a long day I’m not going be up for traipsing through the cold at eleven at night. If you can’t get there and back, then you shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t do it anyway. So silly and of no use to your college applications. Anyway, you clearly found a ride.” She glanced up at me. “Please tell me it wasn’t with that Pearce boy your father warned you about.”

I turned and stormed upstairs, her voice calling me back and then letting me go. I slammed the door to my room. The constricting cold squeeze from sitting in Justin’s truck had worn off, but I knew a night terror was going to get me. I could feel it at the edges of my consciousness, like a dark shape snickering and whispering.

I changed into my pajamas and bundled myself on the floor in my comforter beside my stack of books—strategically placed next to me—a makeshift wall of better stories than mine. As I drifted to sleep, I had the foolish belief they’d protect me.

But the pressing weight and choking lack of air came that night anyway. When I finally could draw air to breathe, I cried and cried.





Isaac



Of course, I thought, watching Willow leave with Justin Baker. That’s how it should be.

“Isaac.”

Martin nudged my arm. Too late, I yanked my gaze from Willow’s retreating form. Martin kept watching her head down the stairs, then turned back to me, a small smile on his lips.

“So. Willow Holloway.”

“What about her?”

“She’s going to make a fantastic Ophelia, won’t she? She’s nervous and a little stiff right now, but she has so much raw talent. In Act Four, we turn her loose.” His eyes gleamed as he waved at cast members as they filed out. “It will be magnificent.”

I agreed, but the thought made my stomach twist. Willow’s raw talent was born of something deep and dark. I witnessed it in her Woolgatherer audition. I recognized the heaviness in her eyes because I had it too. Loss and pain pressed down on her. She pushed through it with small smiles and a tough facade that wilted the second she turned away.

Willow was here for the same reason I was: to find some relief. To tell her story. For the first time in a long time I felt nervous about a performance, only it wasn’t my own.

“I don’t know, Marty,” I said. “It might be too much for her. Too difficult. I mean, because she’s so new to acting,” I added quickly.