Lies You Never Told Me(29)

“Make a wish!” Dad says, as the music comes to its robust finale. Vivi leans forward and blows her candle out in one sputtering breath. I absentmindedly join in the applause. I sneak another glance at Catherine and her father. They’re talking now, both leaning in over the salsa dish. His lips move quickly, angrily. She shakes her head no. He grimaces, slapping his palm lightly on the table.

“Gabe, yummy!” Vivi’s holding up a huge quivering spoonful of flan to my lips. Most of it ends up on my chin, but I make a big show of wiping it off with my finger and then popping it in my mouth.

“So yummy!” I say. “Boy, they’re sugaring you right up before bedtime, aren’t they? Maybe we should just leave her here. I’m sure the mariachi will look after her.”

She laughs and bounces in her seat.

I don’t risk another glance at Catherine’s table until we’re on our way out. She and her dad have their entrées, and they sit, unspeaking, picking at their food. I will her to look up at me, but her eyes remain resolutely downcast.

As I pass, her dad’s eyes narrow in my direction. I feel it like a jab to the ribs, sharp and hostile.

He doesn’t look away until I’m out the door.





FOURTEEN


    Elyse




“That was great, Elyse,” says Mr. Hunter. “Can we try it again?”

It’s Monday—the first time I’ve seen Mr. Hunter since the matinee. Since those few brief moments of contact. I’ve been counting down the seconds to get here. Desperate to be in a room with him, to be near him. To see if anything has changed.

Now I’m not sure why I was so anxious to see him. Because nothing has happened.

“Let’s start from ‘Come, night,’” he says. “And when Brynn comes in, let’s really slow down when she tells you Tybalt is dead. Remember, you think she’s telling you Romeo’s dead. It’s a big moment.”

“Sure.” I roll my neck back and forth, trying to release some of the tension in my shoulders. I step back to my mark and take a deep breath.

“Come, night. Come, Romeo. Come, thou day in night . . .” I meet Mr. Hunter’s eyes as I say the lines. I try to read any sign of desire in the curve of his mouth, the arch of his brow.

I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I’ve got a fever and I can’t really think straight—I can only tumble blindly from one fantasy to the next. One minute I’m sure that he knows how I feel, and that he feels the same. The next he’s giving me the same mildly friendly look he gives everyone in the play—dispassionate, detached.

But the way his hand lingered against mine, there in the dark of the theater . . .

“Oh, I have bought the mansion of a love, but not possessed it.” I step to the edge of the stage and reach out my hands beseechingly. “And though I am sold, not yet enjoyed.”

I think I see something in his eyes—a ripple in the water, like a fish I just missed seeing jump. But then he looks down at his clipboard and scribbles a hasty note. My hands fall back to my sides as Brynn hurries to the center of the stage, all aflutter with the news of Romeo’s banishment.

“Good!” His voice cuts through the scene. “Good. Elyse, you looked absolutely heartbroken there. That’s exactly what we want. That’s perfect.”

“Great,” I say softly. Perfectly and absolutely heartbroken. I think I can manage.

He gives out a few notes to other actors. I’m barely listening. I watch him put a hand on Laura’s shoulder; watch him grin at Frankie, dimples popping. I’m trying to see some difference in the way he talks to them and the way he talks to me, and if I’m honest, I can’t.

“Elyse. Hey, where are you?”

I come back to myself with a little jolt. Brynn’s standing next to me, knit cupcake scarf wrapped around her neck, jacket buttoned tight. “Sorry, what?”

“Do. You. Want. To. Get. Coffee?” she asks.

“I shouldn’t. I have work tonight,” I say. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Boo.” She scowls. “Your schedule sucks.”

“Yeah, well, my whole life kind of sucks, so I don’t know what to tell you.” I watch as Mr. Hunter bursts into laughter at something Frankie’s just said. All the moments I’ve mistaken for connection feel farther and farther away by the second.

She stares at me. “Are you okay?”

I take a deep breath and sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just tired. I’ve been pulling the eight-to-midnight shift to make ends meet while Mom’s out of work.”

“Hmm.” She doesn’t look convinced. I tear my eyes away from Mr. Hunter and try to focus.

“Really,” I say. “But it’s just a few more nights. I’ll be able to catch up on my sleep this weekend.”

“No you won’t,” she says. “You’ll be able to catch up on Mrs. Cowan’s ten-page Wuthering Heights essay.”

I groan. She’s right.

“See?” I say. “My whole life kind of sucks.”



* * *



? ? ?

I trudge home in the twilight, my backpack a heavy weight on my shoulders. A thin drizzle wets my sweater. Everything smells leafy and green in the rain, even in the traffic. It’s the smell I most associate with fall.