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I ran my hand over my face, gargling obscenities, and jotted down the same note for the fourth goddamn time. Tess was still stepping all over everyone's lines, Christian was barely off book—making up lines and jumping back and forth in the story, and Sam was still trying to be bigger and better than everyone else on stage and it looked tacky and distracting.
I often wondered why the fuck I thought directing would be a suitable career choice. Fucking actors.
I bit my tongue, though, really wanting to get through this run without interruptions. That way I could really tear into them, what with all my pent up aggression.
"Why can't any of you hit your mark, Jesus fucking Christ?" I grumbled to myself, underlining the note.
"Perhaps it's because the world isn't ready for a socialist production of Death of a Salesman."
I smirked as Lenore took the vacant seat next to me in the audience. "It's not necessarily socialist. Arthur Miller definitely meant this play to be a critique of capitalism, though."
"Just like William Shakespeare intended Romeo and Juliet to be a story about two guys in love, right?"
"Hey, that was a brilliant idea, and we were sold out every single night."
She smiled sadly and scratched her long fingernails into the hair at the nape of my neck. I failed miserably at not shivering. "It was brilliant. Like most things that happen in that overactive, guarded brain of yours."
I gulped, training my eyes back on the rehearsal I was supposed to be running. "I can't really talk right now, you know."
"I know." She sounded so resigned and disappointed. So unlike the Lenore I met two years ago. "I just knew you were scheduled to be in here: every Monday, right? And—I don't know—I wanted to make sure I hadn't made the entire thing up or something. At this point, it would almost make more sense."
I squirmed, hating that she was so blatantly honest all the time. Hating that I couldn't seem to grow the ovaries and face Lenore head on.
Instead, I ignored her until she got up and left, keeping my eyes trained on the show.
Shit, I was an asshole.
The rest of rehearsal went about as poorly as the start, and by the time they finished stumbling through the run of the show, it was nearly 1:30 in the morning. After promising to e-mail out my notes, and a seriously regrettable outburst that made Tess cry, my cast rushed back to their homes and left me to make sure the black box theater was going to be presentable for whatever class that would be inhabiting it the next morning.
Shitty bike was waiting for me outside like a trusty, rusty steed. Dammit. I was still hoping someone would take it.
Also waiting was a post-it note from Lenore: can we get food sumtime? You can't avoid me 4ever. ;P
I carefully peeled it off the handlebar and shoved it into my bag, a heavy sigh bursting from my lungs.
She was probably right, but I was betting I could keep it up a little while longer.
###
It had been four days since I had run into Clare at The Cat's Pajama's.
Four frakkin' days and I was still reading the same, single text message over and over again. It wasn't like I was looking for hidden messages or subtext, it was just…I thought I'd never see her again and then suddenly she swooped in out of nowhere. And one text message was the only proof I had that she existed—close enough to touch—out there at the fringes of my world.
But I was too nervous about what it would mean if I were the one to text her. I didn't want to push, and I didn't want to come on too strong. I figured if Clare was serious about us seeing each other again, she'd initiate it. And if not…well I would have to deal with that.
But, shit, it was tempting to push my limits.
"You're such a lovesick puppy." Ricky, toothbrush hanging out of the side of his mouth, leaned against the doorway to the bathroom and watched with his head cocked as I typed Clare a message, deleted, and tried typing again.
"I swear I can hear him thinking sometimes when I'm trying to sleep." J.J. offered, switching his attention between his blank sheet music, his keyboard, and me. He had been amused to find out that I was obsessing over an old high school flame and had taken to teasing me about it at any opportunity. "Oh, Clare, our love was one for the ages. Why did you ever leave me?"
"I hate you guys." I reminded them sullenly, propelling myself off the futon. I made sure to slam my bedroom door as hard as I could, but the walls were thin and I could still hear them giggling like school girls.
As soon as Ricky left for his ballet class, the only sounds penetrating the wall were J.J. tinkering with melodies on the keyboard and that, at least, I could work to.
Settling into a flow fairly easily, I continued to work on my play. I needed to have a solid first draft to turn in by the end of the month, and I had been suffering from some serious creativity-block of late.
After a little while, my phone started to buzz on my nightstand. Since the words were coming quickly, and that was a rare joy, I ignored whoever it was in favor of working. Eventually, though, my stomach's growling started to sound like a garbage disposal, and I couldn't hold off anymore. Saving my progress, I slid off my bed and checked my phone.
Mom: How's the show coming along ? So excited to see it and you!
Dad: u lil shit, y haven't u calledin weeks
Clare: Hey you, my internship let out early for once. Interested in getting a caffeinated beverage, my treat?
I did a double take, my heart leaping into my throat. She had sent that an hour and twenty-six minutes ago. Ignoring the other messages, I quickly typed a reply to Clare.
Eli: I was writing. Any chance this offer still stands?
I started pacing the room, my anxiety spiking as I waited for her to reply.
Fucking Christ, what was it about this woman that made me go all crazy middle school romance? I had been with other girls, no big deal. I could be suave and collected and not drive my car into a building every time they rejected me.
Why did she have to be the one so talented at unraveling me?
Hands shaking, I sat back down on the edge of my bed and started to breathe deeply, counting the seconds of inhalation and exhalation.
Okay, yeah, good. Calm. Everything was fine. I was fine.
Clare: You are a lucky man, Eli Goldsworthy. The due date of my lab report was pushed back. There's this bookstore/coffee house a few blocks from my apartment called Scribbles. Meet me there in thirty?
I was so invested in her reply that the knock on my door sent me jumping out of my skin. "Goldman, everything alright in there?"
I opened the door, and J.J. immediately gave me a once over. "Look, if you want to have sex, let me be clear…I really like my nipples played with and I'm going to need you to be okay with that."
J.J. cocked an eyebrow at me. "And if you want to have sex, all you have to do is ask."
"Noted. Everything is fine. In fact, I was about to head out. Don't wait up, mom."
"Hey, no need to get hostile. Usually pacing and mumbling is a sign that your anxiety is peaking. Excuse me for being concerned."
Noticing J.J.'s we-have-to-talk-about-this-now face, I sank back onto my bed. "Clare texted." I explained reluctantly.
"And you, what, immediately lost your shit? Did you ever think this may be a bad idea?"
I bristled even though it was a perfectly valid conclusion to draw. "I can take care of myself, okay?"
"No one is questioning that, Goldman." He rolled his eyes at me. "But everyone has that person in their lives—the one who never exactly promotes clarity of thought. You're biased and a loveable nutcase. I'm just saying: why put unnecessary pressure on yourself?"
I mulled it over in my head for a few moments. "Look," I finally stood, grabbing my wallet and phone from my nightstand. "I met Clare when I was going through a seriously traumatic time in my life, but even though all the shit—especially because of the shit—it was always perfectly clear that she was my kindred spirit. And, god, I am Anne of Green Gables, but if I'm getting a second chance to have her in my life, there is no way I'm going to ignore it."
"Okay…but I'm going to start compiling songs for an angsty playlist in case things go way bad."
"Have I mentioned that I hate you?" I checked, cracking a smile all the same. I was halfway to the door when I remembered something. "Cece can't know." I warned seriously, pointing my finger sternly at my goof of a roommate.
"Ugh, now I have to lie to your mom?" I didn't flinch, holding my pose until he promised. "Fine. But I'm not okay with it."
"I'm not okay with her calling you every week to check how I'm doing, and then having to listen to you gossip like you attended…whatever school that show Gossip Girl was set in. But do I complain?"
"All the time—very loudly." J.J. smirked.
"And that is my right as the broody roommate."
"I just don't understand why you put so much effort into ignoring your parents. They're so much cooler than mine; I'd do the salsa if I had parents like yours."
"You've already co-opted them, so why not make it official?" I called as the door fell shut behind me instead of giving a real answer.
I liked J.J., I really did, but he was eager to be friends, and all I really wanted was cohabitation.
Clare had texted me the address while J.J. and I were having our spat, so I quickly mapped out the best route to take as I bounded down the stairs.
Seventeen minutes after Clare requested that I meet her, I was clunking to a stop in front of a small building designed to resemble a log cabin. Holding back my snort, I pushed through the front door—a little bell charmed my arrival—and found myself in a spacious room. Bookshelves were built into all the walls, the different sections marked off by color. The fiction shelves were a deep forest green, drama was lavender, and romance was a rich crimson. Tucked in between the shelves of burnt orange children's books and sunflower-yellow non-fiction was a counter littered with fliers and advertisements. Behind that, hung higher on the wall, three chalkboards listed the menu.
I let out a low whistle, spinning slowly a few times so I could take it all in.
"I know, right?"
I jumped, quickly turning to face a smiling Clare. Recovering quickly enough, I smirked. "Do you have a sixth sense or something? How is it you always find the most magical places?"
She flushed, pleased, and met my gaze daringly. "A magician never reveals her secrets, muggle."
"Oh," I grunted, clasping my heart dramatically. "Watch out; I'm delicate."
She chuckled, and then stepped up to the counter. I followed behind, trying to fight the rising panic in my chest. I hadn't really thought out meeting Clare beyond the fact that I wanted to.
What the fuck were we going to talk about?
I ordered some hazelnut coffee and a blueberry muffin, and Clare got a café mocha. We found seats in the drama section, and then the dread truly settled in when a muffling, awkward silence descended upon us. I sipped the coffee and picked at the muffin, glancing at her every now and then.
She was sneaking glances as me, too, though.
"So, Columbia, huh? That's impressive."
"Thanks." She smiled sweetly, and I felt that panicky, overwhelming urge to lunge across the table and start kissing her that was both comfortingly familiar and frighteningly intense.
"So what are you studying?" I asked, desperate for distraction from my inner turmoil.
I was a fucking bag of dicks.
"Mechanical engineering and English," she giggled.
I raised my eyebrows. "That's quite the double major."
Clare shrugged. "I have diverse interests, and I do what I want."
"I remember that distinctly about you." I smirked, infatuated with the way it still made her cheeks color just the tiniest bit.
"Well what about you?" Clare challenged. "Still transgressing societal norms and whatnot?"
"Oh, there have been loads and loads of whatnot. With just a dash of hootenanny."
I started to relax, easing into the brilliance of her company. "I'm serious." She chastised. "What have you been doing at NYU?"
"I'm in the theater program for writing and directing. I'm actually in the middle of a production of Death of a Salesman. It's going to raise all kinds of hell." I snarked.
And then the awkward silence was back, like a third person sitting on top of our table.
She was the one to break it that time. "So, I gave Adam your number. I hope that's okay."
"Adam? As in Adam Torres? Fuck yeah, that's okay. It always bugged me that we fell out of touch. What is Adam up to these days?"
"He's actually in town, too. He started out at University of Toronto, but he transferred this past year so that we could live together."
"No shit?" Clare shook her head: either to answer my question or condemn my swearing I wasn't sure. "Can I have his number, too?"
"Oh, I don't think that'll be necessary." She chuckled. "He has a lot to say to you. I just asked him to hold off until…" Clare blushed. "Well, until I was sure that I really wanted to see you again." I nodded, swallowing over the sudden lump in my throat. She noticed my distress easily. "Not because I didn't want to. It's just, it's a lot, you know?"
"I know. Sorry about that."
"Eli, no." Clare reached forward and placed her hand over mine. Hers were soft, the nails short and uneven from biting. I tried to find solace in the fact that some things didn't change. "Don't go thinking that I had to debate seeing you because of…how things ended. We both have a lot to answer for in terms of how poorly that was handled. It's just that—"
"Clare," I cut her off finally, gently moving my hand from under hers. "You really don't have to explain. I'm okay. See?" I put on an obviously fake, cheery smile. Her nostrils flared, and I couldn't help dissolve into actual laughter. "Okay, so I'm a little unhinged still. But I am much better equipped to deal with it."
"That's good," she spoke softly, her eyes trained on the table.
"C'mon, look at me, please?" When she did, I met her stare, unwavering. "We don't have to do this. It's going to be messy and there'll be a lot of talking and, hell, yeah, I'm still a sarcastic asshole who'll make jokes to mask his feelings and then explode later when it gets to be too much. But the detonation has two hundred percent less casualties, that I can promise. You know who I am—not much, fundamentally, has changed. But if you tell me you want to try this again—work out our issues and be friends or whatever—and later on decide that you can't handle me, I will be devastated, and I'll bounce back, but I'll be broken for a long time."
"This sounds suspiciously like an ultimatum," she narrowed her eyes.
"No, not at all. I'm just saying…I want to be honest with you, Clare. I don't want you to have any illusions about how fucked up I am. You should be able to make an informed decision."
"Well," Clare's lips puckered. "What do you want? I'm not the only one that matters here. I'm still emotionally timid and sexually reserved. I have trouble recognizing what I want, and then end up stomping all over the people I care most about. Plus, I'm ridiculously busy with school and my internship, so I won't just be at your disposal."
"Looks like we'll both have to make room for each other—the good and the bad—in our new lives. I'm in. What say you?"
She considered it deeply, the crease between her eyebrows becoming defined. I watched, my hands starting to sweat, anxiously waiting for her to say anything at all.
"Eli Goldsworthy." She finally addressed me, this adorable determination in her voice. "I am all in."