Bashful Page 12

  I shot off a quick text once I reached the front door, letting him know I’d meet him outside on the porch when he could find me.

  The cold night air was a reprieve for my desperate lungs. I breathed in heavily before scrunching up my face, contorting my forehead as I sought out the very obvious smell invading my nostrils. Although in decay, the fraternity had a wraparound front porch that went around both sides. Moving to the right, the skunky smell grew more powerful as I rounded the corner.

  Void of light, the darkest recess was filled with a small circle of people, smoke billowing above them. Puffs and giggles surrounded me as I moved forward and found Jordan near the back.

  “Hey, babe, there you are,” he greeted cloudily, breaking from the circle, his last hit still in his mouth.

  Yeah, I’m so not your babe. I was pretty sure he’d completely forgotten about bringing me here until now.

  “Want some?”

  I cringed. I’d smoked pot before, but I really believed it was enjoyable because of the company you were with, not just how it made you feel. The fact that Jordan had ditched me—on a second date that he sought out—had put me off from this entire night.

  “No, I’m good. Thanks.”

  “More for me,” he said, his eyes bloodshot.

  I’d had enough. I’d rather be single than deal with moronic douchebags.

  “Look, Jordan, you’re a really nice guy, but this isn’t working for me. I’m going to go.”

  He slowly flicked his eyes between the group and me, finally deciding it was worth losing the last toke to offer me a ride home. My thanks-but-no-thanks was countered with, “at least let me get you an Uber.”

  Ever the gentleman.

  He tried to walk me down to the sidewalk in his last-ditch effort to gain a little repoire—and maybe a kiss good night. “Hey, Callie? Next time a guy asks you out, try removing the stick from your ass before you go.”

  Oh, fuck no.

  “Next time you see your mom, let her know that her precious old French lady thought she was an actual prostitute!”

  With a boisterous wave, I blew a kiss at his shocked face and hopped in the cheap SUV that pulled up to the curb and slammed the door without a second glance. I quickly lifted off the seat just enough to grab my phone from my butt pocket, angrily uninstalling Tinder from my apps. No dates were better than shitty dates, and Jordan was a big steamy pile of the stuff.

  Twenty-Six

  DATING WAS OFF THE TABLE for now, and my classwork was showing it. It had been two weeks since I’d spoken to Bash outside of our scene work. Okay, it’d been two weeks since I’d spoken to anyone really, besides Evie, and I was finally getting to a place where I was fine with being alone. I managed to pull on my big-girl pants so high I probably had a camel toe, but I did it. I was proud of myself.

  I readied myself for the next five days. Technically, it was “Tech Week,” but the only person who called it that was Professor James. As actors, we called it Hell Week—the calm before the storm. It was when all of the technical elements—costumes, sound, lighting, makeup, the whole shebang—were run through and fine-tuned before we had an audience. I knew it would be grueling. We’d go through the show two or three times each night in full costume and makeup, sweating our asses off under the hot lights in order to get out all the kinks. At the end of the week, we’d have two final dress rehearsals, finely polishing our characters without interruption before the opening on Friday night.

  Throwing my navy cheerleading duffel from high school onto the bed—yes, I still used it as that bad boy was DURABLE—I made a mental list of all the things I needed to pack for the dressing room. Throwing in two sticks of deodorant and a few comfy outfits, I made my way to the bathroom. Grabbing my hairbrush and tucking a sandwich bag full of eight million bobby pins into the side pocket, I picked up my slippers near the door before heading to the kitchen for some snacks.

  Once my bag was stuffed to the brim with carbs, extra water, and energy drinks, I hitched the bag over my shoulder and grunted at the weight. Smiling at the fridge pad, I scribbled a quick note to Evie reminding her I’d be dead on my feet when I got home. There was a 90-percent probability I’d see that note again before she did. That girl was head over heels in insta-love with her bartender boyfriend. Yeah, my Evie, who never spent more than a night with a guy, was calling him her boyfriend.

  She’d been spending more time at his place than at our own, and it was a little lonely. She must’ve been having some killer honeymoon-phase sexy times with him considering she’d basically ghosted me. Luckily jealousy wasn’t a thing in our friendship, or I might be turning greener than the hulk. My lady bits were drying up while hers were, well, the opposite.

  It wasn’t like I chose the no-sex life. The no-sex life chose me.

  Born-again virgin? Not by choice. I was revirginating—that sounded better.

  J

  Melissa was stitching a hem when I walked in the dressing room, so I said a quick hello before casually dropping my duffel in the small cube that had my character’s name on it. We each had the small space for our costume accessories, and we stashed personal belongings in there during showtime. Half of them usually held a flask, too.

  I greeted Tess, our makeup captain, before sitting at the mirrors to examine my cosmetic sheet. An 8x10 photo of my face was taped to the corner of the mirror, a clear plastic overlay detailing the colors and shades I was to wear for the show.

  “Shit, I forgot to grab wipes,” I mumbled. Stage makeup was thick, meant to withhold hours of hot lighting and sweat. I bought foam makeup sponges in bulk because after one application, the poor thing was torn to shreds.

  Tess appeared like a genie, holding out a pack in front of me. “Guard them with your life, woman. I only bought a few extras.” She handed me a sharpie so I could scribble ownership on the packaging.

  “Marry me,” I said, blowing her air kisses.

  “Sorry, love, but I’m kind of smitten already,” she whispered, flitting her eyes to Melissa.

  “Really?” I asked, completely shocked. I had no idea they were together. My Gaydar must be seriously off. “Is it serious?”

  She smiled lovingly at Mel, who blushed before quickly getting back to her sewing. “It’s definitely headed that way, I think,” she said. “For as quiet as she is around here, she’s a freaking lion in the bedroom.”

  Did I have “tell me about your sex life” tattooed on my forehead? Why did everyone feel the need to tell me these things? Maybe they could smell the desperation on me.

  Laughing, I gave her a quick hug and congratulations before turning back to the mirror and grabbing a cleansing wipe.

  Cleaning my face of my ‘street makeup’ left me bare to the world. My hands reached for my cheeks and dragged down, emphasizing the dark circles under my eyes. They would only get worse this week. I needed to find another way to rally besides overdosing on caffeine or skipping class in lieu of naps. Evie suggested that we have a girls’ day soon, full of massages and highlights and pedicures—but that was going to have to wait until Hell Week was over.

  The rest of the girls in the cast filed in, each one in a stage of makeup or hair for primary approval tonight. I was thankful that we didn’t need to don our costumes too. Mine consisted of multiple changes, and while I’d practiced with Melissa, I had yet to do it while we were being timed for the show’s length. We couldn’t be longer than two hours including intermission. When I did the math, that meant I needed to be out of one outfit and into a new one within three minutes when I was offstage. A member of the costume crew would always be waiting behind the set, everything unbuttoned and unzipped, but I was still worried.

  When I finished my face and hair, I cleaned up my station and moved closer to Mel.

  “Hey, how much do you love me?” I asked.

  I was met with squinted eyes.

  “I feel like this is a trick question,” she replied as she concentrated again on ironing a pair of men’s pants. “I could
say I love you a lot, but then you’d probably ask me for a kidney or something.”

  “No, not a kidney—I just—can you stay and time my outfit changes after rehearsal tonight? I want to try and get each act done in ten minutes if I can.” I wasn’t above begging, and if she said no, I’d bribe her.

  Melissa set down the iron, the steam rising into the air. “I wish I could, but Tess and I are going out tonight. It’s our six-month anniversary,” she said, somehow happy and apologetic at the same time.

  “Oh, that’s okay, I’ll figure something out,” I replied, while mentally figuring out how to do it myself. Maybe if I had each outfit in a pile ready to go, it’d be possible.

  “No, stop that,” she said. “I can see the panic in your eyes. I don’t want to get a reaming from Professor James any more than you do if you can’t make those changes on time. I’ll find someone to do it with you. Just hang out in here after rehearsal is over and I’ll make sure someone is here to help.”

  I bum-rushed her, thankfully evading the ironing board and potential third-degree burns. Hugging her tightly, I thanked her before heading for the auditorium.

  Twenty-Seven

  THE RUN-THROUGH WENT AS I expected it would. Professor James stopped us every five minutes, eviscerating our confidence with his ‘critiques.’ That was par for the course at this point, with the exception that he was more of a dick than an average director. It was dark by the time we finished the first go-around, and James’ face had turned a shade of red that made it look like his head would explode at any second. We were all sweaty, frustrated, and borderline hangry, so he dismissed us before we could run through the show a second time.

  Luckily, that meant I wouldn’t feel rushed timing my outfit changes. Maybe since we finished early, Melissa would be hanging around a bit longer and could help me instead of whoever she had found. I didn’t know the younger crew members, and I wasn’t too excited about the potential of them accidentally copping a feel during the flurry of fabric.

  Mel rushed down the hall as I rounded the corner from the stairwell.

  “Went well, huh?” she asked.

  Rolling my eyes, I scoffed. “About as well as stepping on Legos while on a treadmill. So, can you stay for a little bit and help? I know you said you ladies were going out later, but—”

  “Uh, we’re going to go see a movie before dinner now. Something romantic and cheesy, the perfect kind of make-out movie,” she squealed. “Don’t worry, though, I got someone to help you. They should be here in a little bit!” Giving my shoulder a squeeze, she ran up the stairs with a smile on her face.

  I moved to the dressing room, rifling through my bag for a granola bar. I chewed slowly, calming my growling stomach. I was going to have a date tonight, too; mine was just with my DVR and an unopened bag of Twizzlers I’d hidden from Evie. Throwing my wrapper in the garbage, I transferred my hangers to a smaller clothing rack and began unbuttoning.

  Everyone around me was falling in love. I couldn’t help but notice that people in love acted like a different version of themselves—giggly, aloof extensions of who they were before. Maybe love and stupidity went hand in hand. If that was the case, I did enough stupid things on my own. Maybe it was good that I hadn’t truly fallen in love yet.

  As I finished unzipping the last skirt, a knock rapped on the door and I swung around to greet my helper. Practically doing a full spin, I was back around facing the clothes, sorting, doing anything to keep my hands busy.

  “Hey, Melissa mentioned to the crew that you needed someone to help with your changes, but no one spoke up. I hope it’s okay that I volunteered,” Bash said, his deep timbre sending a shiver down my spine. He set his arm above his head on the doorframe, his stupid face smirking straight at me. “Plus, I’ve been told I’m good at quickly taking clothes off.”

  This was the first time we’d spoken offstage in weeks. The first time we’d been alone in weeks. No. Nope. I wasn’t going back again.

  I’d fought through my cravings for Chet’s and the diner, too afraid with my luck that Bash would be there at the same time. That was hard enough. He would’ve sat me down and made me talk, find a way to weasel back in and break my walls down again.

  Make me feel special again.

  We’d laugh, he’d have his hooks back in, and I’d be right back where I started. I was an addict, and the only way to kick that craving was to quit Bash cold turkey. I couldn’t crack now, not when I was so close.

  “Callie, please talk to me. I don’t want to play games either.” He sighed. He looked devastated, his reflection mirroring my own. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair as he swayed from side to side, unsure if he should come closer.

  I pulled a dress off the first hanger, the delicate cloth falling into my lap. Rubbing the silk between my fingers, I chanced a peek at him before I spoke.

  “I said we’d be okay, Bash. But there’s no time limit for when that will be. Please don’t force it.” An ugly pit formed in my stomach. Did I mean what I was saying? Worry was an ugly bitch. I didn’t want this nagging, unrequited love hanging over our friendship.

  “For tonight, I hope you’re really here to help. And the only talking should be about how fast I can go from this silk dress to that pantsuit.”

  His shoulders fell, not in defeat, but in understanding. Pulling his cell from his pocket, he tapped a few buttons and showed me the timer on the screen.

  “Let’s do this. How much time do you need?”

  I don’t know, Bash. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

  Twenty-Eight

  I SURVIVED. HELL WEEK WAS exactly that—a swirling, fiery inferno completed by despair and self-doubt. Luckily, all the yelling and swearing had transformed Playing with Fire into something we were all proud of. It was our first night, and we were ready to perform.

  Seated at the bulb-lit mirror in front of me, I appraised my face and hair. My dirty blond locks were pinned and rolled back at the crown of my head, sprayed stiff into a vintage coif. Heavy cake foundation had been contoured and rouged extensively to make my bone structure pop under the harsh lighting. My favorite part of my transformation was my eyes, though, the heavy black liner swept in a clean arch, causing my olive irises to shine.

  Everyone in the dressing room quieted as “fifteen minutes to curtain,” rang through the small round speaker in the ceiling. I popped up from my seat and wriggled into my first costume, the cool fabric a reprieve from the anxiety sweats that had taken up residence in my body. With one last look in the mirror, I touched up my dark lipstick and went upstairs.

  After double-checking that my other costume changes were hung just offstage, I edged toward the curtain. Clutching the ropes that pulled the heavy velvet fabric apart, I snuck a glance at the audience. It was wrong to do, especially as a professional grown-up adult, but I still did it before every opening night no matter how old I got.

  It was a full house, each seat sold out and occupied. Parents, students, and families whispered to each other before the lights dimmed, their excitement palpable. I spotted Evie in the third row, giggling as Garrett whispered in her ear from the seat next to her. My parents weren’t coming until tomorrow night, which was fine. Having Evie here was enough pressure. She caught me late last night, pacing my room and going over a monologue, and comforted me. Before I left tonight, she insisted she’d be there. “Not having someone to root for you on opening night is just as bad as saying ‘good luck’ instead of ‘break a leg,’” she’d said.

  I wasn’t one to challenge her crazy superstitions, but I was pretty sure those two would cancel each other out. Either way, I was happy to have someone in my corner rooting for me.

  Moving into my position on stage, I felt him before I saw him. The lights were off, save for the stage crew’s small flashlights checking the props and the set one last time.

  “Two minutes to curtain,” the stage manager whisper-hissed, and I let out a slow exhale.

  Bash stood inches from my face,
his minty breath tickling my skin. “Having butterflies, Sweets? I’m anxious, too.”

  “I’m not anxious,” I muttered, my foot tapping the floor. “I’m just extremely well-aware of how many catastrophes could happen in the next two hours.”

  His quiet, throaty laugh appeased my nerves a little. If I was honest, though, the butterflies usually only lasted a few minutes into the performance, and then my confidence usually took over. Except this time.

  All week, they never disappeared during the course of the run-throughs. Not once, not when Bash was so physically close. Even pretending to be someone else wouldn’t convince those asshole butterflies to leave the pit of my stomach.

  Stupid feelings. Stupid caterpillars and their giant dreams.

  Bash stared down at me, and even in the dimness of the stage I could see his eyes sparkling.

  “You’re an amazing actress, Callie. I wouldn’t be up here right now if it wasn’t for you,” he whispered, cupping my jaw with his hand. He rubbed his thumb back and forth over the seam of my bottom lip before he spoke again. “Do exactly what you told me that first night at the Black Box. Strip it all away and just put it yourself out there.”

  The knots in my stomach loosened slightly as he pulled away, both of us focused on the small gap at the bottom of the curtains. The house lights were lowering, the whispers of the audience quieting until all we heard were our own breaths.

  Before the curtain rose, Bash smirked, whispering one last thing.

  “We finally get to kiss tonight. I hope it doesn’t suck.”

  In the few precious seconds we had before the curtain went up, my brain worked in triple time to figure out how I forgot that little detail until now. In the time before the lights blinded me, all I’d settled on was that maybe I’d been too distracted to even think about the kiss.