Bashful Page 6

  “Welcome to the table read of Playing with Fire, everyone. I see quite a few familiar faces”—Professor James glanced at me—“and some new ones. I, Professor James, am the director of this production, and I look forward to seeing the talent we have on and off the stage. I expect a lot from you, and I hope you’ll give me your best. This show reflects not just on you, but this college as well. I will challenge you and probably infuriate you, but I strive to make these performances the best they can be. You are all adults, and I’ll treat you as such. So”—he clapped his hands together loudly, causing me to slightly jump out of my seat—“let’s open to page one.”

  If there had been crickets in this room, even they would have stayed silent after that introduction. Usually a table read would involve some sort of icebreaker for the cast to get to know one another, but apparently that wasn’t happening this time. Confused glances enveloped the room as we all hurriedly opened the cover of the scripts in front of us.

  [Act I]

  [The curtains open to a dimly-lit custodial closet. QUINN and AIDEN stand closely together, a lone light flickering above.]

  Following the cue to start, I listened as Bash roughly went through his beginning monologue. It was only a few sentences, but it was painful to say the least. He was struggling, and I had no idea why. I recited Quinn’s first line quickly after he finished, hoping he’d hear my emotions and get the hang of the scene.

  Quinn and Aiden were characters that had been through hell and back. I knew this show so well now that I truly felt my character was a part of me. I loved this show so hard, because no matter how many times I read or watched it, the various casts brought a different feeling to Aiden and Quinn. Regardless of the portrayal, the words and chemistry of the characters brought them together in the end.

  Bash cleared his throat, reciting his next line of the script with a high-pitched voice. It sounded more like he was answering a question during a prostate exam than speaking at a read-through. Feeling his anxiety, I willed every good vibe to leave my body and float across the room to soothe his radiating nerves. On his right, Tucker was watching him intently with wide eyes, nodding slowly in reassurance. Tuck’s “tell” was always the readjusting of his tie, and tonight that little thing just wasn’t sitting to his liking. He squeezed and rotated the fabric, accentuating the strain we were all feeling as James’ glare focused on Bash.

  The table read continued, our scenes interspersed with smaller characters. I knew it was a rough read, as it usually was the first time we were all together—but it wasn’t horrible enough to warrant the slam of fists on the table from Professor James.

  “NO! No, Sebastian,” he roared, throwing his director’s script over his head. It met the wall behind him and fell to the floor, a wrinkled pile left in its wake as his eyes bulged out of his head. Face reddening, he focused all of his frustration on his target.

  “Aidan is not a meek character! His name literally means fire—he is confident and intense, passionate and courageous. Goddammit, did you research this show at all? Did you know what you were auditioning for?”

  Bash’s face was peaked save for his cheeks, which glowed bright red as he lifted his head to meet our director’s scowl. I felt that look in my bones, the intensity in the room thundering around us. I may have been hurt by him, but he was still my friend and I would never leave Bash to hang out to dry. I felt the panic that was etched on his face. I stood quickly, the squeak of my chair legs against the linoleum floor loud enough to turn heads.

  “Excuse me, Professor James?” I questioned him, clearing my throat as he turned to face me.

  “What is it, Calliope?” he aggravatedly sighed, his face warring between curiosity and anger as he moved his head back and forth between Bash and me.

  “I just—I’m sorry, sir, but maybe it would be beneficial if Sebastian and I went through the script alone before we did the table read? Surely you’d appreciate us getting familiar with the characters’ chemistry together a bit before we jump in to rehearsals,” I retorted, smiling with wide eyes. Hopefully the innocent look I had on my face would placate him enough to give me a couple of days to prep with Bash. Our eyes met, and he softened slightly.

  “Very well, then. Cast, you may leave. We will forego the read-through and reschedule the first rehearsal for some time next week. This had better work out well, Miss Miller. I’m holding you accountable. And, Bash, get your act together—soon. Crew, stay behind so you can listen to what I’ve planned out for this production,” he said, waving out the group of us he no longer needed.

  Bash stood outside the door, mingling with the rest of the cast before he spotted me exiting the room. It was obvious he’d held back for me. I really hoped it wasn’t to talk more about the other night. He excused himself from the group and they dispersed, leaving us alone in the mutedly-lit corridor.

  “Thanks for rescuing me back there, Sweets.” He strode closer carefully, reluctantly touching my upper arm. “I don’t know what happened, and I know I didn’t deserve the save, but I owe you.”

  The contact burned and I willed the feeling away. I stepped back, intently studying the bulletin board pinned with job openings and Craigslist ads a few feet away. I heard him sigh and snuck a glance, sad to witness the internal warring going on in his head. His shirt lifted a few inches as he put his hands on his face, exposing the tight ridges on his stomach. I couldn’t help but notice the small tuft of hair below his belly button. I wanted to trace it and see where it ended.

  Focus, horndog. He’s upset. And you’re still upset, too.

  “I can’t believe I just choked like that. After you told me about Playing with Fire freshman year, I watched it and HAD to do it. I even saw it when I was in England, twice.” He shrugged. “Then I busted my ass, put myself out there to get the lead, and freaking blew it. James should just replace me with the understudy,” he spouted off in an anxiety-filled tangent.

  I gawked as he raked his hands through his hair, pacing from wall to wall.

  Panic rose from my chest to my cheeks, the need to help him anchoring me in place. I made a promise in front of the entire cast and crew to help, and I had to follow through. Especially now, when I was crumbling at the thought of him not being my costar. I brought my fist to my mouth and bit down slightly on my thumb, a habit that hadn’t escaped my childhood. Pushing forward off the wall, I reached up and rubbed the hard muscles of his back while he stared at the floor.

  “It’s going to be okay, friend. It wasn’t as bad as you think. Professor James is a douche-canoe, you know that. And anyway, his hissy fit was weak. My two-year-old cousin can do much better,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ll help you—we can work through the script together, okay? We’ll get down to the bare bones of it all and get it to where YOU think Aidan should be.”

  I moved my hand upward, kneading tense muscles until I reached his shoulder.

  Why did I freaking massage him all the time? Maybe I should put gay-crush-masseuse in my job-prospects-after-failing-as-a-professional-actress pile. It’d go nicely next to binge-watching-expert and Funyuns-critic.

  Covering my hand with his own, he turned to look at me and nodded in agreement. His irises had shifted from their usual vibrant green to almost emerald, the color clouded by anger and sadness. I hated that he was still so down. My stomach grumbled, and words flew out of my mouth before I could question them.

  “All right, my dear. No more bumming. It’s time for carbs, caffeine, and cramming. We’re going to read the crap out of this script, so bring a pencil. Get your big boy pants on, because I’m taking you to the best twenty-four seven hole-in-the-wall you’ll ever find.”

  “You had me at cramming.”

  Twelve

  BASH STARED AT MY BLUE Chevy Aveo like it was a puzzle, his head tilting as I gestured to the passenger side. Watching him try to finagle his legs to fit was hilarious, since he’d forgotten to move the seat back before he got in. I laughed the entire ten-minute drive from campus
to the restaurant. Our small downtown area was charming, a square mile at most of bars and boutiques. The streets were lined with lampposts every few feet, decorated in leaves and pumpkins for the season. I pulled off the main strip and pulled into a dimly-lit alley parking lot.

  “Um, remind me to drive next time we go anywhere,” he whined, unclicking his seat belt and getting out. “I think I got a cramp.”

  “You’re fine, Gigantor.” I laughed and locked my car before walking around the back end. “So, this is Chet’s.” I gestured to the dark building, a simple light fixture highlighting the small hand-painted sign over a plain metal door. The glass panes were frosted, concealing the inside.

  “You took me to get murdered? Awesome. Did you bring the duct tape and garbage bags, or does Chet provide them for us?” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. His breath clouded the air as I grabbed his arm and dragged him to the door.

  “Don’t worry, I picked up zip ties and a shovel this morning. We don’t need Chet’s supplies.”

  Walking in, the environment was much less ominous than it was outside. Old Tiffany-style lamps hung above each dark-stained table, the red leather booths accentuated by age. It wasn’t the prettiest place, but there was no doubt they had the best “study food” around. Evie and I had stumbled upon Chet’s last year after the bars had closed, our group of friends desperate for some grease to soak up the alcohol. It probably wasn’t the best for a group of drunk girls to be alone in an alley at 2:00 a.m., but thanks to Chet, we got home safely in cabs and none of us were hungover the next day. The food was magic, I swear.

  The ‘seat yourself’ sign was up per usual, not surprising since I’d never seen a hostess here. That was the best part about these little hole-in-the-wall places; you got great service, hot food, and no one bothered you to leave when you were finished.

  We ordered a few coffees from Aggie, Chet’s wife, before settling in on the task at hand.

  Bash and I worked through the script for hours before we had to stop. I heard his stomach grumble underneath his white T-shirt, which was tight enough I could see the indentation of his abs if I stared hard enough.

  Not that I was, or anything—friends don’t stare at each other’s abs.

  I cleared my throat as I handed him a menu.

  “You’re either hungry or your stomach is doing an incredible impression of a whale’s mating call.”

  He lifted his shirt, smacking the defined planes of his ab muscles.

  “Nah, that was just me trying to scare away all of the other stomachs. Putting your hand near my food should come with its own warning label. It’s the only time I get scary.”

  We ordered—a triple cheeseburger and chili fries for him, and a cheddar-bacon ranch burger for me. We needed the sustenance, or at least that’s what I told myself. In reality, I was more interested in staring at Bash, but the food here was so good I couldn’t say no.

  When it arrived, I took a giant bite out of my burger and groaned, closing my eyes. I savored the bite like it was my last meal on death row. “Better than sex,” I groaned. I finished chewing and opened my eyes to discover Bash focused on me, still holding his uneaten burger, the juices dripping onto the plate below.

  “What, do I have something on my face?” I asked, shaking him from the fog. I wiped around my mouth with the back of my hand but came back empty.

  He put his still-untouched burger down and clenched his water glass, chugging until there was nothing left.

  “No, I’ve just never seen any girl that into eating meat before,” he coughed. “That was, uh, that was something.”

  “Glad you enjoyed the show.” I laughed. Of course, he liked it whenever someone gorged on meat. “Want to try some?” I offered, holding my burger out and he took a huge bite. “I’ll taste yours, too, if you’ll let me.”

  His eyebrows shot up mid-chew.

  “Come on, let me try your meat.”

  At the realization of what I’d just implied, my cheeks went pink and I covered my face with my hands. I was going to slide under the table and just disappear. I was tiny enough, maybe he wouldn’t notice if I pulled a vanishing act.

  “Oh my God, that is NOT what I meant,” I mumbled, peeking through my fingers.

  Bash was doubled over, pounding his fist on the table to mute his laughter. I folded my arms and gave him my best scowl, waiting for him to finish.

  Wiping his tears, his dimple still on full display, he finally had enough breath to speak.

  “I missed this. That was everything, Callie. Can we please hang out all the time? I don’t know if I can live without you ever again.”

  I grabbed one of his chili fries, hoping my hand wouldn’t be stabbed with a fork from his “no one touches my food” proclamation earlier. If I really wanted to give this friendship a chance, I needed to shove all thoughts of romantic feelings for Bash out the window. The truth was, I wanted him in my life, and if being friends was all I got, I’d take it.

  And if I ever met his man-friend, I’d find a way to deal with that jealousy.

  “I’m not going anywhere. The past is in the past. You have me, Bash.” I smiled and yanked another fry, and he gave me a warning glare.

  “That last fry you stole can be in the past, too,” he replied, picking up his script again. “Many a friendship has ended over chili fries.”

  “Wait, is that like your version of girl code? We don’t steal each other’s guys, you don’t steal each other’s fries?”

  “Now you’re getting it.”

  We finished our food along with the remainder of our lines, but neither of us wanted to leave yet. We talked about the two years we were apart, laughed at stupid jokes, and the stresses of life. We sipped coffee until the sun came up and our mugs were empty. Driving him back to the lot at MacArthur, I realized my sleepy heart was full.

  I can do this. I can be friends with Bash.

  Thirteen

  THE DING OF A NOTIFICATION woke me from a restful sleep. Rolling over, I lifted my phone from the nightstand, my eyes squinting at the time. Noon, nice. A second ding alerted me that Evie had sent a message a few moments prior.

  Evie: I’ll do anything to get out of this physics study group. The girl sitting next to me has a runny nose and keeps wiping it on her sleeve. Tell me you have an emergency.

  Gross. I didn’t blame her for wanting to escape. No one likes a snotter.

  Callie: Help. I have fallen down the invisible stairs and can’t get up. Oh, the fake pain. Help. Emergency.

  I padded to the bathroom and started the shower, brushing my teeth before the mirror fogged up with condensation. The water had run cold by the time I’d finished scrubbing, shaving, and moisturizing my body in preparation for my date with Jordan tonight. I wrapped the towel around my body and turned on the blow-dryer as I thought about what to wear.

  “Your emergency sucked, by the way,” Evie said as she stomped past me and sat on the edge of the tub. She had a huge paper cup of coffee in her hand, and I clicked off the dryer with half-wet hair.

  She’d better have brought one for me.

  “You know my wit doesn’t kick in until after I’ve had caffeine,” I responded hopefully with a smile.

  She sighed and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “It’s on the counter. Go cover your lady parts before I drink that one as well.”

  I scurried to my bedroom, throwing on a thermal and leggings and quickly finger-combing my hair. On my way out, I glanced in the mirror and studied the bags under my eyes. I looked like a hot mess, but staying up all night with Bash had been worth it. Shuffling out to the kitchen, I hopped onto the counter, my legs swinging as I sipped the coffee she’d brought me. Evie was at the sink, rinsing leaves of romaine lettuce.

  “So, you didn’t come home until early morning,” she alluded with a wink, followed by a face of epiphany. “OH MY GOD. You were genital-bonding, weren’t you?”

  “I’m sorry, we were what?”

  “You know, did he...” she impl
ied as she chopped onion. “Park the beef bus in tuna town? Crash the custard truck? Put a bottle rocket in your throttle pocket?”

  “Jesus, Evie, what the hell did they teach you in the UK?”

  “Did he put ranch in your hidden valley?”

  “You did not just insult ranch like that.”

  “Did he tweet, skeet, and delete?”

  “GOOD GOD, WOMAN!”

  She reared her head back and howled with laughter as she picked up a carton of cherry tomatoes. “Remember when I looked up all those insults? I may have gone down the rabbit hole.”

  “Seriously, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password. And no, we didn’t bump uglies—that’s a normal euphemism, just FYI.” I hopped down and onto a stool. Disregarding her temporary insanity, I filled her in on the actual events of the night before as she made our lunch.

  “Bash had a meltdown during the table read and was super bummed, so I took him to Chet’s to go through the script. After like six hours, we’d broken down every line on those pages. We even did some enunciation exercises and ran through some of his longer monologues,” I explained.

  Evie scrunched her face quizzically.

  “You know, like peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers. Anyway, I think he’s feeling really great about it now.”

  Evie grabbed a container of sliced chicken from the fridge and began tossing it with the rest of the ingredients. Her lips upturned.

  “He’d be feeling even better if you puckered his peter.”

  Groaning, I rolled my eyes and lifted the bowl of salad out of her hands, dishing it onto plates. She turned to the refrigerator and came back with an armful of plastic bottles.

  “What dressing do you want?”

  “Anything but ranch.”

  J