? ? ?
The theater’s in a hip little row of cafés and shops in a neighborhood lined with Victorian houses. We park and join the others just outside the ticket office. I don’t see Mr. Hunter; he must be running late.
Kendall gives me an up-and-down glance. “Jesus, Elyse, it’s just a matinee. What’d you do, rob a Saks?”
I feel my cheeks get warm. I open my mouth to snap back, but before I can, I see Mr. Hunter, and all other thoughts disappear from my mind.
He gives a half-distracted, half-wry grin when he sees us from down the street. Somehow he’s both sophisticated and sheepish—stylish in slim-cut jeans and a blazer, his hair mussed from running. He looks like how I’ve always imagined a writer or a professor: like someone who sits in the big picture window at Powell’s drinking black coffee, watching people pass on the sidewalk outside and taking notes in a Moleskine.
“Sorry I’m late!” He steps up to the box office and gives the cashier a dazzling smile. “We should be on the list.”
He doesn’t even look my way. I realize I’m standing on my toes, leaning toward him, a plant craning for light. I force myself to relax.
It’s not like he’s going to ogle me or tell me I look hot. Not in front of everyone. But I can’t help it. I can feel myself shrinking, my shoulders drawing up against my body. I feel suddenly ridiculous. Everyone’s looking at me, and even though that was the point, it doesn’t feel as fun as I’d hoped. The heels, the lipstick—it’s all too much, it’s two P.M. on a Saturday. I feel wildly overdressed, even standing next to Brynn in her vintage clothes and pin-up-girl hair.
I hug my purse under my arm and follow everyone into the theater. It’s small, a cramped, claustrophobic space perfect for Sartre. Mr. Hunter leads the way, handing the usher our tickets and herding us into a row near the back. Brynn sits next to Trajan. I watch as she leans over and says something that makes him laugh. I sit on the other side of her, tucking my purse under the chair and looking down at my lap. The low susurrus of conversation weaves around me in the dim house lights.
I feel someone settle in next to me. I look up, expecting to see Frankie or Nessa or Laura, one of my other friends, but when I see Mr. Hunter my pulse swells like a tide. He doesn’t look my way, and I barely have enough time to register him when the lights go down and everything disappears from view.
The seats are close together. In that brief moment of darkness I feel the heat of his body radiating toward me. I feel his breath, rising and falling. I don’t let myself lean toward him. But I don’t shy away from the contact. My elbow touches his across the armrest, and even with his sleeve between us, it makes me breathless.
The first two actors step out on stage. “So here we are?” says Garcin.
“Yes, Mr. Garcin,” says the valet.
“And this is what it looks like?”
I barely register their voices. I can’t track what’s happening on the stage. I stare blindly forward as the other characters join them, one by one, filling up the nightmarish little room. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Mr. Hunter’s profile, his aquiline nose, his dark, thick eyebrows. The stage lights shift and change color, sending wild shadows across his face.
My mind wheels around wildly, soaring over the theater. I know that I’m supposed to forget that kiss. He said it was a mistake, and he was right. But being so near him now, in the dark . . . I touch my lips, remembering.
I know it can’t happen again. But I want proof. Proof that it wasn’t all in my head—a dream, a fantasy.
Proof that, for just a moment, he wanted to touch me.
I shift my weight toward him, just a little. It’s barely noticeable. I could deny it if I had to. I slide my arm onto the armrest, as if I didn’t notice his elbow there on the edge. I breathe in his smell, cedar and citrus and something else, a dark musky note.
His chair creaks softly as he shifts his weight too. And then it’s like every connection in my brain lights up at once, a Christmas tree surging to life, twinkling and brilliant, because his hand brushes against mine, our skin touches, and everything in the world vanishes but that tiny point of contact.
On stage the actors are yelling at each other about something, but I don’t care. His hand draws gently away again, and I’m left wondering if it was an accident or not. My head spins. He’s never once looked my way. His eyes are locked on the stage.
But it felt so much like a caress. Deliberate and soft and gentle.
As if from far away, I hear Garcin’s famous one-liner: “Hell is other people!” Soon the audience is clapping and whistling. The actors step forward to bow. The warmth between us dissipates as Mr. Hunter gets to his feet, applauding.
The house lights go up. Mr. Hunter turns to say something to Nessa, who’s sitting on the other side of him. I fight down a surge of jealousy. Why won’t he just look at me?
“That was amazing,” Brynn says breathlessly.
“Yeah, great,” I say, distracted. She doesn’t notice. We stand up and start crowding toward the exits. “Crap, I left my purse.”
I turn around, and walk right into Mr. Hunter. His hands land on my hips.
For just a moment, I think I see a flash of longing in his eyes.
Then he smiles, jerking his hands away. “Sorry about that,” he says, bluntly cheerful. “You startled me.”
“It’s . . . okay.” I straighten up. I’ve been praying for his gaze all day. Now it moves over my face, making me visible, beautiful.
“Sorry, I just need to get my purse.”
He steps back so I can squeeze by, and when I turn around he’s gone, along with the rest of my friends, out to the lobby. I stand there for a moment, letting my heart slow its manic staccato flutter.
I don’t know anymore what’s real and what’s my imagination, what’s a kiss and what’s a performance. I don’t know if I’m just hoping, wishing, for him to think I’m special. For him to look at me and touch me and want me. But I can’t deny one thing, not even to myself.
I want it to be real.
THIRTEEN
Gabe
I don’t have any classes with Sasha this semester, but I still know her schedule. So Monday after lunch I wait outside her figure-drawing class until I see her coming down the hall.
I’m acting against every bit of good advice I’ve ever gotten, including my own. But I’ve thought about it all weekend. Breaking into my room to freak me out was one thing. Stalking my little sister—and Catherine—is another. I can’t let it go.
She smiles when she sees me, but she doesn’t pick up her pace. When she gets to the door of the classroom it looks for a minute like she’s going to saunter right past me. I grab her arm; when her eyes widen I realize I’m squeezing harder than I meant to. I let go.
“Knock it off with the Snaps,” I growl.
She cocks her head. “What’s your problem?”
“Don’t be cute,” I say. I fight to keep my voice steady. The sight of her arched brows makes me want to push her away as hard as I can. “Leave my friends and my family alone, Sasha.”
She smooths an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. “I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I grit my teeth. “Whatever. If I hear from you again I’m going to the cops.”
She shakes her head, looking almost sad. “Gabe, come on, there’s no need for this. I’m totally over it, okay? I’ve moved on. I’m dating someone new. So whoever’s messing with you . . . it’s not me.”
“You’re so over it you break into my house?” I say.
She glances away.
“That was . . . not cool. I was drunk, I was upset. You blindsided me. I’m sorry I freaked you out.”
Now I’m the one who’s blindsided. I’ve never heard Sasha apologize for anything.
She peers almost shyly up at me, through a canopy of lashes. “Anyway. I’m over it now. And . . . I’d like it if we could be friends.”
She looks so earnest—and I want to believe her. I want this to be over.