Gunn crosses his arms over his chest and gives me that faint smile of his, the one that barely manages to break through his smooth, cold facade. “You’ve become quite the deal maker yourself, haven’t you?” he says slowly. “I keep my promises, Joan.” Then he clears his throat, adds in a softer tone, his eyes never leaving mine, “And I’d like to think there would be other promises, if this all works out like I intend.”
Something about his guarded, double-edged words, his tone, that gentler look to his eyes—it all comes together. And with a slap of realization, I know. Stock was right all along, about Gunn and me—or at least about Gunn.
I turn away from the man, my chest constricting, like I need air. The walls of my room feel too close, the space suffocating. How do you say no to a man like Gunn?
Maybe in another life, if I was a different kind of girl, I could fall for a man like Gunn—maybe if I hadn’t already met a boy who showed me the freest, truest sort of magic—
You need to stop, just focus on the next step. Just get through this demonstration.
I give a small nod in acknowledgment to the floor while I compose myself, and then I meet Gunn’s watchful gaze. “Should I tell the troupe about the demonstration, sir?”
“Not yet. I don’t want a word of this breathed to anyone until Colletto’s walking through our doors tomorrow.” He moves to my door. “It’s business as usual today. Pick an easy finale, one we’ve done before, just get the show over with, get us to tomorrow,” he says, like it’s a new concept, even though I’ve been running the troupe and our shows more with each passing day. And even more, we’ve been doing just fine without Gunn. “And tell them all I want a meeting tomorrow afternoon, to be ready to work at three p.m.”
“Yes, sir.” I can already hear the griping I’m going to get from the team about working tomorrow, on a Sunday.
*
I’m rattled and distracted during practice. I try to focus, but my thoughts keep mutinying, between worrying about the demonstration tomorrow, the fifty gallons Gunn promised to D Street, and what needs to take place in between to make it all come together. Of course the troupe can tell something’s up—I can feel Grace probing me, reaching out with her magic to delve inside my mind, mine my secrets right out of me—but I’ve become an expert at defending against her advances. Even Billy quips twice that I look completely out of it. But I blame my spaciness on my shine hangover, do what Gunn says, tell them nothing. After all, I’ve become pretty darn good at keeping things inside.
There’s one thing I know I can’t do for Gunn, though, and that’s stay away from Alex. Unlike the rest of the troupe, Alex doesn’t push me on what’s wrong, doesn’t question me. Instead he just nods when I explain that we’re going to run the Magical Dawn performance again, doesn’t talk back like the others, who say the immersion is too stale for a Saturday night crowd. Part of me wonders if what I told him last night, about Mama and my past, might have scared him off. But that all falls away at the end of rehearsal. Because as the rest of the troupe labors upstairs to get ready for our performance, Alex lingers by the double doors.
“I’m not going to ask if you’re okay, because it’s obvious you’re not,” he says quietly, when I approach him.
I just stand there, staring at him, not sure how to answer.
“I’m also not going to ask you what’s going on, Joan. If you’ve got secrets you need to keep, I respect that.”
He walks over to me slowly, and my body actually starts to hum. “But if you need someone to lean on, to help you get through whatever it is you’re clearly struggling with, I hope I can be that person for you.” He brushes my hair off my shoulder, studies me intensely with those clear blue eyes. Then he drops his voice to a whisper. “You must know how much I want to be that person.”
I nod slowly. The skin at the nape of my neck, where his fingers gently rest, is needles and sparks, now positively sings.
“Just don’t get too lost on your own, Joan.” Then Alex drops his hand and walks out the doors.
*
Eight p.m. comes on hot and fast. The crowd comes pouring in for our show, the jazz shrieks through the show space, and the stagehands start shaking their mixed drinks in silver shakers. As Alex and I arrange ourselves on either side of our glass stand for our trick, I think, If tomorrow goes as planned, this might be the last time Alex looks at me this way. This might be the last time we’re equals. And fear, anxiety, sadness—they all tug inside, threatening to unravel me—
“Joan,” Alex calls from the other side of the stage. Through the glass, he smiles. “Remember—don’t get too lost.”
I mirror his nod as we both approach the glass stand. I can practically feel Alex’s concern beat through it. I want to let him in. I want him to be my person too. But every time I think about holding on tight to him, letting him share the load of everything that waits on the other side of tomorrow for me, I think again of Gunn.