“Ooof, that must have smarted.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, it smarted all right.” I deserved the punch. I can understand where Trey was coming from, especially since he recently wrote me an email, explaining his actions and apologizing as well. He doesn’t want there to be any bad blood between us. I don’t want there to be any bad blood either, but it’s going to take some healing before I call my brother to talk. We’ve never been close, I’m not sure we ever will be, but at least I know we cleared the air. I don’t know what Amelia told him about us in the weeks they were apart, if she told him anything at all, but knowing she will be in his arms each night will break me, so for a while, I need to lie low.
Mr. Buster looks around. “Where’s your little friend, Miss Santos? She’s coming, right?”
I shrug my shoulders, even though I’m almost one hundred percent sure I know the answer to that question. Amelia won’t show up tonight, and I’m the one reason why.
“She’s been busy, so she probably won’t be able to make it,” I lie again to Mr. Buster, with my eyes downcast.
“Hmm, there’s something you’re not telling me, Aaron.” Lying has never been my strong suit. “Did you two quarrel?”
Mr. Buster has many more important things to deal with, so he doesn’t need to add this to the list. I pat him on the shoulder and say, “Nothing you need to worry about, but thank you for your concern. I have to make sure the sets are secure. I’ll catch you after the show. Break a leg, Mr. Buster.”
I start to walk away, but Mr. Buster calls out, “This conversation isn’t over.”
Little does he know, it is. If I have to skip the last act to avoid a conversation with him, I will.
As I walk backstage to check on everything, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and answer.
“We’re here!” Racer shouts into the phone, making me pull it away from my ear. “Did you save us seats?”
I roll my eyes. “No, dickhead, and sit in the back so the parents can have good seats for pictures.”
“We showed up an hour early for the good seats. There is no way in hell I’m sitting in the back. I want to be front and center so I can judge your craftsmanship.”
“Thanks for the support, man.”
“Anytime.” There is shuffling of the phone and Tucker’s voice comes on the line. “Is she here?”
I run my hand through my hair, messing up how neatly I styled it earlier. “No, man, and I don’t expect her to be. Hell, I don’t want her to be. I just want to get through this night and get the hell out of here.”
“Okay . . . well, we’re here, so let us know when you’re ready, and we’ll leave with you.” In the background I can here Racer say, “I’m not leaving until I see Santa.”
“He’s a fucking treat tonight.”
“You have no idea,” Tucker huffs into the phone. “He snuck a box of Swiss Rolls in Georgie’s purse, even though there’s a sign that specifically says no outside food.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Sighing, I say, “All right, I should make sure everything is set. I’ll see you after the play.”
“Okay, let us know if you need anything,” Tucker answers sincerely.
“Thanks, man.”
A few nights ago, Tucker had a mini heart-to-heart with me. He let me know I was welcome to stay with him and Emma for as long as I wanted, as long as I promised not to revert to drinking. He knew the kind of destruction I could make when trying to drink my sorrows away. I promised him I wouldn’t drink, and I would leave his place soon, but every time I started to pack, the thought of going back to my house, being close to Amelia again and not able to hold her, I couldn’t stomach it.
I’m trying to put her in my past, but it seems like everywhere I go or everything I do reminds me of her, of the laughs we shared, the adventures we took, the nights we spent simply enjoying each other’s company again. Deep down I know I was made for loving Amelia, but despite that, our paths never perfectly crossed. You can love someone with all your heart, but if the timing is off, it never works out. And I’m not saying it’s timing that got in the way of my relationship with Amelia, but I’ve never had the best of luck when it comes to her. There always seems to be something in the way where we’re concerned, and I don’t think that’s going to change.
I scan the sets and check for loose screws, un-sanded edges, or spots that need paint touch-ups. I spend the next hour examining everything. The last thing I want to happen is for a child to get hurt because I didn’t double-check.
Mr. Buster charges through the backstage. “Twenty seconds, people. Get to your places.” He spots me and says, “Aaron, get the heck out of there, we’re about to open the curtain.”
“Yeah, okay.” I stand and work my way to the side of the stage where I lean against a pole and fold my arms over my chest, watching Mr. Buster count down. It’s comical, seeing this grown man take a children’s holiday musical so seriously. This is like his World Series; it’s almost as much fun watching him as it is watching the kids try to remember their lines, dance moves, and song lyrics.
The opening song plays on the piano and the curtain is drawn. The children mill about the “town” and sing “Holly Jolly Christmas” as Mr. Buster taps his foot off to the side, mouthing the lyrics and performing the dance moves himself. He’s a dance mom to the extreme.
“Everything looks amazing.”
I still, my eyes trained forward as the hairs on the back of my neck stand and goosebumps rattle over my skin. That voice. Like honey.
Unfolding my arms, I turn to see Amelia standing next to me, wearing a green dress with long sleeves that ends just above her knees. She’s wearing red earrings and her hair is in a low braid that falls to one side of her body, a small poinsettia flower tucked behind one of her ears. She looks beautiful.
“Amelia,” I breathe out, nerves wracking my body. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“Well, I did put together half of the set.”
“Oh, right.” I nod and swallow hard. Fuck, she looks so damn beautiful, my arms itch to pull her into my chest and keep her there forever. I turn back to the play, feeling more awkward than ever. Should I step aside and let her watch by herself? Should I give her space?
I’m about to do just that when she says, “Would you mind catching some fresh air with me?”
“Uh”—I look around, still thrown off that she’s talking to me—“Sure.”
I head toward the side door when Amelia stops me, and says, “No, this way.”
Confused, she takes me to the back of the school where we were told to park and leads me into the chilly winter night. Thankfully it hasn’t hit single digits yet, so even though we can see our breath in the air, we aren’t about to get frostbite.
“Over here,” she calls out, leading me around to a dark corner of the building, as she shrugs on her long coat. Eh, should I be concerned?