The old man in the corner turned to face her, moving inch by inch, until she could see his face, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the light of the flickering torches. “We’re always all alone,” he said, his voice cracked and worn.
Tamsin shook her head. She knew that wasn’t true. She had years of proof to the contrary. “No,” she said. “Not always. Not even often.”
“Oh,” the old man said, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of his being. “I forget you’re still young yet.” He coughed then, a dry, rattling sound. “Sometimes we get a little bit of a facade. We think we have people. Family, friends . . . but in the end, it’s just you and the darkness. Everyone leaves eventually, my young friend. It’s better, really, to learn it early. This way, you can save yourself some disappointment.” He sighed then and slumped back against the wall once more. “Because believing you’re not alone is the cruelest trick of all.”
—C. B. McCallister, The Drawing of the Two. Hightower & Jax, New York.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
I stood in the back of the Stanwich Community Theater, clutching my iced latte and a blended java chip drink for Palmer. I’d been at Flask’s, getting my usual, when I’d found myself blurting out Palmer’s order as well. I decided, there in the coffee shop, that I’d bring it over to her as a kind of a peace offering and hope she’d forgive me, so that we could start to sort this out. Because the longer my phone stayed silent, the longer there was no communication on our group text, the more worried I was getting. Toby and Bri were both equally stubborn, and I didn’t want to know what would happen if more than a few days of this standoff went on. I was afraid that at some point this would just become our reality. This had to change, and I knew I couldn’t do it without Palmer, especially since Toby wasn’t mad at her, as far as I knew.
But now, standing at the very back of the theater, looking at Palmer sitting at her stage manager’s table, her bright hair glowing in the dimness of the room, I was starting to get nervous about my plan. I ran my thumb over the condensation on my cup as I walked down the aisle to the row where her table was set up, telling myself not to be ridiculous. This was Palmer. I shouldn’t be nervous about talking to Palmer. But that didn’t change the fact that I was.
I hesitated at the end of her row, shifting my weight from foot to foot, waiting for her to notice I was there. But her eyes were fixed on the stage, where Tom was being yelled at by the actress playing Camp Director Arnold. I walked down the row, hesitating for a second before taking a seat next to her and placing her drink in front of her. “Hi,” I whispered.
“Ready follow spot forty-seven,” Palmer said, but under her breath, like she was saying it to herself. “Forty-seven, go.” She looked over at me, then turned to face the stage again.
“Palmer,” I said, leaning forward so that I would be in her line of vision. “Come on.”
“Ready sound forty-eight,” she said, half under her breath, her eyes moving between the stage and the marked-up script in front of her, making tiny check marks with a pencil. “Forty-eight, go.”
“Hold!” The bearded director stood up and started making his way to the stage, shaking his head as Tom and the actress moved downstage to talk to him.
Palmer looked over at me, then sighed and put her pencil down. “I can’t really talk,” she said. “I’m practicing calling the show.” She looked at the drink in front of her, and it was like I could practically sense her struggle before she picked it up and took a sip.
I took a sip of my own, to give me some courage, then blurted out, “I’m so sorry, Palmer.”
She looked back at the stage, where the director was now standing next to Tom, gesturing big, while Tom nodded and scribbled notes in his script. “What are you sorry about?” she asked, not looking at me. “That you lied to me about what was happening with Bri and Wyatt? That you asked my boyfriend to keep lying to me?”
“You don’t think I wanted to tell you?”
“But you told Clark,” Palmer said, looking at me evenly.
“I did,” I said quietly, knowing there was no way out of this. “But we have to fix this, P.”
“Yeah,” Palmer said quietly, reaching for her drink but just holding it for a moment and rolling it between her palms. “But I don’t know if we can.”
I sat back in my seat. This was what I’d been worried about, when I’d even allowed myself to go there. But hearing her say it was something else. The fact that she wasn’t seeing the best and looking on the bright side was almost more than I could take.
“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice coming out unsteady. “That we’re all just done? Friendship over?”
She took a long drink and then set her cup back down. “I don’t know.”
“Okay!” the director yelled, walking back down to the auditorium from the stage. “We’re picking it up from Duncan’s line, people. Let’s go!”