“None.”
“I won’t move back in.”
“But you and Amber—all right, whatever you want,” Tobin amends hastily.
“We don’t say ‘I love you.’”
He flinches. “Okay.”
“Deal,” I say quickly, afraid of how his feelings can still grab my heart and yank.
“What ifIhave conditions?” His eyes are unaccountably dark. He’s leaning in my direction, making me aware I’m leaning in his. I’ve never seen him so focused. Not asking—demanding.
It occurs to me that I wasn’t the only unhappy one.
A chill breaks across my skin. “What do you want?”
“Ten weeks to finish the book. We commit to saving this marriage, for real, before I leave for the summer season.”
“Ten weeks is too much,” I whisper.
“I gave you everything you wanted,” he counters. His sun-and-whisky hair falls over his eyebrows, framing a frowny V-shaped line I can’t stop staring at. When did he get all those angry, pretty muscles in his neck?
Every second I’m in his orbit, I’m in danger of his gravity pulling me back in. I want his sunshiny power to win people over, but I can’t ignore the risk of becoming his shadowy moon, with no light of my own.
“Eight weeks. As many as we get done.” That’ll take us to the annual retreat and the pitch competition.
“Deal. We start next week.” He swings out of the truck fast before I can stare my fill at the rest of him.
I wrestle my suitcase out of the cab, not at all missing his help, and head back to Amber’s. On the way, I stop to open my Notes app.
FIND IMPROV PARTNER.
Check.
Chapter Seven
Believe in what’s happening in the scenario. Open your heart and your mind to the reality you make together. If you’re only going through the motions, your scene will never come to life, and your chance to create a shared consciousness will pass you by.
—The Second Chances Handbook
There’s something about the sight of six grown-ass adults filing reluctantly onto a baseball diamond—without any baseball equipment—that makes the part of my brain that says “funny” and the part that says “awful” start fighting over who gets to ride in the front seat.
There aren’t a lot of flat spots for fields in Grey Tusk. It’s a long, narrow town squished into the lowest part of a twisty, uneven dip between peaks, and the highway eats a four-lane stripe through the middle of everything. For this reason, the community center shares precious field space with the high school. Even then, the outfield is cut short by Grey Tusk’s version of a Green Monster: thick-trunked cedars flanking the mountain’s steep, sudden rise.It must be fun to nail a home run into the trees and send the other team on a search mission for the ball.
Tonight, only McHuge looks like he’s having fun. He’s taking a chest-expanding lungful of April evening, ever the idealistic sitcom dad whose ideas are destined for disaster. I bet Naheed’s classes aren’t doing this. My efforts to get into Naheed’s section failed—even the wait lists are full—but at least David couldn’t transfer either, judging by the fact that he’s still here.
McHuge pulls me aside. “Did you get a chance to practice this week?”
“I did a couple of hours of free association, some word games, some—”
“On your own? You need a partner, Liz.”
“I might meet up with someone next week.” Or I might not. I could still pull the rip cord and stay safely away from Tobin. My neck prickles at the thought of McHuge finding out my improv partner is Tobin and our textbook is his book. So awkward.
“See? You put the intention out into the universe, and voilà! Tonight, I want you to think about opening the creative flow with your classmates.”
We look over at the pool of improv talent. Sharon’s waving both arms at imaginary bugs. Jason frowns at the kids playing hide-and-seek in a giant hollow stump nearby.
