Idiot.
Tapping on the notification, it leads me directly into theapp. There it is, clear as day, the small circular icon of her profile picture taunting me just as much as the bluefollow backbutton.
My thumb hovers over it, wondering why the hell she’d choose to follow me now, then realize it must have something to do with the theatre gig. Christmas was two days ago, and we never did discuss our whole agreement after that awkward moment at the dining room table.
A part of me hoped she’d somehow forget.
I decide not to follow her back,yet. Instead, I go into my message requests and, as expected, find one from Connie. It was sent over an hour ago. I open it, peeved for reasons I can’t express, and scan her message.
Hey Huxley, thought I’d reach out since we can’t really continue ignoring each other if you’ll be working for me soon.
The message is so dry that I feel my eyes turn to dust just by reading it. I clench my jaw hard and consider ignoring her, but the wordbratcomes back to haunt me, and I drag a hand over my mouth before typing out an equally dry answer.
Sure. Just tell me the time and place.
I turn off my screen but keep it clutched in my palm. Leaving DK eating in the kitchen, I walk into the living room and plop myself on the couch opposite Sophia. She doesn’t acknowledge me, her eyes glued to the screen. I pop some chips in my mouth for something to do as I wait for Connie to reply.
It takes her two hours to answer me, and by then I’ve come up with ten different scenarios as to why it took her so long. None of them are good. Most of them involve that fucking DJ, Gael. I’m in bed reading when I see her nameappear on my phone. I drop the book and tap on the notification.
So you still want to do this, then?
I roll my eyes.
I agreed, didn’t I?
This time, she answers almost immediately.
Ok
I’m hiring a company. I guess you can work alongside them.
HerI guessmakes me irrationally angry, but I take a deep breath and answer with a one-wordedOk.
Meet me at the Remington at 9 on the 5th.
That gives me about a week to mentally prepare, a feeling of dread at the thought of working for Connie already tightening around my throat. I type a quickSureand log off the app.
I never follow her back.
16
CONNIE
The smell of the theatre—anytheatre—is a comfortable and familiar amalgamation of odors. The scent of wood and a subtle hint of dust. Then there’s the tangy metallic scent of the stage lights when they’re first turned on, or the faint perfumes and colognes clinging to the costumes.
It smells theatrical. Like the tears of tragedy and the hearty laughs of comedy. It smells like the otherworldly scent of the muses floating above the stage smiling over us.
And I couldn’t be happier to be back on familiar grounds.
Today is the day.
I might not be the new ownerofficially, the paperwork is still ongoing, but it’s mine in every other sense of the word. The previous owners handed me the keys a few days ago, and I’ve been crawling out of my skin with excitement ever since. I’ve been dying to get the ball rolling.
Now, here I am, making my way down the empty aisle of the auditorium, waiting for the renovation crew to show up at nine.
I arrived an hour early, wanting to introduce myself slowly to the Remington before I took on my new role.
Everything is happeningso fast.
