Just how I like it.
That way, there’s no chance of backing out or getting cold feet. Full steam ahead. No thoughts, just gut feelings to help guide me through these life-altering changes.
Quietly stepping on stage, I turn to face the room and let out a pleased sigh, my palms flat on my hips.
The Remington might not be the biggest or most impressive theatre in Marsford Bay, but it’s certainly the oldest, with a long history and heritage attached to it. It’s revered fondly by all Marsfordian theatre nerds, including me.
The theatre opened at the turn of the century; the interior architecture influenced by the Italian Renaissance with accents of gold and red. Over the fan-shaped auditorium is a shallow balcony and a few box seats. My favorite detail of the spacious room is the domed vault ceiling paired with its opulent, but weathered, chandelier. It perfectly conveys the dramatic flair of theatre that we all know and love.
The regional theatre is beautiful and exudes a sense of wistful nostalgia that makes my insides feel all warm and tingly. But if I squint hard enough, I start to see the wear and tear of years past: Faded red seats, cracks in the wood, and even the paint peeling off the walls near the murals of lively theatre scenes. It’s in dire need of some TLC, and lucky for the Remington, I have the money to do just that.
A whistle near the auditorium doors snaps me out of my daydream. Startled, my gaze lands on Huxley, casually strutting down the main aisle, arms crossed as he looks up and around the room. There’s a grin on his lips that has me questioning if I’m seeing things.
“So this is the reason for your big return, huh?”
I can’t tell by his tone if he’s being sincere or if he’s just trying to fuck with me, so I choose to ignore his comment altogether.
I glance at my phone.
“You’re like, half an hour early.”
Huxley drops his backpack and jacket on one of the seats in the front row and walks up to the stage, holding a thermos. His buzzed blue hair has faded into a turquoise kind of green. He’s wearing the same boots as always, an old pair of blue jeans, and a black, faded Incubus t-shirt with white paint stains all over it. The short sleeves showcase the tattoos on his arms—if I’d have to make an informed guess, they were all acquired in prison—which just makes his whole …thingthat much hotter to ogle at.
God, this was a bad idea.
I step up to the edge of the stage, looking down at him. He’s still sporting that unfamiliar grin, and I’m now convinced we have a serious case of a body-snatcher on our hands.
“Soph dropped me off on her way to class,” he says. “I was waiting outside, but realized the front doors were unlocked.”
I drop down and sit, letting my legs hang over the edge of the stage, my palms flat to the ground on either side of me.
“Yeah, I’ve been here since eight.” I pause, still quite wary about how casual this moment between us feels. “No car?”
Huxley twists the cap off his thermos, and the soothing scent of coffee wafts between us, mingling with his own scent: A subtle mix of spicy black pepper and vanilla. My stomach immediately grumbles at the smell of coffee—I was too wired to eat this morning.
He takes a slow sip before answering my question, “I only got my license back a few months ago.”
“Oh, because of … yeah.” I’m not sure why the mention of his prison sentence turns me into a fumbling fool, but I don’t bother elaborating when Huxley just nods.
There’s a part of me that hungers for more of his story and if it was anyone else I’d be unapologetically asking questions. But because it’shim, I say nothing.
Silence settles between us just long enough for me to start to squirm. Surprisingly, Huxley doesn’t seem bothered by it,and I question his motives. Is this all an act? Did Ozzy tell him to be on his best behavior or else? It’s not as if Huxley ever heeded Ozzy’s warnings before.
Wordlessly and with a raise of his eyebrow, Huxley offers me his thermos. It takes me a second to move, but eventually, I take it out of his hand.
I take a tentative sip, not wanting to burn my tongue. I don’t miss Huxley’s eyes dipping to my mouth. The slow, deliberate slide back up to meet my gaze has my nape tingling.
“Black,” I state, trying to break this already excruciating tension. “I should have guessed.”
Huxley takes the thermos back and takes a sip, followed by another wry smile. “The coffee was such shit in prison. I used to put, like, three packs of sugar just to mask the taste.” A pensive laugh rolls over his lips, and my body suddenly feels electric. “I’ve kind of become a coffee snob since getting out.”
I can’t help but stare at him for a beat too long. This is the first time I’ve ever heard him be so upfront about prison. Then again, we've never really had a legitimate conversation without being surrounded by his family.
What if this is just a version of him I’ve never seen before?
Maybe he’sactuallymaking an effort to squash the animosity between us, and this unassumingly flirty demeanor is a natural part of his personality.
“I’m a croissant snob,” I blurt out.
