I make a note to tell Virginia that he’d make a good Petruchio. As the director, she’s in charge of the casting, but as the producer, I still have my fair share of influence.
“So, are you not going back at all? What about all your stuff?” Jamie asks, picking up our conversation from earlier.
I shrug nonchalantly.
“I’ll just have movers pack it all up and ship it here when I finally find a place.”
“Don’t you —” Jamie pauses as if thinking. “Don’t you want to have at leastsomekind of farewell to your life there?” Her tone is dejected, as if even thinking about it breaks her heart.
My smile is slightly morose when I look at her, but I break the moody tension with a joke. “I’m not the nostalgic sucker here.”
She purses her lips as if insulted. “You’re acting like a sociopath, Constance.”
I chuckle behind my hand, and Jamie does the same.
“Wow,” I say playfully, elongating the word for extra effect. “Did you just government name me? Must be serious.”
“Idid,” she whispers harshly. “You can’t lie and say that this isn’t you running away from all your problems.”
I turn thoughtful, my gaze sweeping over the Remington, a new actor now auditioning on stage.
“But look where it got me,” I answer seriously. “You can’t tell me this feels like a mistake.”
Jamie’s gaze turns watery, and she’s seconds from crying, but miraculously manages to hold it in. She smiles weakly and shakes her head. “No, this isn’t a mistake.”
I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear my best friend say those words until just now. Relief washes over me like a cool, rejuvenating wave.
“Have you heard from Oliver?”
My mood sours, but I answer her anyway, “Not since he checked into rehab before the holidays. And if thereisa God,” I say, being purposefully dramatic, “I’ll never hear from him ever again.”
“You never really had closure with that either —” Jamie starts, but I cut her off.
“Jamie.” My tone is slightly irritated. “Drop it.”
She holds up her hands in surrender and settles back into her chair, grabbing the half-eaten bag of M&Ms from my lap. We watch more of the auditions in silence.
I’m startled by Jamie’s excited waving until I see Huxley walking up the aisle toward the exit doors. He looks like he’s been working up a sweat, his white t-shirt and hands stained and dusty. Taking the bottom hem of his shirt, he lifts it up to wipe his face, giving me a full view of his toned stomach. I cough, trying to hide my audible reaction to his physique.
He’s effortlessly sexy, and I want to crawl under my seat and pretend I never saw him like this. I swallow hard, trying to save face, especially in front of his sister-in-law.
Huxley waves back, barely a hand gesture at all, paired with a thin-lipped smile. He doesn’t stop to say hi before disappearing out of sight.
“Huxley is allergic to small talk,” Jamie mutters, then looks at me. “How is he? Staying out of trouble?”
I puff out a sardonic laugh. “He’s not a teenager anymore, Jamie.”
“I know,” she whispers back, popping an M&M into her mouth. She chews, looking pensive. “We just worry about him, you know?”
“He’s fine.” I try to placate her feelings by adding, “Turns out the foreman is his woodworking teacher.”
Jamie lights up as if I just told her the greatest of news.
“He is?”
Her smile is so sweet it makes my teeth ache.
“Yeah,” I answer, chuckling at her reaction. “They seem to get on pretty well.”
