If that’s the only way I can get an invitation to cross this painful line drawn in the sand, the one protecting us both, I’ll take what I can get. Even though I’m sure Rachel Mackey wouldcasuallywreck me if I gave her the chance. All I can do is hope, and wait.
* * *
There’sa certain painful beauty in it being a Saturday night. I leave her at her doorstep and then I have two full days to overthink every second because of her work schedule. I could call or text. But my bravery left when I did and I can’t help feeling like I’ve messed this up before it even started. I make up for it by working myself into exhaustion at the theater, starting with the process of ridding the space of its musty and old interiors.
Sweat dripping, and making me absolutely miserable, I head out to the hardware store multiple times over Sunday and Monday to find the right way to unbolt the seats from the floor.
On Tuesday morning, earlier than I’d usually be communicating with Rachel about the day ahead, I find a text message from her, sent at a ridiculous time last night.
Rachel
Hey, I’m not feeling too hot. Is it okay if I work on some actual coding and ideas today and I can present them more formally once I’m done?
No worries.
I’m starting with clearing the space before it’s usable and it’s been a mess of physical labor. Knowing that the “after” is being taken care of is a huge relief.
Take the week to work on it and we can evaluate together after that?
Perfect. I’ll keep you updated!
Same! Have a good week
You too!
Oh god, I sent an emoji. I’ve never been the kind of person to do that but I’m petrified that she’ll misconstrue my tone. It’s always my fear that I’m either not understanding the underlying mood to an encounter or sure I'm interpreting people correctly, or I’m worried I'm not coming across correctly. Most of the time though I feel totally oblivious and worried I'm missing something crucial.
The slow death between me and Stephanie only served to amp all that up and in the face of something so new, so unformed and barely there with Rachel feels like a wisp of smoke, or a soap bubble. One wrong move and it’ll dissipate.
So, I wait but mostly I hide. My hands ache at the end of the day, dust chokes the back of my throat from carpets older than I am and leave my sinuses miserable. The dumpster behind the theater is full of discarded seats and parts of the floor that have ripped up with them. I’ve got one room gutted and feeling pretty good about my prospects. My days start and end with this space and I collapse into bed after scarfing down the food my mother leaves in the microwave for me.
I should join them for dinner. I should make more of an effort. But the hyperfixation has kicked in and I need to see this motivation through to the end before I lose it. Though there’s nothing like procrastinating something to get me to focus on something else. If I put off thinking about Rachel and the non-thing that happened between us then it only serves as fuel to get the job done.
Of course this has nothing to do with the fact that the sooner you get stuff done and the business up and running, the sooner she won’t be your employee anymore.
My inner bitterness crops up, taunting and teasing me more so than usual the last few days. I’ve never been able to lie to myself, to hide from my thoughts, no matter how close to the vest I keep everything. Part of why I’m avoiding my parents is because I know they’ll see through it in less than a minute. Though that comes with the perk of knowing me my whole life. So, I wallow in silence and work until my knees ache from kneeling and my hands are a mess that’ll eventually become calluses. One can only hope.
By the next Thursday, Logan steps in to pull me from my misery.
“What are you doing on Saturday?” His voice comes through the speaker phone as I try to undo a stripped screw.
“More of the same. I’ve been trying to get the rooms empty so we can start actually making something of this dump.” I grunt as the wrench slips and my hand bangs against the metal keeping the chair in place. Stifling a curse under my breath, I inhale so deep the air rattles in my lungs.
“You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe a room themed after something local? Or lean into the theater aspect and do movie-inspired ones,” Logan suggests.
“I’ll bring it up to Rachel but I like the sound of it. It’ll be unique at the very least.”
Logan sighs. “I didn’t mean to give you more work. I was actually calling to tell you to take a break.”
“Can’t today, or the next week. I’m at a crucial point.” It’s a lie. I could break whenever I want but I still don’t know what to say. All that talk about processing the conflicting feelings roiling within me and all I’ve done is brood instead.
“Fine. Then the Saturday after. Two weeks should be far enough in advance for your calendar to allow it. It’s Pride and Kate—my neighbor that came with us to that bad escape room which set all this shit into motion—she’s a bit apprehensive about going single, especially since she’s sure to run into her ex-girlfriend and her new partner. I told her we’d be there for moral support.”
Grimacing from the pain radiating across my knuckles and the prospect of putting on my “people” face in a huge group of strangers, I fight with myself to say yes. The only thing I hate more than the idea of hot, sweaty bodies and large crowds is disappointing the people I care about.
“What time?” I ask.
“It starts around ten a.m. but you can cut out whenever you want. I just?—”
