As Dallas starts talking about summer storms in that rich, low voice, my make up brush clatters to the table and I turn to march toward the exit. Need open skies. Need fresh air.
Need a chance to replay the last ten minutes in my head over and over, trying to figure out what the hell any of it meant.
Four
Dallas
As soon as the red light blinks off, showing that I’m no longer live on air, I step down from the weather stage and set off to find Shelley. There’s thirty minutes until my next segment; thirty minutes for me to find the make-up girl and do some damage control.
Christ.
I’ll need a hell of a lot of damage control after that mess of a conversation. What was I thinking?
The snack table is busy, with a throng of crew workers arguing with Brenda by the coffee machine, but there’s no sign of Shelley. I check her station too, in case she’s powdering someone in her chair, but nope. She’s turned tail and run.
A headache squeezes my temples.
Can I blame her?
My gut churns as I do a loop of the studio, checking every shadowy corner for a sign of Shelley. Of course she’s disappeared like a wisp of smoke; of course I freaked her out back there. Going on aboutviceslike that, making her uncomfortable.
I should be ashamed of myself. Iamashamed of myself. We’re at work, damn it.
And now I need to find Shelley and apologize—and reassure her that it won’t ever happen again.
“Hey, Dallas.” A voice follows me to the studio back exit, calling over the hubbub. “Dallas!”
Reluctantly, I turn to face the sound guy as he hurries after me, red-faced and panting.
“Yes?” I ask, my voice uncharacteristically sharp with impatience.
Can’t he see that I’m busy? Can’t he tell that I just freaked out the woman I care most about in the world, by clumsily half-confessing my crush?
“You’re still micced.” The sound guy gestures to my lapel, grimacing apologetically. “Sorry, man. You can’t take the kit outside.”
“Oh. Of course.”
Standing stock-still, it takes what feels like a year to get the mic pack off my belt and the wires out from beneath my jacket. The studio lights throb overhead, the argument from the nearby snack table makes my temples ache, and all the while, all I can think about is Shelley.
The way her green eyes went wide when I confessed to havingvices.
The way she held her breath, stepping a tiny bit closer. The blush that spread over her cheeks. The way she strained to hear my every word over the din of the studio, pulse tapping in her throat, like she was… like she washopingfor something.
And… what if I didn’t freak her out?
What if shewantedto hear that stuff, and I’m so clueless about women that I missed those cues? What if that was my shot with her and I blew it?
“Nearly done,” the sound guy says, cheerful despite everyone else’s bad moods. “Got all tangled up there, didn’t ya?”
He has no idea.
I nod, jaw clenched, not trusting myself to speak without saying something rude.Shelley. Where did she go?
Thirty seconds later, the heavy door to the TV studio parking lot swings open under my palm. It’s midday, but the dark storm clouds gathered high above make it seem much later. The air is warm, and the static humidity makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Shelley?”
My voice echoes along rows of shiny trucks and expensive cars, all glossy beneath a fine layer of dust. When those clouds finally burst, this whole city will get a good wash, and lots of parched yards will slurp up the rain.
