Page 53 of Rebel Romeo

Actually a turnip might be giving him too much credit.

“Thanks,” I sneer.

Jill throws me a look over her shoulder and I shrug innocently.

While Jill preps the coffee, I push onto my toes, grabbing the caramel syrup to add to my chai. Something tells me it’s going to be the kind of day that requires a sugar boost for me. As I reach up, my retro tanktop pulls higher up on my waist, revealing a sliver of my stomach.

With a peek over my shoulder, I catch Creepy Curt at it again. Even though he’s clearly dating my best friend, his eyes are glued to my ass.

I slip a quick look at Jill, who’s still oblivious with her back turned to us. I clear my throat and Curt’s gaze darts up to meet my glaring eyes as two red splotches appear on his cheeks. Yeah, you better look ashamed, asshole.

He spins around and rushes out from behind the counter, busying himself with wiping down tables.

Feeling a little more at ease without him on my heels, I pump in two shots of caramel as my chai steeps. I thought I could hide here at the coffee shop until my rehearsal began, but there’s no way I can handle being around Curt and Jill for a whole hour.

Instead, I take the coffee for the team and head to the theater, hoping Jill’s right that it will help ease us all during what I assume is going to be an intense rehearsal.

I’m surprised to find the theater door unlocked when I arrive just before eight a.m., more than an hour before the start of rehearsal. “Hello?” I call out.

No answer. Maybe Maggie’s here doing some lighting cues or setting our props for the day. Regardless, I set out the coffee and fixings—paper cups, cream, sugar—on the director’s folding table at the front of the theater and then taking my tea with me, I head to the last row of seats in the theater to focus on my breathing.

I used to be so good at Alexander technique. I used to love entering the meditative state, but for years now, breathing and relaxing into my body has become increasingly harder. Now, I’m much more of a stress out until I make myself sick sort of prepper.

I lowered onto my back on the floor of the theater between the last row of seats and placed my palms to my belly, inhaling deeply, then releasing to the count of four.

Focus.

Find Skyler.

Forget about Missy.

Forget about Senator Dorsey.

I picture Nolan’s face. His eyes. Trying to place myself in the mindset of this character who betrayed him, but desperately wants him back.

I’m almost there. The tension in my shoulders melt away into the ground like butter in a hot pan.

“Missy, I cannot fucking believe you would do this without my approval!” Holden’s booming voice tears me out of my visualization and I nearly knock over the half-finished chai tea beside me.

“I’m the producer,” she snaps in return. “I don’t need your approval.”

“You’re only a producer because my father wanted to piss me off and assert his dominance over the show. And as the director, I should be the one to choose any and all understudies. Not you.”

“But you didn’t. So someone had to step in,” Missy says.

And I have to admit, on this one point only, she’s not wrong. It’s unheard of to have a show this far into rehearsals without understudies and swings in place. “And with only a few weeks until the show opens, we needed to cast these understudies ASAP?—”

“ I can’t believe you would usurp my authority like this. Actually, I take that back. I can believe it. This is who you are. You use people and stab people in the back until you get your way.”

“I wouldn’t have to do any of this if you had just made the right decision in the first place!”

“Which was what? Cast you as Skyler?”

I cringe and roll onto my side, peeking through the seats to where they’re standing center stage. They must have already been here when I arrived. Backstage maybe? My morbid curiosity makes me want to stay still. Lay here and listen to this fight. Because they don’t sound at all like the happily reunited couple they’re pretending to be most of the time.

I need to get out of here. Away from them. Maybe I can army crawl out of the theater? I roll all the way onto my stomach and slink toward the center aisle. The door is so close. They may not even see me if I can silently crawl.

“Fine, Holden. Fine. She’s talented. I admit it. But she’s not nuanced. She doesn’t know what it takes to do a show like this eight times a week.”

---