Page 38 of Sawyer

“So, you have to promise me,” she says. “You have to promise that if you come over tonight, we’ll still be friends in the morning.” Her expression softens. “Friends withbetterbenefits, but still friends.”

I stare at her as she demands this pre-coital promise from me.And here’s the thing that she doesn’t want to know—I already have feelings for her. I’ve been in love with her for most of my life. And somewhere deep inside of me I feel certain that if I can spend the summer making love to her, she might just fall in love with me, too.

“I promise nothing will change,” I tell her.

I tell myself I’m not lying.Nothingwillchange.I’ll love her just as much tomorrow morning as I love her right this minute.

“Okay, then,” she says, her voice soft and low. “Take me to bed, Sawyer Stewart.”

“My pleasure.”

Chapter 5

Sawyer

“Sawyer,” says Bruce at Sunday evening’s rehearsal, “a little birdie told me that Quinn Morgan is home until Christmas and thatyouare best friends with him.”

“Yeah, Quinn and I go way back.”

“Well, dear boy, as much as I love Mr. Towler’s enthusiasm for the stage, I fear his age is all wrong for Hindley.”

In the corner of the stage, gray-haired Mr. Towler, who’s meant to play twenty-five-year-old Hindley, is fast asleep on a straight back chair. His snores can probably be heard in Anchorage.

“Good point, boss.”

“I approached McKenna to ask if her husband would consider taking over the part, but she assures me that Tanner wouldn’t dream of setting foot on the stage. Do you think Quinn could be persuaded?”

“I’m seeing him after rehearsal tonight,” I tell Bruce. “I’m happy to ask him.”

“Oh, would you?” Bruce claps his hands. “How divine! You’ll have my undying gratitude. And both of you will get a night of free all-you-can-drink beer at the Parsnip! Deal?”

“I think Quinn’ll do it just for the brew,” I say with a chuckle.

Bruce pats my shoulder, then sashays up to the stage, calling for everyone’s attention.

“People! People! Your eyes on me, please! Now, tonight, we’re going to run some of the Heathcliff-Catherine-Edgar scenes, so if you’re not in Act One, Scenes Five and Six, you havean hour to yourself. Sawyer, Ivy and Wyatt, come and join me on the stage.”

I watch Layla, Vera, Mr. Towler, and Mr. Hedgely head to the back of the theater and sit down at a small round table for their ongoing game of poker, envying them just a little. I’m not excited to do the scenes when Catherine shuns Heathcliff for Edgar. I’m afraid they might hit a little close to home for comfort.

“Now, Edgar,” says Bruce to Wyatt, calling us by our character’s names, “in this scene, Heathcliff has returned to town after being away for years. He knocks on the door of your house and asks to see Catherine, whom he grew up with, whom he loved. You don’t like it, but before you can tell him to go, Catherine sees him at the door.” Bruce looks at me. “Heathcliff, you’ve made yourself into a rich man, but you still haven’t learned how to be a gentleman. You want Catherine as much as you ever have, whether she’s married or not. And Catherine, you feel the same about Heathcliff, though you very much enjoy the creature comforts you’ve found as Edgar’s wife.” He gestures to the left side of the stage. “Heathcliff, you’ll start over there. Catherine, go to the opposite side and wait for your queue. Edgar, let’s pretend the door is here.” Bruce steps off the stage and looks up at us: “Scene!”

I pretend to knock on the door.

“Who is there?” asks Wyatt in his Australian accent that somehow gentrifies his character in a way that feels appropriate. He pantomimes opening the door and stares at me. Since I’ve memorized my lines, my hands are free. I pretend to take off my hat and gloves.

“The mistress of this house will know me,” I say. “Fetch Mrs. Linton.”

“Fetch her?” demands an incredulous Wyatt. “You dare to order me about in my own house, sir?”

I step past him into the house, bumping his shoulder with mine. “I’ll wait.”

“You forget yourself, sir!” blusters Wyatt. “I’ll have your name or—”

“Heathcliff. My name is Heathcliff.”

“What? The gypsy ploughboy? From Wuthering Heights?

“The same.”

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