Page 132 of The Score

“Dean!” I shout over the music.

He pays me no attention.

I grab the remote from the coffee table and stopthe music. Silence falls over the room, and his blond head jerks over in surprise. “Hey, babe. I didn’t see you there.”

“Hey.”

I sit on the edge of the couch and gently pry the bottle out of his hand. To my surprise, he doesn’t protest. And I think he’s more buzzed than drunk right now, because he doesn’t slur his words when he says, “You got rehearsal tonight?”

I shake my head. “No, but dress rehearsals start tomorrow.”

“Shit. Already?”

“Opening night is on Friday,” I remind him.

“Oh. Right.”

He acts as if he’d known that, but I’m pretty sure my play hasn’t crossed his mind in weeks. He hasn’t shown any interest in what I’m doing. In whatanyoneis doing. It’s like he’s frozen in place, stuck in that harrowing moment when he found out Beau was dead.

Everyone else is continuing to live their lives. Including Beau’s family. Joanna is still performing on Broadway. We’ve been emailing since the memorial, and she told me both her parents went back to work last week.

Dean is the only one refusing to move forward.

“Baby…” My throat squeezes, worry and fear forming a knot in my windpipe. “You’ll be there on opening night, right?”

His green eyes flare. “Why would you even ask me that?”

Because you weren’t there for Beau’s memorial.

I bite back the accusation and draw a deep breath. “I’m just making sure, that’s all.”

“Of course I’ll be there.” For the first time inweeks, I glimpse genuine emotion in his eyes. Honest-to-god warmth. “Where else would I be?”

He’s not here.

Widowopens to a packed auditorium and closes to a standing ovation. The tears swimming in my eyes when Mallory and I take our bows have nothing to do with the overwhelming response we received from the audience.

The spotlight makes it difficult to see a single face beyond the first three rows, but the second row is all I need to see, because that’s where my friends are sitting. Well, standing, because they’re on their feet applauding along with everyone else.

Hannah. Garrett. Megan. Stella. Justin. Grace. Logan.

Hysterical laughter threatens to spill out as I scan the familiar faces and experience aWizard of Ozmoment. Andyouwere there andyouwere there andyouwere there—and you know whowasn’tfucking there? The man I love. The man who promised he’d be here.

Backstage, I dutifully accept hugs and accolades from everyone who was involved in the production. Steven. The student producers. Our faculty adviser. The art students who created the sets. The lighting crew. The senior who played my dead husband lifts me off my feet and spins me around. Mallory hugs me tight enough to steal the breath from my lungs, then spends five minutes apologizing profusely for being such a flake at the beginning of the project.

I barely hear a word she says. Tears stain mycheeks, but I think everyone assumes they’re happy tears.

Everyone assumes wrong.

There’s an after-party for the cast, crew, and friends at Steven’s off-campus apartment tonight, and I assure my director that I’ll be there. But I won’t. At least, not right away. I have somewhere else I need to be first, and when Hannah texts to find out if we’re meeting outside the auditorium or in the parking lot, I’m already behind the wheel of Dean’s BMW, my shaky foot pressing down on the gas pedal.

When I pull up in front of the house, I’m startled by the amount of vehicles parked on the street. And there are four unfamiliar cars in the driveway, so I’m forced to park on the curb.

I hear the music before I even reach the front door, which is unlocked. Anger floods my stomach, bubbling and simmering and reaching a boil when I enter the living room.

It’s full of monsters—man monsters, with a few petite women in the mix. Because of their sheer size, I determine that the guys lounging on the couch and armchairs and leaning against the wall must be football players. The girls, who knows. But I’m gratified to see they’re draped over the football dudes and not my boyfriend. Dean is alone, sprawled in an armchair with his eyes closed.

As if he senses my presence, his eyelids pop open, and his face lights up when he spots me in the doorway. His happiness is short-lived, though. I’m still in the gingham housedress that my character wore tonight. I’ve still got my stage makeup on. My hair is still pulled back in a harried, messy bun. I’mnot Allie right now. I’m Jeannette. And Dean’s eyes widen in panic when he realizes what that signifies.

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