Page 103 of Play the Part

Huxley's expression turns sheepish, and I almost turn around and leave him standing there. But something has me rooted to the spot. Morbidly curious to see what he’s going to say, my anxious breaths making my chest heave up and down.

“I’ve been —” He groans, eyes to the sky before dragging his hand over his face. It’s as if he’s already struggling to come up with something to say. His pleading gaze lands back on me as he takes a step forward. “Look, I’ve been meaning to, trust me, I have. It’s just that —” He groans again, shaking his head. “I just couldn’t find the words.”

Unimpressed, I suck on my teeth and stare at him.

“You look like you’re struggling now, too,” I mutter. Tightening my arms across my chest, I try to ignore the cold rain now steadily falling on our heads. “Why don’t I help you, okay?” Arrogance and contempt drip from my every word as I take a step closer in some subtle power play. “Why don’t we start with I’mso sorryConnie that I’m a huge fucking asshole and fucked someone else thefirstchance I got.” I cock my head to the side. “How about that?”

Huxley takes a step back as if I’ve physically struck him. It’s a cheap thrill and only lasts a few seconds, but I smile devilishly nonetheless.

But his expression shifts from shock to outrage in a split second. He lets out an off-putting laugh as his lip curls, baring his teeth.

“Don’t you fucking get it?” he spits, glaring at me sideways and tapping his temple aggressively.

The rain is falling even harder now, the water sluicing down both our faces, but we ignore it.

I roll my eyes, acting impatient. “Get what, Hux?”

He takes another step closer as he starts to answer me—or more like yell, his voice loud and angry.

“There’s no oneelse, Connie.” His nostrils flare, looking more riled up by the second. I don’t move. I don’t dare move. “I just went out with that girl to make you jealous. Do you not get that?” His eyes are wild, his face much too close to mine. “I didn’t touch her. The thought of even kissing her made me fuckingsick.” His voice cracks, but he spits the last words with such venom that I wince.

For a few tense breaths, he falls silent. The raindrops cling to his long eyelashes, hugging his parted lips, dripping down his chin.

This moment feels bigger than us.

It feels like I’ll remember this moment for as long as I am alive and breathing.

“Don’t you get it?” he repeats, his tone softer now, laced with a visceral kind of hurt. “I fucking love you, Connie.”

The earth shifts on its axis, my knees buckling under me. I’m split into two. One who wants nothing more than to fall into Huxley’s arms and forget it all. Forget how we started. Forget how we got here. Forget everything. Except for us, standing in the rain.

To our dismay, she’s not the one who decides to speak when I finally open my mouth.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it, Huxley.” I pause, my bottom lip trembling. “You don’t try to hurt someone you love.”

Huxley barely moves, but his eyes widen as if he’s just been shot. And maybe I’ve been hit too. It would explain the searing pain in my chest.

I walk away, leaving a trail of blood behind me.

The next day,in a measly effort to push the thought of Huxley as far away as possible from my mind, I decide to sit in on an early evening rehearsal with Virginia and Nacho. We have one more month of rehearsals before Hell Week begins, followed by opening night the second week of April, and things have gone surprisingly smoothly.

At least one thing in my life is.

It’s also been quite the thrill to witness the play I’ve written come to life. If I were in a celebratory mood, I’d be gloating right about now.

I’m watching Mary-Beth monologue as Kate when I get a text from Oliver. I swallow down my groan, trying to be as silent as possible as I skim over his message.

He’s back in town.

Even after I told him not to bother last week.

He thinks I was joking. I was not.

And I’m fairly certain that he believes that his flying here is this grand romantic gesture when it’s anything but. It’s so obvious that it's simply spurred on by guilt. I might havesomesympathy for his addiction, but it’s not as if he was being held at gunpoint when he cheated on me. He should stop trying to fix what’s been slammed into a million pieces.

I sure have.

Leaning into Nacho’s chair, I whisper, “Do you think we can have the actors take a quick break while I show my ex around the theatre? I wouldn’t normally ask that, but he’s close by.”

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