Page 89 of Someone to Have
I’ve been dismissed. That’s okay. The tingling in my fingers has subsided, which means my panic is abating. As I leave the office, closing the door behind me, I think about how I curled into a ball on my floor during the last panic attack. Although I don’t have a brown bag in front of my mouth, I keep focused on breathing in and out, counting four on the inhalation and four on the exhalation, imagining Eric next to me, guiding my breath with his.
After a few minutes, my breathing and heartbeat settle to a normal rhythm. I’ve done it. I can do this. I don’t bother with the internal cheering—I reach around and pat myself on the back, recognizing the past few minutes for the win they are.
“Ruby slippers,” I whisper out loud, then go to find David so he can help me with my application.
Between our lunch break and lulls in a steady stream of patrons, we complete most of it before the library closes. There are a few more questions to fill out, but I want time to mull over my answers—even if that means thinking about them during drinks with Bryan or when we join the rest of the cast at Myrna’s for the potluck.
I’m tempted to use the deadline as a reason to cancel. If I’m being honest, I’d really like to talk through the questions and my answers with Eric. Not because he’s my coach, but because he’s become my go-to person.
I decided to stop home before heading to Tony’s. Eric’s truck isn’t parked in its normal spot, and no one answers when I knock at his door, which reminds me that my dad is hosting a team dinner tonight. He invited me, but I used the excuse of the castpotluck to get out of it, also choosing not to mention meeting up with Bryan. I’m not sure I’d call it a date, and I purposely don’t do anything to get ready to see him.
He’s waiting at a table toward the back of the bar. Happy hour on a post-snowstorm Friday night means the place is already popping, and I greet several people as I make my way over.
“You’re popular,” he says as I sit across from him. He sounds surprised, and I guess I don’t blame him. Sort of.
“Everyone knows my family. People in this town adore my dad and feel like they know me.”
He waves that away. “I wish the English and theater departments at the high school got as much attention as sports do. If I had a dime for every time the athletic director came down on me for giving a tough grade to a player right before a big game, I could retire.”
There’s something about the way he words the comment that gives me pause. “Do you purposely try to tank GPAs before games?”
He slaps a hand to his chest as if I’ve wounded him, but there’s a smile—and not a nice one—curling the edge of his mouth. “Of course not. I think it’s important that students keep their focus where it should be. I went to a high school with a big football program, so I know all about favoritism.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But student athletes work hard to balance sports and academics. Just like kids in choir, art, or theater do.”
He gives a noncommittal shrug. “There’s a big world beyond the field, rink, or court, but I don’t want to talk about sports.”
“Me neither,” I agree. I don’t want to talk at all. Not to him. Bryan is legit giving me the ick. Avah says there’s no coming back from the ick.
As he picks up his wine glass, I glance at the second one sitting in front of me and push it in his direction.
“Oh no, that’s for you,” he says. “It’s a pinot noir.” He pronounces the second word with a heavy French accent.
“I don’t drink wine,” I tell him. “I’m more a margarita girl.”
He laughs, then picks up the glass and hands it to me. “That’s your lack of sophistication,” he assures me. “I have excellent taste, if I do say so myself. And this place, for all its small-town charm, actually has a decent selection. I think you’ll like it.”
I take the glass because that’s what he wants, and take a small taste, trying not to wrinkle my nose as the bitter liquid hits my tongue.
“It’s good, right?”
“Yes,” I agree, even though I’d like to spit it out. I’m going to have a headache tomorrow—even a sip of wine gives me a headache—but I don’t want to disappoint him when he seems so satisfied at broadening my alcohol horizons. I might be learning to be braver, but people pleasing is a hard habit to break.
“The production is shaping up nicely,” I say, realizing I’m unsure what else we have in common.
“Not exactly the caliber of talent I’m used to, but I think the audience will be happy.”
“You’re a great director.”
“I am. And you’ve come a long way.”
I offer him a genuine smile. “Thanks, it feels?—”
“But you still have a ways to go,” he continues, speaking over me. “We’ll get you there. Next week, we should spend more time together after rehearsals. You can come to my house to run lines and…” His smile seems to hold an unspoken promise. “Who knows what might happen?”
It’s a question I no longer want to answer, and I’m not sure what to do with that realization. Would I have felt this same unease before Eric, or am I only seeing the calculating undertone now because my heart belongs elsewhere? Am I using my feelings as an excuse to avoid confronting what I should have recognized all along?
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