Page 58 of Tourist Season
Breaths shudder in my lungs as I weave through the patrons and make my way back to the auditorium entrance. My hands are shaking. Sweat itches at the nape of my neck. I suck in air like I’mdrowning, trying to calm my raging pulse. With a longing look toward the entrance of the ladies’ restroom, where I’m tempted to let tears fall in the privacy of a bathroom stall, I keep going, reluctant to leave Arthur alone with Nolan for longer than necessary.
And when I sidestep my way back to my seat, that concern is proven to be valid.
“Why are you there?” I ask, pointing to where Arthur sits. There’s an empty space between him and Nolan. “You’re supposed to be inthatseat. Next tohim.”
“It’s the tourists. They kept trying to take that seat,” Arthur hisses at me in a whisper of disgust. He waves a hand in Nolan’s direction without looking his way. “This man suggested I move over one place and he would help me keep the one in between us free for you, so I obliged.”
“But I promised you Milk Duds,” I say, rattling the box.
“He offered me Maltesers.”
Arthur gives me a smug look as he digs into the half-eaten pack of Maltesers for another ball of chocolate-coated malted milk. My mouth drops open.Fucking traitor. This is the last thing I need after the encounter with Sam Porter in the lobby. My thoughts are already spiraling through my grasp, pinging through my brain as though my skull can’t contain them. I can’t even manage a cohesive retort. I just close my mouth and shimmy past Arthur to drop into the empty seat between him and Nolan.
“I thought you were getting popcorn,” Nolan says, though I barely register his words, my thoughts consumed by the encounter in the lobby as I scan the audience in my hunt for Sam.
“Yeah … popcorn. I was …”
I don’t know where Sam went. Though I turn enough to dart a glance behind me, I face forward after only a moment, unwilling to let him see how much he’s rattled me if he’s still watching.I try to anchor my focus to the stage where the drawn curtains rustle, the stagehands on the other side finalizing their preparations for the show.
How do I keep my past out of this place? How do I stay hidden on the other side of the curtain when someone is gripping the rope, ready to pull back the darkness and force me into the light? What more will everyone be able to see if he thrusts me onto that stage?
“Harper.” It’s the concern in Nolan’s voice that shoves me out of the alternate realm I’ve dropped into and back into the real world. It’s as though he doesn’t even try to hide it. Like it’s real. Not part of a game, not a trick. Not a lie.
“What?” I ask, though it comes out weaker than I wanted it to.
Nolan searches my face. There’s darkness in his eyes. It has an edge that will cut to the bone, if I let it. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” I try to break my attention away, but it returns to him as though I can’t fight the pull of his tide. He’s washing me out to sea. “I’m fine.”
“What happened?” he repeats. He lays a hand on my arm. I swear it sends a current all the way to the base of my spine.
I give him the slightest shake of my head. Maybe most people wouldn’t even notice. But I know he does. When I bite my lip, his gaze drops to the motion. “It’s nothing you can fix.”
“Who are you?” Arthur demands on the other side of me. We both turn toward the elderly man sitting to my right. Suspicion is a thin veil for the confusion in the cataract haze of his cloudy gray eyes. “Are you bothering my daughter?”
A sting bites at the back of my throat. I can see Arthur trying to match up connections that don’t fit. Flickers of emotion pass across his face. He knows I’m not Poppy. But he also knows he loves me like the daughter who was stolen from him. Just like Ilove him like the father I lost. Like the friend I needed most when I was alone in the world. It’s fucking heartbreaking to know that someday soon, he won’t remember me at all. But the hardest moments of Arthur’s dementia are the ones like this, where his most painful memories are dragged out to sea and muddled in the churning waters of time, only to crash in on him once more. It’s the cycle of forgetting life’s most devastating moments and jumbling them up with the present. And then, most cruelly of all, remembering them all over again.
When I return my attention to Nolan, his brow is furrowed, his eyes searching. They traverse every detail of my face, hunting through flesh and bone. I’m not sure what he sees. Maybe a wisp of panic, though I do my best to hide it. I hate the thought of him finding the chinks in Arthur’s formidable armor. I hate the thought of him finding a weakness inme. I know he sees something beneath the unyielding mask I’m trying and failing to maintain. There’s some kind of awareness blooming in his features. It’s in the lines that deepen between his brows. It’s in the curves and creases of his eyes. It’s in the flesh of his lips as they part to let a breath slide free. And then, with a blink, his expression clears. His hand lifts from my arm. He leans forward and extends it over my lap to Arthur with a faint but welcoming smile. “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Nolan Rhodes, sir. Pleased to meet you.”
Arthur looks to me as though searching for reassurance before shaking Nolan’s hand.
The lights dim. The two men settle back into their seats at my sides. A spotlight flicks on. The band starts up, wind instruments in a melody that weaves through hushed whispers and quiet coughs and shuffling fabric.
Nolan’s hand finds mine in the dark. He doesn’t look over to see a tear slide down my cheek. But he squeezes my hand like he knows it’s there. I close my eyes. And I can almost see it, the way a little light glimmers in my heart. His touch is a beacon in the night.
The curtains slide back from the stage.
And then the real show begins.
BALLASTHarper
NOLAN HOLDS MY HAND THROUGHthe entire first half ofBeauty and the Beast. When the show really gets going Cape Carnage–style and the fake blood starts spraying and my eyes stop leaking, his thumb begins to draw gentle circles, tracing the skin that’s almost healed from the burn. An absent-minded pattern, as though this touch is so easy and natural that it’s second nature.
I can even picture it, us as a couple sitting comfortably in the dark. What if it were a real date? Would we go for dinner afterward? Would we talk and laugh like normal people do? It’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself the indulgent daydream about being with someone that I didn’t truly realize how much I’ve missed it. The empty space in my chest aches in a different way than it does when I think about Adam and the way he was taken from me. I know I miss him. I know I’m lonely. But it’s inthismoment, with Nolan’s warm hand wrapped around mine, that I realize the truth of what I’ve really been doing these last four years. I think I’m starting to understand the true impact of the trauma I’ve been trying to hide from. I’ve been so focused on surviving my grief that I’ve forgotten about living.
It’s a nice change to ache for want, rather than for loss.
When the lights come up for intermission, Nolan squeezes my hand before finally letting go. I face him, trying to blink away the feeling that I’m waking up from a long sleep. “I’ll get that popcorn,” he declares, as though he won’t take any argument. “Anything else?”
