Page 9 of Phantom
“I’ve missed you, too,” I automatically answer before extricating myself from his hold and trying to get a grip. My heart still hasn’t calmed down and seeing my childhood crush has it going off the charts.
“So you’re a Chatelain?” Jaime asks, his voice nearly a monotone. “Whatareyou doing here?”
“Um, Jaime, he’sfromNew Orleans,” I whisper harshly. “He has every right to be here.”
“Not on this side,” Jaime adds cryptically.
“Jaims, what does that even mean?” I chuckle and narrow my eyes at him to cut the attitude. But his expression is guarded and strained, and his gaze is solely on Rand.
Thankfully, Rand doesn’t seem fazed by my friend’s sudden rudeness, instead observing the room with that piercing gaze of his.
When we used to sit and people-watch during the day on Bourbon Street growing up, I thought Rand’s clear eyes made him practically omniscient. He seemed to know everything about everyone, even the tourists. As he studies my dorm room now, I wonder what he’s thinking.
There’s the small living room, my makeup-slash-study desk corner, and a kitchenette. In the other room is a simple bedroom and an adjacent bathroom. It’s not much, but it’s more than living out of a suitcase and after traveling with my dad all my life, that’s all I need. Still, that old girlish habit of trying to impress him rears its ugly head.
“Sorry, Rand, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. The guy just needs a good tequila shot after a show. He’s a shadow of his normal self when he’s already given everything to the stage.”
“A shadow of his normal self, huh?” Rand really focuses on Jaime for the first time and glances at him up and down. “The New French Opera House is neutral,” he states without further explanation, confusing the hell out of me, but Jaime seems to understand as his eyes narrow slightly. It’s like they’re speaking in some kind of strange boy code.
“Okay… well, to be fair, youdohate opera. Or at least you used to.” I elbow Rand in the ribs and he rubs his side playfully.
“I don’thateopera. Your warbling as a kid wasn’t ideal, but tonight? Fuck Lettie, you were a vision.”
His eyes rove over my white lace dress and I shift on my feet from the intensity of his gaze. I can’t stop my nervous smile as I silently wish my anxiety medication would freaking kick in already.
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing a little bit since my warbling days.”
Rand laughs heartily and the tension breaks in the room. Sort of. At least until he walks toward my desk. When he picks up my pill organizer and shakes it, the air in my chest freezes.
“Are you sick? I saw you taking medication.”
“Wow. So not your business.” Jaime tsks.
A blush heats my cheeks. I totally agree, but I answer anyway, “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. It’s nothing. Just a little anxiety.”
He shakes my pill organizer for emphasis again. “That’s a lot of drugs for just anxiety—”
“No joda, Chatelain—”
“It’s okay!” I interrupt before my old best friend and my new one are at each other’s throats for no reason again.
These types of conversations make me want to crawl in a hole and hide, but I’ve promised myself that I would normalize it. The cast knows. The whole school practically knows. Why not my childhood friend?
“The medicine is because… I have bipolar disorder. Type one, to be exact.” I shrug my shoulders and resist the urge to curl the rest of the way into a ball.
Rand’s jaw goes slack and his tan cheeks redden as he sets the pill organizer down. “Oh, shit. I’m… Scarlett, I’m sorry. I didn’t–”
I wave away his apology. “No big deal. Or at least I’m trying to make it not a big deal. It’s just like any other illness. If I don’t take my meds, symptoms can flare back up. The only difference is that sometimes my symptoms mean I can go a little cray.” I smirk at my friend who’s seen it all. “Jaime knows.”
“Yeah, no need to get a suite at Château Psych anytime soon.”
Rand shifts uncomfortably at our jokes. His blond brows have nearly shot up to his hairline, but I can tell he’s trying his best to be nonchalant as he not so casually wraps his arm around my waist. A shudder races up my spine like a cold chill. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot to tell me, Little Lettie. What do you say we catch up over drinks?”
While I practically worshiped him as a kid, that abruptly ended right before he went back to boarding school. We’ve both grown up now, though, and things are way different than they were back then. Our age difference doesn’t matter anymore, for one. Honestly, he’s a catch, and I should be ecstatic over all the attention he’s paying me right now. But ever since Dad died—and everything that happened after—it’s been hard to get excited or even be around people at all.
That’s why I like the voice.
I shake the thought from my mind, remembering that I’m supposed to be answering the veryrealpeople right in front of me.
