Page 8 of First Impressions of You

“Melina, listen to me,” he begs. His voice takes a graver tone when he repeats, “Melina.”

I don’t remember what my lines are. I don’t remember these words being in the script at all. But I do as he asks. I focus on him, pinned by his pained expression, which softens as soon as I stop fighting.

“It’s me,” he pleads, an infinity of emotions in those two syllables. “It’s Arthur. Look at me.”

I take in the man in front of me as if I’m rediscovering him. I trace every inch of his expression, studying every wrinkle on his face. I free my right hand from his grip, and I reach his skin with a whisper-like touch. He flinches, as if the contact burns him.

“Arthur?” I ask, trailing the line of his eyebrow with my thumb. “My Arthur?”

I hear his breath hitching when I add “my” before his name. His eyes close for a breath, and when they open again, they’re darker.

“Yes, my love,” he declares, years of longing lacing his words. “I’ve always been and will always be yours.”

His chest expends with the deep breath he takes. I feel the vibrations in my skin, rippling through my body. His hand leaves my wrist and cups my cheek. I close my eyes as I lean into his touch. He closes his eyes as well, and I wait for the inevitable touch of his lips to end the scene.

I feel the warmth of his breath. I can almost taste his lips. He’s a hairsbreadth away from my waiting mouth when the director calls, “And scene.”

My body takes a second to understand the scene is over, and it’s a second too long. Winter’s already on his feet, and I’m still on the floor, chest heaving as I try to reconcile what just happened. My brain knows that it was all acting, but my body doesn’t. No matter how hard I try to send it the message that none of it was real, my skin refuses to cool down.

I get up on shaky legs and go stand next to Winter, but it feels like we’re magnetic fields repelling each other. The closer we get, the farther I want to be. It takes effort standing this close to him, but I try not to read too much into why. I’m pinning it on my dislike of him. It’s less troublesome than thinking that maybe his proximity has a different effect of me now.

Hiding my frustration is hard when Emily doesn’t make any comments. She dismisses us with nothing more than a thank-you and a promise she’ll be in touch.

I want to ask her what she thought of the performance. I want to know if I stand a chance or if I ruined it all the moment I decided to keep going after my fall. I want validation, and hers seems the most pressing right now.

But I get nothing. Not a single word of feedback.

Winter, I can see, is more than pleased to be quickly dismissed. He all but runs offstage, and I hate him for his lack of care. Doesn’t he want to know who’ll play his princess? Doesn’t he care enough about this play to be interested in the cast? Does he really think he’s so superior?

I follow him outside the theater, hoping to catch him before I lose him in the crowd of the park. As soon as the door opens, the brightness of the sun outside almost blinds me. I blink a few times to adjust to the light, then narrow my eyes to look for him.

He’s pulling his baseball cap over his hair when I finally spot him near the stonewall benches.

“Winter,” I call, but either he doesn’t hear it, or he pretends not to. He keeps walking. In a few steps, he’ll be out in the open, quickly engulfed by the crowd of park goers. “Winter Davis,” I shout, and he finally comes to a halt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, stumping towards me. There’s a tightness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. His nostrils flare, and muscles strain against his skin. I take a step back, his reaction taking me by surprise. “Don’t scream my fucking name.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I shove a finger on his chest, but all it does is cause a bolt of pain to travel all through my body. How hard can a chest be? He looks down to where I touched him, a look of disgust in his eyes as if he hadn’t just hovered his entire body over mine a minute ago.

“What is wrong with me? You’re the one who followed me.”

“I’m regretting that already.” I cross my arms in front of my body.

“What do you want?” he asks impatiently. I notice his eyes flickering around as if trying to gauge the situation of the crowd in the park.

“I was going to ask you if I’d done something to offend you, but you know what? I think you being rude has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the stick up your butt.”

His lips quiver at that. At first I think it’s in anger, but then I realize he’s actually trying not to smile at my comment. For some petty reason, his amusement at my expense makes me hate him even more. He considers me for a beat, then he takes a deep breath.

“It’s not you. It’s—”

“Oh no.” I wave my hand, stopping him. “Do not ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ me.”

“What?” His face contorts in confusion. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t going to say it’s me. It’s definitely not me. It’s—” He flails his hand around as if to show everything but never finishes the sentence.

“What is it, Winter Davis?”

“Stop—” He closes the distance between us, hissing as he pulls his cap lower. “Stop saying that.”

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