"Hey, Mom." I'm out of breath.
"Oh, did I get you at a bad time?"
"Just stopped for a water break. We're in the home stretch now. Tomorrow's opening night. We only have one more run-through tomorrow before it's real."
I wipe the sweat that refuses to stop pouring off of my face. Ugh. I'm totally going to have to wash my hair tonight. I don't have the curliest or coarsest hair out there, but at its length it's still tons of work. It's going to add at least two hours onto my night to dry and straighten it so I can get a wig on my head tomorrow. I try to minimize how often I straighten it because the heat can really damage my hair. But with this amount of volume, they'd never get that pink Gibson girl wig on over it if I left it curly.
I catch Mom up on everything and then get back to work. It's only after I finish my routines for the third time that I realize my critical error. My hands had sweat through all the chalk, and I didn't bother to replace it. Red callouses now line my palms, angry and sore.
I guess I'm done for the night.
By the time I grab a bite to eat, shower, wash and condition my hair, and then comb through it, it's well after midnight. Even though it will be more of a pain, I decide to go to bed with wet hair and straighten it in the morning.
Seven a.m. me hates the decision that one a.m. me made as I yank the flat iron through my hair. One a.m. me didn't consider that those blisters on my hands would be even angrier and would tear open while gripping the hot tool.
Shit.
I blow on my hands, trying to dissipate the pain. My next move is to go to Amazon and order a pair of trapeze gloves. Yes, such a thing exists. I'll have to tape over my hands today, which means my grips are going to feel weird. I'd better go and practice with the tape.
Still, because I'm a glutton for punishment, I try one time with my bare hands. That's a hard no. My blisters are now angrier, and I need to clean them well so they don't get infected.
I'm so distracted by my hands that I almost don't see Josh in the hall outside the bathroom.Almost.
"Hey," he says.
I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I hurt like hell. I'm also scared to death about going on stage tonight. The last thing I need is Josh jerking me around by being nice to me, only to pull away when I lean in. "Nope." I shake my head.
"Nope? What nope?"
"Nope, I'm not doing this today. I can't talk to you."
He puts his hand on my arm to stop me. "Les, what's wrong?"
"You. Everything."
"Me? What have I ever done to you?"
"You won't let me in. You're shutting me out."
"Do you blame me?"
I look at him. His hazel eyes are accusing. "Josh, that was so long ago. We were kids. You've got to move on."
He scuffs his foot on the ground. "Some things are easier said than done."
"So there's no hope for us?"
Josh shakes his head. My heart, holding onto a small bit of hope, breaks into a million little pieces. "I can't, Leslie. And it's not just that I can't; I don't want to."
He turns and walks away.
I stand there numb, kicking myself for saying anything. This is infinitely worse than how I was feeling before. Tears fill my eyes. He's never going to forgive me.
Not thinking, I grab a bottle of alcohol from my bag and take it to the bathroom. I pour it over my hands, trying to wash away any germs that might invade and infect me. You know, like the seeds of hope I'd held in my heart.
The stinging brings tears to my eyes. All I can feel is the burning in my hands. This real, tangible pain, rather than the one expanding in my chest, threatening to consume me whole.
Yes, this terrible pain in my hands is better. I pour alcohol on the other hand, tears flowing freely as I gasp with shock. This burning is so intense, I can focus on nothing else.
