“The poboy!” As soon as I make the joke, I regret it. Moira’s scowl becomes a glower.
“And before that, the only pictures you were tagged in were on that awful hiking trip when you looked like a hippy.”
It was just two, and the pictures weren’t so bad. I favorited a couple of me and Sally that some Dartmouth students snapped of us outside of Hanover right at the end of our trek.
“A lesbian hippy,” Moira adds with venom.
Instead of calling out her homophobia, I bite my tongue, and maybe that makes me a coward, but I don’t need a fight right now. I still have a few minutes before we get back on set. Maybe even enough time to eat more lunch.
I glance at the perfect coral cubes of melon on my plate. Maybe I could just eat half of them.
“So, we’re agreed?”
I snap my focus back to Moira. What are we talking about? “Agreed?”
It’s a question, but Moira nods as though it’s my response.
“Good,” she says, smiling. “At least we can count on your looks. I’ll help where I can. If he asks you out, say yes.”
Then she’s gone as fast as she came, slamming the trailer door behind her.
And I’m left standing over a lunch I no longer want, realizing that I’ve just agreed to make a pass at my boss.
* * *
“He says he’s good,”Ramon announces as I climb into the back of the Range Rover. I collapse against the seat and stifle a groan.
Despite our early call time this morning, filming ran over, and I’m almost an hour late for dance lessons. At our last break, I told Ramon to text Beau Landry to see if we needed to reschedule. Knowing the guy has been pretty much forced into teaching me, I figured he’d seize the opportunity to cancel. Especially on a Friday night.
And then I could go home, eat dinner, and take a bath. And contemplate my solo weekend in the comfort of my pjs.
But, no. He says he’s good.
I slump lower on the seat as Ramon steers us past the studio barricades and onto the street. I. Do. Not. Feel. Like. Dancing. I never feel like dancing, but especially not tonight. I’m exhausted. I’m starving. And my seven-thirty dinner curfew is rapidly approaching.
But if I caved to those excuses, I’d never go to dance lessons, and I’d never learn these stupid routines. And I’m making progress. Sort of.
The ride to the dance studio is just minutes, definitely not enough time for me to perk up. I do sip a Perrier in the hopes that hydration and carbonation will give me a little lift, but when we pull up behind the old house, I’m still just as crabby and just as hungry.
Ramon and Sally hop out of the car, and I take my time climbing down, dragging ass across the gravel drive as my two best friends laugh and make eyes at each other.
At least I won’t have to put up with that all weekend,I tell myself.
Yeah, but you’ll be alone,I clap back.
I’m making myself nice and cozy in my mood chasm when I stomp into the studio’s kitchen and stop dead.
Beau Landry is standing at Mr. Hebert’s table, placing sliced apples on a tray. A tray that is laden with food.
Apples. A bowl of almonds. Giant Medjool dates. Kalamata olives. Pickled okra. Thick slabs of cheese. And some kind of little meatballs.
My stomach rumbles at the sight of it.
“Hey,” Beau greets us with a nod. “There’s food if anyone’s hungry.”
My jaw drops. Holy cow. My dance teacher made us a charcuterie board.
“Oh my God,” I murmur, mouth watering.
