GRACE
Tonight was one of our better shows. A sold-out crowd, barely any prop failures. Then there was that split-second when Connor locked eyes with me during the second act, where for a breath, we were the only people on the ice.
I wanted to ride that feeling a little longer, but Connor’s not in the main dressing room, and most of Reverie’s cast has already poured into the attached lounge for after-show pizza. Stories and laughter fill the air. I search for Connor amongst the crowd.
There he is, pacing by the tunnel that leads to the main arena with his phone clamped in his palm. He’s still in costume. He hasn’t noticed me, which is a minor miracle considering my scent is doing cartwheels.
I’m halfway there when he checks his phone again. His skin goes the color of the moon. Not just pale—emptied. Something ugly in my chest reacts.
“Connor.”
He doesn’t look up when I call his name.
“Connor. Are you okay?”
He turns and sets his jaw hard. “I need to get to St. Joe’s. Now.”
St. Joe’s is the nearest hospital. I look him over. “Are you hurt? Is it?—”
He exhales hard. “Not me. It’s Fowler.” His grip tightens on the phone. “Zev just texted. He got injured up on a fire call. It’s bad.”
I reach out on instinct to grab his arm. “What happened?”
He shakes his head, mouth twisted like he can’t decide between anger or worry. “Zev said there was a roof collapse. Fowler was underneath.” He speaks fast. “They’re both at the hospital.”
Tears well in my eyes while panic grips my heart. “Can I come?”
I have no claim to ask, no reason for Connor to say yes. Right? They rejected me. I rejected them back.
But we’re friends now. Or at least, warm acquaintances, and it’s clear Connor’s understandably worried.
“Please, I care about him,” I add. “About you all. This is probably the worst time to say it.”
But we kissed.
But we all are still scent-matched.
Our bodies agree we are a pack despite what our minds say.
Connor nods slowly. His peppermint scent flares. “All right, yeah. Come on.”
We wind through the backstage chaos. I grab my bag from the lockers. Connor is silent, following with the kind of force field that keeps everyone ten feet away. When we hit the parking lot, the world is abruptly cold and the sky feels indifferent, huge and gray with city light.
“I’ve been keeping my car here.” Connor gestures to the back row of the lot where a lone Traverse sits. “Let’s take that.”
I follow him over. He opens his car door. I slide in and buckle up. The interior is clean—no fast food wrappers, not even a stray bottle cap.
Connor doesn’t start the engine for a second. He grips the wheel and stares out at dark. “I know we’re not…” He trails off, chewing the words. “You don’t have to come, I mean.”
Since we’re not a pack. Barely even friends.
I hold his gaze. “I want to. I told you I care.”
He nods, then puts the car in gear. Whatever we are now—something less than a pack but more than enemies—has shifted, but now isn’t the time to think about it.
I watch the arena shrink in the rearview as we pull away.
Hospitals have the worst air.It’s cold, recycled, and heavy with every human feeling. The bright lights blare down on everyone, too.
