Page 88 of Specters & Spotlights

Graham didn’t leave.

He hovered by the door, waiting for the bustle to clear, then walked back in with a deliberate calm of a man reporting for a shift he had apparently assigned himself.

“My turn tonight,” he said, leaning against the wall by the wig station.

Elise paused with one hand on the wig block. Even knowing about their ridiculous alternating-nights arrangement, actually seeing him there—unwilling to let her be alone in the dark—did something soft and inconvenient to her chest.

“You really don’t have to do that,” she said.

He shrugged. “Maybe not. But I also don’t mind the excuse to spend more time with you.”

The corner of her mouth twitched as she picked up the hair dryer. “Do you say that to all the girls?”

His expression shifted. “No,” he said evenly. “I don’t.”

She glanced up, intending to nudge him with a teasing smile, but something about the sincerity in his voice stopped her short. Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Come on,” she said, brushing through the rain wig with practiced ease. “A guy like you? Leading man, perfect hair, perfect jawline... I’m sure people throw themselves at you constantly.”

The smirk that flickered across his face didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Right. Because that’s all there is to me.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “I didn’t mean⁠—”

“It’s fine,” he said, too quickly. He glanced toward the door, then back. “I’m used to it, really. Just because Graham-the-actor is typecast as the leading man, people assume that Graham-the-person must be like that offstage too.”

There was a pause, heavier than either of them expected.

“This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is actually very far outside my comfort zone.”

Elise switched off the hair dryer and set it down.

Graham was still leaning there, looking maddeningly at ease—and yet, there was something in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers fidgeted slightly in his pockets, that felt less like aloofness and more like nerves.

Graham glanced up. “Can I say something that’ll probably ruin my mystique?”

Elise arched an eyebrow. “You have a mystique?”

He gave a small, almost bashful laugh. “I’m shy.”

She blinked. “You’re… what?”

“Painfully shy,” he repeated, as if the word tasted strange in his mouth. “Always have been. I just learned early on that if I act detached and disinterested, people stop looking too closely. You keep the armor on long enough, eventually it fits.”

Elise tilted her head, trying to match this admission with the version of Graham she saw onstage—commanding, elegant, confident. “But you’re literally a romantic lead.”

He gave a small smile, then shrugged. “Onstage, sure. That’s the role. There’s a script. A mark to hit. I’ve had a lot of practice pretending to be the guy everyone falls for.”

His voice softened. “But that’s never really been me. Offstage, I get in my head too much. I overanalyze every look, every word. It’s easier to stay a little removed—to act like I don’t care—because if people don’t really see me, they can’t reject me.”

She studied him, seeing through something now. “You really believe that?”

“Oh, I believe worse things too,” he said, still half-joking. “I’m wildly insecure. High-functioning, mostly. I panic over punctuation in texts. I rehearse jokes in the shower. I’ve already convinced myself I’m not your type, and I’ve been waiting for you to come to your senses.”

Elise blinked. “You’re… shockingly self-aware.”

“I’ve got a very expensive therapist,” he shrugged, smiling wryly. “Figured I should get my money’s worth. I’ve tanked enough relationships to realize I need to face the baggage instead of hiding it. So this is me—trying something new. Leading with the chaos. Did it scare you off yet?”

She stepped back from the wig stand, brushing a few stray hairs off her apron. “Honestly,” she said, voice soft but teasing, “it’s kind of working in your favor. Especially since you already know I come with my own suitcase set.”

“Haunted, hexed, and high-functioning,” Kevin added dryly from somewhere nearby.