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I practically ran for my front door as if chased by a serial killer, my keys fumbling in the lock, unable to breathe until I was inside. The warmth wrapped around me, thawing my stiffened muscles a little.
Mom was sitting in the living room, a glass of wine in one hand and an interior design magazine in the other. HGTV’s House Hunters was on the flat screen TV. A young couple was wandering through a beach house, complaining mildly about everything.
“How was rehearsal?” Mom asked.
I stared. “You said you couldn’t pick me up every night.”
“And you said you’d find a ride.”
“Because you said you couldn’t pick me up.”
She sighed and turned a page. “Willow, after a long day I’m not going be up for traipsing through the cold at eleven at night. If you can’t get there and back, then you shouldn’t do it. You shouldn’t do it anyway. So silly and of no use to your college applications. Anyway, you clearly found a ride.” She glanced up at me. “Please tell me it wasn’t with that Pearce boy your father warned you about.”
I turned and stormed upstairs, her voice calling me back and then letting me go. I slammed the door to my room. The constricting cold squeeze from sitting in Justin’s truck had worn off, but I knew a night terror was going to get me. I could feel it at the edges of my consciousness, like a dark shape snickering and whispering.
I changed into my pajamas and bundled myself on the floor in my comforter beside my stack of books—strategically placed next to me—a makeshift wall of better stories than mine. As I drifted to sleep, I had the foolish belief they’d protect me.
But the pressing weight and choking lack of air came that night anyway. When I finally could draw air to breathe, I cried and cried.
Isaac
Of course, I thought, watching Willow leave with Justin Baker. That’s how it should be.
“Isaac.”
Martin nudged my arm. Too late, I yanked my gaze from Willow’s retreating form. Martin kept watching her head down the stairs, then turned back to me, a small smile on his lips.
“So. Willow Holloway.”
“What about her?”
“She’s going to make a fantastic Ophelia, won’t she? She’s nervous and a little stiff right now, but she has so much raw talent. In Act Four, we turn her loose.” His eyes gleamed as he waved at cast members as they filed out. “It will be magnificent.”
I agreed, but the thought made my stomach twist. Willow’s raw talent was born of something deep and dark. I witnessed it in her Woolgatherer audition. I recognized the heaviness in her eyes because I had it too. Loss and pain pressed down on her. She pushed through it with small smiles and a tough facade that wilted the second she turned away.
Willow was here for the same reason I was: to find some relief. To tell her story. For the first time in a long time I felt nervous about a performance, only it wasn’t my own.
“I don’t know, Marty,” I said. “It might be too much for her. Too difficult. I mean, because she’s so new to acting,” I added quickly.
“I think she can handle it,” Martin said, as the last player departed.
“If you say so,” I muttered.
Why do you care anyway?
Willow was a distraction and it was getting fucking annoying. During the entire read-through, I’d tried to keep focus on the play while my damn eyes kept going to her, radiant in a soft white sweater and jeans. The amber overhead lights threaded gold strands down the long waves of her hair. When she read her lines, her voice had a soft lilt with an undercurrent of steel. Perfect for Ophelia.
Ophelia was stronger than her dipshit brother or conniving father thought she was, and judging from her reading, Willow knew it too.
Goddammit.
I dragged my thoughts away from her hair—again—and vowed to get my head on straight. Do my job. Martin’s talent agents were coming for me. I needed to give them the best goddamn Hamlet they’d ever seen, not worry about the mental health of a high school girl.
Who is currently sitting in the front seat of another guy’s car.
The room was empty now, and I helped Martin stack up the chairs. The silence crackled and I could feel him gearing up to interfere in my personal business. He couldn’t help himself.
“Justin Baker seems like a nice young man.”
