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When the last cast member had gone, Martin locked the side door and crossed the stage. He stopped when he saw me sitting in the front row, arms crossed, my boots kicked up on the lip of the stage.
He held up his hands. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s for the good of the show, I swear.”
“Really.”
“Yes, really.” He came to the edge and sat on his heels. “You can turn your Hamlet into a jerk who rants and raves against Ophelia and chalk it up to his madness. And ninety-nine percent of the audience won’t know the difference. But two people will.”
He pointed at himself and then me.
“I know you have more than that in you. And yes, I’ve seen the way each of you looks at the other when the other can’t see…” He rubbed a hand over his incoming beard. “I’d love to see something happen there.”
“Jesus, Marty…”
He held up his hands. “None of my business. The quality of the play, however, is my business. At the very least, you two need to be on stage in a way that says, ‘this is not the first time we’ve been in the same space.’ Right now, you both look like boxers getting ready for a match.” His hands became fists, protecting his face.
Despite myself, a little laugh snuck out. He laughed too and knocked my boot with his hand.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
We closed and locked up the theater. As we headed to our cars, he tripped on a crack in the cement. My hand shot out to grab him before he could fall.
“Yikes, thank you,” he said clutching my arm. “That’ll take ten years off a guy.” He glanced down at the crack, shaking his head. “It’s bad. This entire block, actually. It all needs work.”
We walked on, my gaze fixed on the sidewalk. He was right: cracks snaked along much of the cement, like black lightning.
“How are things with the theater?” I asked, a sudden lump of worry sitting heavy in my gut. “Money-wise?”
“Things,” Marty said with a smile, “are fine. You concentrate on your part.” He headed to his older model Lexus. “And have fun tomorrow on your date.”
I sighed. “Marty.”
“Your working date.”
Willow
Mid-morning on Saturday, I grabbed my phone and typed a text to Angie.
Help!
Are you being held for ransom by pirates? she texted back. Because I sleep in on Saturday, Holloway.
I have to spend the day with Isaac.
My phone lit up with Angie’s number. I hit the green button and answered, “Yes, I’m serious.”
“Why? When? How did this happen?” Her voice was equal parts sleep and indignation. “Whoa. Is this—pause for dramatic effect—a date?”
“Absolutely not,” I said, making my firm voice belie the flutter in my stomach. “Martin Ford asked us to hang out and get to know each other better. So we’re not so awkward on stage.”
“A likely story,” Angie said. “Ok, what’s with the S.O.S.?”
“I need a ride into town to meet Isaac.”
“Doesn’t Isaac drive? He’s got an old blue pickup, if I’m not mistaken. Hold up.” Her voice dropped. “You’re not ashamed to be seen in his truck, are you?”
“For God’s sake, I’m not a completely shallow bitch.”
“I know, but us plebes need to stick together against the bourgeoisie.”
