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God, I had to get out of Harmony, I thought as I walked, and lit a cigarette.
But Willow… Maybe, after I made my fortune like the heroes do in the stories, I could come back to Harmony.
The thought stopped me cold in the bright sunshine. In all the years of plotting my escape, coming back had never factored in.
“Shit,” I muttered as I blew smoke out my nose. I was finally on the verge of getting out for good and I meet the one thing that could bring me back. The universe had a sick sense of humor.
Fuck that, I’d focus on Hamlet. I’d take all these thoughts about
Willow and give them to Hamlet. He could pine for her and regret their separation. He could be angry at her father and murderous toward her brother. Keep all this shit onstage, where words written hundreds of years ago could speak for me.
That evening, when rehearsal began at seven, Willow wasn’t at the theater.
Neither was Justin.
“We’ll give her a few minutes,” Martin said.
Twenty minutes later and still no sign.
A heavy feeling settled into my gut. I reached for my phone to text Willow, but she buzzed me a text first.
Isaaaaaaaaac I’m outside and OGM I am sooooooo drunk :D:D:D
“Oh, shit.” I grabbed my leather jacket off the back of a chair. “It’s her. I’ll be right back,” I told Martin.
I stood on the sidewalk outside of the theater, looking up and down the street in both directions. Finally, half a block away, in front of the liquor store, I saw her. She was standing with the group of guys—older men, not high schoolers—and laughing loudly.
I covered the distance between us in about three seconds. “Willow.”
“Isaac,” she cried, her face lighting up the way drunk people do, as if they hadn’t seen you in ten years. “Oh my God, you’re here.”
She slung her arms around my neck and I smelled a sharp bite of whiskey on her breath.
“You guys, this is Isaac. Isn’t he beautiful? He is so beautiful.” She placed her palm on my face and patted my cheek. “He’s a genius actor. He’s Hamlet. You see that big sign up there?” She jabbed a finger in the general direction of the HCT marquee with HAMLET coming soon in black lettering. “That’s him.” She smacked my chest with her hand. “He’s our Hamlet.”
“Willow, what are you doing?” I eyed the three guys who watched her with amusement.
“With the help of these fine gentlemens, I am purchasing some beer,” she said, with slow and careful enunciation.
I looked at one of the guys. He shrugged. “She gave my buddy fifty bucks for a six-pack of Heineken.”
“And you think it’s cool to buy underage girls beer?” I slipped my arm around Willow’s waist to hold her up. “Come on, let’s go.”
“No,” She pushed herself away from me, stumbling slightly. “I am not leaving here without my beer.” Her angry expression melted into joy as another guy came out of the store with a black plastic bag. He stopped when he saw me watching him darkly.
“No, no, no.” Willow wagged a finger at me. “No one tells me what to do.” She took the plastic bag from the guy and peered inside. “Oh, yes. Perfect.” She chucked him on the shoulder as if they were old buddies. “Keep the change, my friend.”
The guys moved on, laughing and shaking their heads.
“You gave him a fifty for twelve bucks’ worth of beer?” I asked.
“So what?” she said. “Back home I drank more than fifty bucks’ worth of my dad’s million-year-old Scotch, I’ll tell you that right now.”
“You don’t need to tell me,” I said, her whiskey breath wafting over me. “Willow, what happened? What is going on?”
She gave me a funny look. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m getting trashed.” She started to rummage in her plastic bag trying to wrangle one of the beer bottles out of its container. “You want one? Nobody likes to drink alone.”
“Not here, Jesus,” I said and took the bag away from her.
