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She leans so far forward that she’s barely on the chair. “I’ve put in some shots I took in Greece—just columns and stuff, to give the idea of a building. I mean, if you actually want to build something tangible, you can, or we can print this on a screen, too, and fly it in on the edge.” She’s getting excited. Her face pinks and the register of her voice rises. Pretty soon she’ll be impossible to hear with human ears.
I pull the paper from the other side of the folder. It has a fabric sample stapled to the top. “This is the screen?” I ask.
She nods, moving even closer on the edge of her seat. “I like this one best. I mean, there are more, and you can look at them, but this one holds the ink best, and I love the way the light filters through it.”
I almost stop listening to her words, she’s so distracting. I can’t concentrate on the conversation because I’m thinking so completely about what I might get her to talk about next. I want to find something to discuss with her every day, something she is this invested in, something that would make her this excited.
She explains qualities of the fabric that lend themselves to the stage effects she’s hoping for, and I allow myself to feel relieved; it’s kind of awesome to have someone else as invested in a show as I am.
“So, how’s the script?” she asks, still looking at the folder in her lap.
“It’s good. Maybe it’s great. I’ll let Hank decide.”
She glances up at me and then back to her folder again. “Why does Hank get to be the one?”
I count out the reasons on my fingers. “Shakespeare expert,” I say. “English teacher, British guy. Oxford education. I think he’s actually related to Anne Hathaway—the one who was married to Shakespeare, not the actor.”
“Those are pretty good reasons, I guess,” she says, smiling down toward her knees. I wish she’d look up and smile right at me. “But you’ve got to know if it’s great yourself, right?”
I let out a half-breath. If only. When have I ever known if something I’ve done, chosen, or performed was great? I may talk like I know I’m amazing, but she brings that bravado out in me. It’s too hard to be honest and vulnerable with Joey. And I don’t have the confidence she gives me credit (or blame) for. I realize I’m staring at the ceiling and I come back to the point.
“It’s good. That’s a start.”
Joey nods and stands up. “Good. Yes. That’s a start. And meanwhile, the fly-in screens are going to make people weep with joy.”
Oh, that grin.
“Promise?” I ask.
She moves toward the door, looking over her shoulder at me. “I guarantee at least one person will leave the theatre weeping. I’ll do it myself, if I can’t find someone else.”
Could she be more perfect? The woman knows how to make an exit.
I follow her to the entry and lean across her to open the door. “That’s a very generous offer,” I say. “Thank you for coming by.” I want to say more. I want to touch her face. I want to ask why she left so quickly the other day, right in the middle of such a perfect moment.
“Can we talk about what happened?” I ask.
Her gaze flits from the door to me. “What happened here? With us?” she asks.
I nod. “You avoided answering a lot of texts.”
She sighs. “Dexter, we kissed. It happened. It was fun. It was good. Great, maybe. But we can’t.”
I start to interrupt, to tell her that we totally can.
She holds up a finger, as if asking me to wait one minute. “It’s my first year. This job is important to me. And I want the chair position. I can’t break rules. I can’t.” She lifts her shoulders, as if saying there’s nothing more to say.
There is so much more to say.
No. Better not. I don’t want to convince her of anything. I want her to remember how great it was (she said it was great, right?) and come back, willingly, for more.
“Bye, Dexter,” she says.
I want her to say it again. Not so much the goodbye part. My name has never sounded so good.
“Bye, Joey.”
I lean on the doorframe and watch her walk away. Her steps, small and precise, make me want to dance with her. Her curtain of hair swishes at her back.
