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Beckett
Filing into Darling High School,I’m a little thankful for the crowd of bodies around me slowing my progress.
We’re in the Performing Arts part of the building, and even though I didn’t spend much time on this side of the school when I was a student here, I’m still hit with a wave of nostalgia. Only instead of calming me, that nostalgia just mixes with my nerves causing a sludge of unease.
I was confident in my persuasion skills right up until I parked my truck a few minutes ago.
Cornering Elouise as she sells tickets for tonight’s play – a musical version of Clueless – is not ideal, but it’s all I got.
My steps slow, and I let a pair of grandparents pass me, biding my time.
I’ve had so much time to plan what I was going to say to her, but now I can’t remember a single goddamn word.
The crowd shifts and for the first time in a week, I see her. And she looks fucking beautiful.
Something loosens around my ribcage, and I feel like I can finally breathe again.
No more waiting.
This is it.
I’m gonna get her back.
Reclaiming my place in line, I shuffle ahead until there’s only two couples ahead of me.
Elouise is sitting behind a small card table, with a stack of folded programs in front of her and a small tablet with a card reader in her hand.
Half her body is covered, but it doesn’t matter, because even sitting there in a hard metal chair, she’s glowing. Fucking glowing in a white sweater that looks as soft as I know her skin to be.
The dramatic lighting of the auditorium lobby shines off her wavy chestnut hair. And even with her head tipped down, I can tell she’s smiling. The curve of her cheeks, the light laughter in the air. And when she brushes her hair over her shoulders, I swear I can smell the citrusy floral of her shampoo from here. A scent that’s been haunting my dreams.
She lifts her head and hands the credit card back to the man in front of her, then the next couple steps up.
The closer I get, the more settled I feel.
This is right. Everything about us is right. And it’s time for her to understand that.
Completing the payment, the couple ahead of me picks up a pair of programs then move on, heading for the auditorium.
She’s tapping something into her screen, still looking down, when I hold my credit card out. “One ticket, please.”
I watch as she stills, her pointer finger still pressed against the screen.
After an eternity of seconds, she lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine, and the universe clicks in place.
“Hi, Smoky,” I keep my gaze on hers, and see the flicker of anger at my use of her nickname.
Good. Anger I can deal with. It’s hurt that’ll kill me.
Her jaw clenches as she reaches out to take my card, making sure our fingers don’t accidently touch.
Elouise looks down as she selects the number of tickets, then swipes the card. The screen swirls as it thinks, then signals the transaction complete.
But she doesn’t hand me my card back. Instead, she keeps it in her palm, on her lap, and looks past me to the next person in line.
“How many tickets?” she asks the family behind me.
She’s craning her neck to see them, so I step to the side of the table and allow them to approach.
