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My hands twitched. I was tempted to wipe my face clean so he wouldn’t see me cry.
But then I realized he was staring at me so openly, with such intense interest, there was no point. I was busted.
I met his gaze head-on, daring him to say something, to do something.
He looked like the angel of death. Not beautiful. Not homely. Just . . . different from everyone else. In an impressive, frightening way. He was holding a hardback with a photo of outer space on the cover.
Why are you here, in the most important moment of my life? Why do you care?
He stood up, turned around, and walked away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WINNIE
The wine-red curtain falls over the stage. Rahim, Sloan, Renee, and I clutch each other’s sweaty hands in death grips. We’re all shaking. I can hear my own heartbeat through the sound of cheers and claps.
You survived a human experience. Congratulations.
“Hey, Nina.” Rahim bends down, whispering in my ear. “You killed it out there. Proud of you.”
Letting out a nervous laugh, I rise on my toes to hug him, then the others. We just delivered the first, full-audience show of The Seagull.
Not only did everything go smoothly—the acting, the lighting, the design, the music—but there were actually four important critics in the audience.
“Who did you spot out there?” Sloan elbows Renee as we rush backstage, cheeks flushed and exhilarated.
“The New York Times, The New Yorker, Vulture.” Renee rips the wig off her head, wiping the sweat from her brow. “The big dogs, Sloan. I can’t remember the last time there was a full house in Calypso Hall, let alone one where critics attended!”
“And did you see the Times Square billboard?” Sloan slaps his own cheeks, squealing. “My boyfriend sent me a picture between acts. I almost died on impact. I can’t believe Corbin shelled out the dough for marketing. He doesn’t give a rat’s ass about this place.”
“Times Square billboard?” I whip my head in his direction. “He did that?”
“Yes, girl.” Sloan gathers me into a hug, spinning me in place. “And it’s big and glorious. It’s only got your face on it, but all of our names. You should take a picture of it on your way to the bar.”
Arsène humored my one, sole selfish desire. Allowed me the indulgence of a billboard with my face on it. Even though we left off at the New Amsterdam without finishing our game. But why?
Because he wants you to give him all the information that you have about Paul and Grace. He doesn’t care one iota about you.
But there was something else too. I have an inkling Arsène really wants to bring out the self-interested side of me. To show me that I, like him, care about myself. It makes me feel uneasy. Mostly because I think he’s right. I think deep down, there is a part of me that’s selfish. I’ve just never let it loose.
Was he here tonight? Will he attend the after-party down the street? There’s no telling with this man. He comes and goes as he pleases. A renegade in a suit.
I can’t stop thinking about our kiss. I’m not sure if it made me exhilarated, offended, delighted, or all three. It was so urgent, so dark, so desperate that it felt like sipping a magic potion. I haven’t heard from him since the night at the gala, which, I remind myself, is a good thing. We’ll have enough time to find out what happened between our loved ones. There’s no need to form a relationship with the awful man.
The cast changes into their party clothes. I slip into a pair of jeans and a strapless black top and put on some lip gloss. The entire time, I remind myself that I hate Arsène Corbin. And even if I want to see him tonight, it is only because he is the main source of entertainment in my life these days. Nothing more.
Renee and Sloan cab it together to the venue. Rahim and I do the same, making a stop in front of the neon Times Square sign so I can pose in front of the billboard.
We arrive at the Brewtherhood to find it brimming with the entire cast and crew, their friends and family, and some industry people. We advance toward the bar. Rahim spots his girlfriend ordering a drink. He gives my arm a squeeze. “I’ll go get Bree and get you a drink. What’s your poison?”
My Tennessee heart wants whiskey, but after the New Amsterdam incident, I suspect spirits may not be my friends. “White wine. Make sure it’s not too tasty. I really can’t afford to get drunk.”
“One gross-ass chardonnay coming right up.”
I scan the room, knowing exactly who I’m looking for. I give myself a mental slap on the wrist.
What’s wrong with you? You’re exactly like Nina. Drawn to an impossibly tragic hero. A Trigorin. A misunderstood rebel with a cause. A fallen foe.
