Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (79 page)

I push a hand against my mouth, sighing into it as I watch Dessie.

It hurts, just to see her.

I saw her every day this week at rehearsal, and every day was a knife to my gut that drew no blood. The wound’s always too deep to see, and I went home every night with the pain of it. No amount of squeezing any fucking pillow could quiet the ache.

Against any scream in the world, emotional pain screams louder.

The first intermission almost catches me by surprise, so entranced and pained by watching Dessie onstage that I lose track of time. After a sigh, I suck in my lips and mash fingers into my phone.

ME

Is Brant still being weird?

Not ten seconds later, I get my reply.

DMITRI

It isn’t too bad.

You know him.

I think he’s bowling.

Hey, you do realize

I’m in the audience tonight,

right?

I snort. I was so wrapped up in worries and frustrations of Dessie that I completely forgot about him being here to support Eric who, I might add, plays a very convincing drunk choir director Simon.

ME

Yeah, of course.

Hope you liked act one.

There’s two more.

Get ready for some #feels

DMITRI

You should talk to her

after the show.

I sigh, pushing my phone away after that text. Doesn’t he realize there’s really no fucking use? Her parents are here. They pretty much serve as a wall of protection between us. I’ve already upset her enough.

It’s funny, how Kellen lost the fistfight, but won the battle.

I take deep breaths, count the minutes, and prepare for act two.

Houselights down. Stage lights up. We move into act two, taking place three years later—as explained by the helpful Stage Manager. I get to watch George and Emily in a flashback where they fall in love, and then they get married in the present, despite their misgivings.

Dessie kisses someone else’s lips onstage, and I feel my cock twitch. I know what power lives in those unassuming lips of hers, power I’ve had the joy of knowing intimately.

Shit. I’m getting hard. Not the appropriate reaction I was expecting to have.

Act two tumbles into the second intermission, during which I need to take a serious fucking leak. Since the lighting booth so intelligently empties into the lobby instead of backstage, I slip into the main lobby bathroom around the ten-minute mark, just to give enough of the audience members time to handle their own business before I do mine.

After releasing the Nile river into the farthest urinal, I flush it and push my hands under a running faucet, soaping up and scrubbing harder than necessary, letting out my frustration. I splash water over my face, sighing as the droplets race down to my chin.

When I open my eyes, the man at the other sink is staring at me, his eyebrows lifted searchingly.

Shit. Was he talking to me? “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m deaf.”

The man seems amused for a moment. He has kind eyes, touched by his smile. Then, to my surprise, he raises his hands:
Are you okay?

My unintended bathroom buddy signs. Not what I was expecting.

I sign back:
Yeah, fine.

He doesn’t seem convinced. To be fair, I wasn’t very convincing. He signs:
How are you liking the show?

I give a shrug:
I think it’s good
. Then, finding myself oddly at ease with this man suddenly, I add,
I’m running the lights up in the booth. I also designed one third of the lighting in the show, though I’m not credited in the program.
With half a smile, I shush him and say, “Don’t tell anyone.”

He smiles, impressed:
Very nice. Which third?

The one you’re about to see
, my hands return.
But really, the only actor onstage who’s worth any light is Dessie. She’s the one who plays Emily Webb.

The man’s brow furrows:
Why do you say that?

I don’t know what comes over me. This kind-eyed man is suddenly my best friend. He’s “speaking” my language. My chest tightens as I sign:
She has so much talent. You don’t know this, but she also sings. And her voice … I can’t hear it, but …
I close my eyes, the feelings I had at the
Throng
surging into my hands, making them move:
But I can “hear” it. I see what her songs do to people. She doesn’t get it.
My eyes flip open as I keep signing:
I’m sorry if I seem a bit messed up about her. We … used to date.

Now, a real smile fills the man’s face. He leans against the sink, studying me as he signs:
Used to date?

The sting of bitterness makes itself known in my stomach again:
She dumped me. Kinda. Maybe. I’m not sure what we are.

He lifts a fist with the thumb and pinkie pointed out:
Why?

I shrug:
Because I … didn’t appreciate how amazing she is.

He smirks, giving my words some thought, then signs:
Actually, it sounds like you do.

I tap my wrist, the universal—and actual—sign for “time”, then say, “I better get back before someone yells at me. Not that I’ll hear them.”

The man guffaws so loud, I swear I feel the vibrations through my feet. He nods curtly as I hold the door open, letting him out first.

The lonesomeness of the lighting booth swallows me whole again after that short interaction in the bathroom with Captain Kind-Eyes. I breathe a deep, despondent sigh before I settle back into my chair.

The little red cue light blinks just in time.

I lift the lights into the third and final act—a sobering departure from the first two. Nine years have passed now, and the townsfolk gather for a funeral.

Emily’s funeral.

Desdemona appears onstage near a spread of stark-looking chairs, in which are seated other characters from the show who have passed away, including Eric’s character, Simon Stimson, who hung himself. I can’t even follow her lines in the script, too glued to the sight of her onstage as she watches her own funeral, George crying over her grave.

She isn’t ready to join the dead. Dessie, with hope stinging her eyes, begs the Stage Manager to relive one day of her life. When her wish is granted, she quickly comes to regret it as the day speeds by too fast, none of its precious moments able to be held on to. Forlorn, she asks if any of the living really know what a gift each moment of their lives is.

I stare at her on that bleak stage standing in a pool of blue, chilly light, wondering if I know what a gift each moment spent with her was before I lost it all.

I don’t appreciate how amazing she is.

Then she surrenders, taking the one empty seat among the dead, the chair that was waiting for her all along. I drain all the saturation from her side of the stage—my brilliant lighting contribution—as the faces of the dead wash over in colorlessness.

I suck in a jagged breath of air, biting on my fist as I watch the third act draw to its sullen end.

How can she not see how beautiful she is?

Cue the lights.

Fade out.

DESSIE

When the curtains close, I feel weightless.

I breathe the deepest sigh of relief.

Eric’s hand fumbles for mine as I grip it tight for the curtain call, taking my bow with the rest of the cast. Applause rushes over me in waves, filling my ears as the tears fill my eyes.

Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I’m really proud of myself. I’m, like,
really
damn proud of myself.

The curtains drop again, and Eric reels around and gives me the biggest, bone-crunching squeeze, then he squeals and says, “Oh, what a killer opening night! Dessie, that was just the
best!
”

“You were great,” I tell him.

“You know, the key to acting drunk …” he starts as we head back to the dressing rooms.

“Yes! Is to
not
act drunk! And you know what? I took that advice, so my secret was, I tried to suck really bad,” I explain to him, “in hopes that I would fail at sucking and, thus, do a decent job of Emily.”

He stops outside the women’s dressing room. “I think you did a more-than-decent job. Great leg-breaking, Dessie.” He gives me a little peck on the cheek, then giggles. “I can’t wait to see Dmitri after! Oh,” he says suddenly, his smile breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Please. They’re roommates. It doesn’t—”

“I know, but still, y’know.” He bites his lip, shuffling his feet.

“Are you two a thing?” I prompt him with a nudge to his side. “You and Dmitri?”

Eric shrugs. “Not really. I think we make better friends. He’s sort of an oddball. I guess I kinda am too, but I don’t know. If he met a girl or another guy, I think I’d be more happy for him than jealous, if you get what I mean.”

I rub his shoulder encouragingly. “I do. You’re a good person, Eric. Oh, by the way, Vicki and I are totally talking again.”

“I heard! Don’t let her catch you calling her that or else it’s all over again,” he teases me.

“Sure thing,
Other Eric
.” I wink at him, then rush back into the dressing room to avoid him smacking me.

After washing all the makeup off my face, I slip out of Emily’s skin and jump into my post-show outfit: a sleek, black sleeveless dress cut just above the knee. I pair it with some cute flats (because after doing a whole play,
fuck heels
), then run a brush through my hair to tame it at least a little bit before I confront my family—and whatever insanity is likely to accompany it.

The walk down the halls from the dressing room to the lobby is longer than usual, as if the halls were made of elastic and stretched themselves to twice their usual length. I find a tangle of nerves in my stomach, as if I were still anticipating tonight’s performance.

Maybe the
real
show hasn’t begun yet.

When the doors to the lobby open, a torrent of noise crashes into me long before any faces do. I gently ease my way through the crowd, hoping to be making my way toward my parents, wherever the hell they are in this madness—if they’re even out here. For all I know, they were escorted out a side door or advised to stay in the auditorium until the worst of the crowd dispersed.

Then a sea of heads part and I see my parents.

My mother looks fabulous as usual, her hair perfectly curled and bound up tight to her skull, which shows off her glinting earrings and inhumanly long, slender neck. She wears a deep-plunging blue dress adorned in sparkly gems that gain density near the floor. At her side is my father, who was sensible enough to wear a humble sweater vest with a button shirt gently poking out of the neck. His sandy-blond hair is parted neatly, which is a welcome departure from the usual mess he keeps it in. He notices me first and lets a big grin take his face before he opens his arms.