Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

13

ELLIOTT

L ater in the day I balanced the cardboard coffee tray in one hand, carefully weaving between parked cars in the lot. I hadn’t planned to come, not really. The idea had struck me while I was running errands. I’d ordered his favorite lavender honey latte with oat milk and found myself driving toward the playhouse without much thought. Maybe it was the memory of our hike, still raw and unresolved. Or maybe it was the way I couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, unbidden moments of warmth catching me off guard throughout my day. Whatever the reason, I was here, standing in the shadowed entryway with a coffee tray and a growing sense of unease.

As I approached the building, muffled voices reached me, a vibrant hum that seemed to vibrate through the walls. The moment I pushed open the heavy double doors, the energy of the space hit me like a wave. Actors’ voices overlapped as they rehearsed lines, punctuated by bursts of laughter. Crew members darted about, clutching props or adjusting lighting rigs. Onstage, someone stood with fairy wings askew, gesturing animatedly at another actor.

The late afternoon sun streamed down through high, slender windows of the Havenwood Playhouse, scattering long, golden streaks of light over time-worn floorboards. The air was thick with a rich mixture, a blend of sawdust and weathered wood, softened further by the fresh tang of lingering paint, an aroma that perfectly encapsulated chaos interwoven with raw creativity. I paused at the doorway, momentarily overwhelmed, until my gaze finally found Jules.

There he stood center stage, a living nucleus of the performance, clipboard gripped tightly in his hand as he guided the actors with a blend of animated grace and theatrical exaggeration. Every gesture he made radiated energy that seemed to electrify every corner of the theatre. His commanding yet playful voice soared above the clamor, compelling everyone to focus as if his tone alone could transform the soundscape. In that tumult, Jules was the unwavering anchor, a vibrant, magnetic presence impossible to ignore. My chest constricted as I absorbed his passionate energy, every thought of our kiss flooding back: the memory of his warm lips and the gentle pull that had drawn me close, an image that haunted me throughout the day.

Before I could drown in my spiraling thoughts, Jules’s eyes caught mine and his face blossomed into a radiant smile, making the surrounding din fade into a blurry background. With effortless grace, he leaped from the stage, weaving through the bustling activity as if the chaos were an extension of him. “Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence!” he announced with a teasing lilt as he made his way toward me. Suddenly aware of every detail, the slight tremor in my hand, the weight of his gaze, I extended the coffee tray, murmuring, “Figured you could use a little fuel,” attempting to keep a casual tone despite my heartbeat drumming rapidly against my ribs.

Jules accepted the cup with an exaggerated gasp, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he theatrically placed a hand over his heart. “A lavender honey latte with oat milk?” he said, and with a dramatic sip that made him close his eyes in momentary rapture, he declared, “You’re spoiling me, Teach.” His warm, genuine laughter echoed in that space, melting some of the tension.

I couldn’t help but softly retort, “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” a small smile tugging at the edge of my usually reserved expression.

As his grin broadened, there was a noticeable shift in his demeanor, a softness that spoke of sincerity. “Stick around,” he urged, already pulling me toward the farthest rows of seats in the dimly lit auditorium. “I need your second set of eyes.” I tried to form a protest with a simple “Jules,” but his movement swept me away until I found myself seated in the back row, cradling the warming coffee cup. Almost immediately, Jules bounded back to the stage with an air of renewed zest.

“Alright, everyone, let’s run it again!” he called out crisply, clapping his hands to rally the cast. His instructions flowed with theatrical precision: “John, remember you’re the Fairy King, each word must sound as if it were etched in stone. Jill, Titania must match his intensity, be his equal, and make him believe every syllable.” The actors nodded, slipping back into their positions as Jules perched boldly on the stage’s edge, clipboard ready for another round of notes. I tried to focus on the scene unfolding before me, but my attention drifted repeatedly to the mesmerizing presence of Jules. His quick, graceful scribbles and timely calls for adjustments amidst the controlled chaos pulled me in, even as my mind was haunted by that electric kiss. Every so often, his eyes would wander back to where I sat, sending my heart into a flutter as the tender memory resurfaced with relentless persistence. I forced myself to sip the now slightly bitter coffee, as if the taste might ground the weight of my emotions.

“Hey, Teach!” Jules’s voice rang out, snapping me back with its exuberance. I blinked in surprise as he turned, his eyes sparkling from in front of the stage. “What do you think?” he inquired, his tone imbued with both mischief and genuine curiosity.

All eyes in the room pivoted toward me, and I felt an uneasy warmth bloom across my face. Clearing my throat, I rose with reluctance and managed, “The energy is good. The... intentions are clear,” carefully choosing words that resonated with honesty and restraint.

Jules raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his playful brightness faltering just a touch. “Okay, but what about the delivery? The pacing? The staging?” he pressed.

For a long, weighted moment, I searched for the right words; then, with a hesitant decision, I said, “It works. It’s... effective.”

His expression hardened momentarily, the light-hearted banter giving way to a sharper critique. “Effective? Really? That’s all you’ve got?” he challenged, his tone cool yet cutting, making each word slice through the charged air.

I straightened my shoulders defensively, insisting, “What’s wrong with it being effective?”

His hands shot up in an expression of exasperation. “It’s safe. Diplomatic. Noncommittal.”

Those words sank into me, pricking deeper than I cared to acknowledge. I responded, my voice cooling to match the sudden chill, “And not everything has to be a grand performance.” The room seemed to pause, heavy with the tension between us, as if the very air was holding its breath.

“This isn’t about a grand performance,” Jules said quietly, his frustration threading through his words, “It’s about honesty, about caring enough to push people to be better.”

I countered softly, “And sometimes, people don’t need to be pushed. Sometimes, good enough is enough.” My tone held both a plea and a challenge, and Jules’s eyes briefly darted toward the cup in my hand.

After a brief moment of silence, he took it, his clipped “Thanks,” ringing in a way that stung more than I anticipated.

Caught off guard, I stammered, “I just thought…” I hesitated, trying to wrap the unfinished sentence in fragile sincerity. “I wanted to see you.”

He exhaled sharply, shoulders tensing in a mix of exasperation and something unspoken. “Well, now you have,” he replied curtly.

Before I could respond, a stage manager approached, clipboard clutched under one arm, asking Jules about a lighting issue. With a quick dismissal, “Give me a minute”, Jules moved away, and with that interruption, the fragile thread of our conversation unraveled further. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, he muttered, “Look, I’m in the middle of a lot right now. I don’t have time to… entertain visitors.”

His words cut through the lingering hope in my chest, and with a quiet, edged retort, I asked, “Is that what you’re doing? Entertaining me?”

Immediately, his gaze snapped coldly toward mine, eyes narrowing as tension thickened the air. “You tell me, Elliot. What are you doing here?” he demanded, the question hanging in the space between us like a sharpened shard.

I found myself unable to muster a satisfactory reply, and my grip on the now-empty coffee tray tightened instinctively. “I thought…” I began, then shook my head in resignation. “Never mind.”

Jules’s expression remained inscrutable as he held my gaze for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he stepped back, gesturing toward the exit with a motion that felt like a final verdict. “Maybe you should go,” he said, his voice heavy with a mix of disappointment and resolve.

The words hit me like a sudden blow, but I nodded slowly, swallowing the metallic lump in my throat, “Right,” I agreed with a steadiness that belied the chaos within. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

Turning away, I walked out as the sound of the heavy doors closing reverberated through the quiet parking lot. The summer air, warm yet strangely indifferent, enveloped me, while I felt an inner chill as the tense vibrations of that interaction trailed behind like an inescapable shadow. “What the fuck just happened?” I whispered into the solitude of that fading afternoon.

Sitting in my car, fingers gripping the steering wheel as if to hold on to some semblance of control, I realized just how vast the gulf between Jules and me had become. The tender kiss, the intimate moments of our shared hike, even the fleeting instances where we seemed to be unraveling our tangled feelings, all now felt like distant, bittersweet memories overshadowed by an ever-growing chasm. I drove away with the coffee tray forgotten on the passenger seat, a silent testament to lost connection, and my thoughts were heavy and unresolvable. The tension between us had thickened, lingering like a relentless storm cloud that I couldn’t shake, and with the GSA event meeting looming on the horizon, that unease deepened further. Conflict had never been my preference, yet something was stirring between us, a brewing turbulence that was as unpredictable as it was unsettling.