Chapter 9 #2
She says it like it’s nothing. Like she’s stating a fact as simple as the sky being blue. Instead, she’s dropped a truth bomb so heavy, it lodges itself in my chest.
I’ve never been good with moments like this. I default to silence rather than risk saying the wrong thing. And right now, I have no idea what the right thing even is.
“Told you.” She smiles, triumphant, like my quiet is some kind of astonishment at her award-winning role as bad cop.
My heart aches for whatever made her believe that’s what she was though.
I clear my throat. “Hate to burst your bubble, but I have a feeling you weren’t the one doing something bad in that scenario.”
“Technically, you’re right. But c’mon, I was a giant snitch. On my very own mother. She still doesn’t know to this day either.”
Sensing that I have no idea what to say, and probably never will, she steers the conversation in a different direction. Thank god one of us at least knows how to talk.
Leaning over the console, chin in the palm of her hand, she asks, “So, what was your childhood like?”
The question lands like a fist to my stomach. Even though my parents were incredible, my childhood was overshadowed by guilt and grief so heavy that I’ve spent years trying to outrun it.
By something I did.
Something I can never forgive myself for.
I force a casual shrug. “It was good. No complaints.”
It’s not a total lie. It was a good childhood, other than the one traumatic event that completely changed me as a person.
There’s absolutely no way, however, that I’m opening Pandora’s box with her right now.
Everyone has their way of dealing with grief, and mine happens to be complete and total avoidance.
We’re lucky enough to find street parking right in front of the building where we’re meeting the sellers. Normally, I never do these pitches myself. This has the potential to be a big investment, though, and the sellers are nervous. Hence, why I’m the one here, as a gesture of good faith.
Marley throws open her passenger door, as her face lights up when she looks at the theater. “Hey, this is the venue my ballet company performs at.”
My heart drops. Because, fuck, what are the odds? She hasn’t caught on yet that this is the building we’re here for. Of course, with my awful luck, it has to be one that seems like it’s sentimental to her.
Glancing up and down the street, she looks for where we’re headed.
I stop. “Marley.”
Looking up at me, her eyes are wide, and I hate that I have to be the one to break it to her.
Nodding toward the building, I say, “This is the place we’re going to. The theater.”
Her mouth falls open. “They’re selling?”
“Well, that’s what we’re hoping for.”
Now there’s a panic in her face. “But they can’t. They’ve talked about it for years, probably even decades, but that’s all it’s ever been—talk. If this theater is gone, then my dance company probably is too.”
Once again, I’m the bad guy. I’ve come to terms that’s all I’ve ever been, and all I’ll always be. The one who does the wrong thing, or says the wrong thing, or is on the wrong side.
“I’m sorry.” I run a hand over my stubble. “If it’s a conflict of interest for you, I understand if you don’t want to go in.”
Pausing to think about it, I can see the internal battle reeling through her. “I’ll go. And who knows, maybe they’ll end up not wanting to sell it.”
I want to console her, lie and tell her that it’s possible. I’ve seen their profit reports though. They’ve been on the decline for as long as Marley’s been alive, and recently they officially reached rock bottom.
Looking me straight in the eyes, like I’ll give her the courage to face this, she takes a big breath in, squares her shoulders, and marches toward the entrance.
The second we step through the door, the owners—two sisters in their seventies with matching gray bobs—do a double take before their faces light up in instant recognition. The shorter of the two waltzes up and pulls Marley into a big hug, squeezing her like she’s family.
I linger nearby, hands in my pockets, waiting for them to finish their doting. With every passing second, it becomes painfully clear that bringing Marley was a terrible idea.
Emotion and business go together about as well as oil and water. One always tries to overpower the other, and neither ends up mixing the way you want.
This deal was supposed to be simple. Walk in, talk numbers while we take pictures, make an offer. Now, watching the way they look at Marley, like she’s someone they trust, I already know, there’s nothing simple about this anymore.
Sue and Paula turn to me, shaking my hand with wide smiles that don’t quite mask the nerves beneath. From the way their fingers tremble and their voices carry a jittery edge, it’s obvious they’re anxious. Sellers usually are, but sellers of historical properties especially.
As they lead me through the theater, it’s different than I expected.
Nostalgic, like stepping straight into the 1930s, untouched by time, or upkeep.
The painted walls are chipping. The velvet seating is threadbare and in desperate need of reupholstery.
And structurally, it appears questionable at best. The floorboards groan beneath our steps, and the balcony above us almost seems to sag slightly.
The air is thick with dust and a faux-orange deodorizer, an obvious attempt to cover up the smell of mold.
Sue and Paula walk me through the building, sharing the theater’s history and the renowned performers that have been on The Cobalt’s stage.
If it wasn’t for its rotting foundation and logistical nightmare, I’d maybe consider keeping it.
At this point, I’d have to sink too much money into it to give it the face-lift it would deserve to thrive once again.
Marley follows us along the tour, snapping pictures of details we’re discussing. She looks like she’s stepped into a dream, as her fingers trail over the backs of the velvet seats, eyes wide with familiar admiration.
She’s seeing something worth saving.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.
Bringing her was a mistake.
If I thought this deal was complicated before, I was dead wrong.
It’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.