Chapter 21
Dafne
Act Three, Scene Two. Juliet finds out from her Nurse that Romeo has killed Tybalt–her cousin–and is now exiled. We’re two months into rehearsals, and one month is left. Twenty-eight days, to be precise. The structure of the show has been ready for weeks; we’re making sure everything works, smoothing the edges. There can be no uncertainty, no detail left behind. Unlike a usual play, we won’t get second, third, fourth chances. It’s all or nothing. I’m not worried, that’s not the right word to describe how I feel. This is what I do, what I want to do, always; but there is so much at stake. And maybe it’s starting to get to me.
“ There is no end, limit, measure, bound, in that word’s death. No words can that woe sound.
Where is my moth –” I’m interrupted by Mr. Hackle’s raised hand from the central seat in the front row. “Dafne, do you know where you are?” he asks, his voice neutral, and I can’t tell if he’s about to hand me an award or tell me to scram from his stage.
“Juliet’s room, she’s–”
“No,” he interrupts again, “where are you ? Right now?”
I bite my tongue to get some saliva to circulate in my mouth, which went dry the second Mr. Hackle spoke; it’s one of the first things he’s taught us for when you’re on stage and your tongue feels coated with sand. I know what he wants to hear, and I know I need to keep my wits about me. “I’m at the Queen Victoria Theatre,” I reply, “I’m on stage. I’m here, now.”
He eyes me for a long moment, then nods once. “From the top,” he says.
When Mr. Hackle seems satisfied, we move on to Scene Three, so it’s time for Theodore and David to get on stage. I’m about to walk off when Ms. Patterson tells me to move to David’s mark while he finishes getting his measurements done backstage so that the light technician can take notes of the position for the show. So now Theodore and I are staring at each other, and it’s admittedly a little awkward.
“Funny to meet you here,” I smirk in a poor attempt at diverting attention from the elephant in the room. Also known as the ambiguous tension radiating from both of us. He opens his mouth to say something back, but I never get to hear it .
Theodore’s eyes grow wide as he lunges for something behind me–when said something hits me in the back of the head, and the next thing I know I am falling face-first on the rough wooden boards of the stage, a cacophony of sounds rushing towards me.
I’m dimly aware of being held in someone’s arms, a warm voice saying something along the lines of I’d like to have a normal conversation when you’re awake, but when I’m fully conscious again I blink my eyes open to the familiar chattering of Phoebe and Ollie, their heads snapping towards me like owls the second I’m able to let my eyes flutter open.
“What the–” I stop myself from cursing, the sparks of what I’m sure will soon turn into throbbing pain radiating from my nape. “Did a boxer take a swing at me or what?” I groan, and a pair of manicured hands grip my own from the left side of what looks like an infirmary bed.
“How are you feeling? Do you know my name? How many fingers am I holding up,” Phoebe says on a single gulp of air, which is a testament to the endless hours of breathwork we’re put through in yoga classes. I snatch my hands from her surprisingly strong grip and motion turning down the volume.
“I’m fine, your name is Phoebe Nilsen, and if you would just stop waving your fingers perhaps I’d be able to tell you just how many. All good?” I reply to stop her from going all Grey’s Anatomy on me. Phoebe’s shoulders sag in relief, and I shoot her an apologetic smile, even though the massive headache pounding in my head begs to differ with my analysis.
“She was only unconscious for a few minutes, Phoebe,” Ollie tells her with a raised eyebrow. “And even then she was mumbling about who knows what.”
Ha ha , I mouth. “So,” I glance between Phoebe and Ollie on my right, carefully touching the back of my head. “Does either of you know what happened exactly? One second I was on stage with Price and the next I’m hugging the floor.”
A knowing look passes between the two across my bed, and it’s just for a few seconds, but it’s enough for me to notice there’s either something they don’t want to say or something they’ve argued over who would have to tell me. In both cases, I’m likely not going to like it.
“A couple of second-year students were rushing to take a ladder off the stage. I assume because they realised you were about to start with the scene,” Ollie explains.
“The ladder was too heavy for them to carry,” Phoebe continues. “It slipped out of their grasp and, well, hit you,” she grimaces, pointing at her nape.
“Right. Who else could have been in the damned ladder’s trajectory? At least I managed not to shatter my nose” I consider, followed by a beat of silence.
“There’s something you’re not telling me though. I might’ve been hit by a deranged wooden construction, but I saw those looks. What is–” I urge, when a male voice interrupts my questioning. It takes me a couple of seconds to grasp who that voice belongs to. Ollie gets up from his chair to go open the door, but I jump off the bed, my head swimming for a second at the sudden change in position, just in time to pull on his sleeve and stop him.
I bring my pointer finger to my mouth to tell him to be quiet.
“So you’re sure she’s alright? How bad is the concussion? Shouldn’t she be taken to an actual hospital–” Theodore says to Mrs. Digby–the school nurse. There’s an impatient edge to his voice, but something else too, something that tastes sour in my mouth, and I could bet my good set of highlighters that it’s worry.
“Nothing to fear, darling,” we hear Mrs. Digby reply through the thin wall separating us. “She will need to take some aspirin daily and take it easy for a while, but she will be fine. I heard some chatting, would you like to go in?”
“No need, and please don’t tell her I was here,” Theodore replies in a low voice, but I still hear it.
My heart positively sinks and my stomach immediately churns with a concoction of unpleasant emotions. The sound of receding footsteps echoes through the corridor, and I slowly step back from my eavesdropping position, turning with my back and palms flat on the door. “So that happened,” Phoebe whispers, breaking the silence. Ollie looks like he’s the one who’s been hit in the head .
“What we didn’t tell you,” he starts, “is that when you were barely conscious on the floor, he carried you to the infirmary. We practically ran here together, but he left right after setting you on the bed. I had a feeling he’d be back though.”
I don’t know if it’s the blow to the head, but it sounds like he’s articulating the words. Like I’m a teenager and he’s giving me the birds and bees speech. My mouth opens and closes once on nothing. but all I manage to utter is a weak, “ He carried me . You mean …”
Ollie nods, his lips twitching. “Oh, yes, Daf. Bridal style .”
It doesn’t mean anything if I don’t give it importance. Right? So why is it that if I allow my brain to picture Theodore rushing me to the infirmary in his arms like a knight in light wash jeans, I feel hot all over?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I wrench the door open and call his name.
Theodore
I hear my name just before I’m about to turn the corner, and find Dafne with her fingers gripping the infirmary’s door handle, her lips pressed tightly together. Oliver and her roommate’s heads peek at me from either side of her, but I’m unable to pay them much attention.
“Where are you going?” Dafne yells to reach me on the other end of the corridor. No point in pretending I was just passing by. I start walking back towards her, and her friends disappear from my line of sight only to emerge from the room a few seconds later, hastily telling her that they’ll go grab her a tea. The nurse smiles warmly at me while she goes back to typing on the computer at her desk.
“I wasn’t sure you’d like me to be the first person you saw,” I grimace when we’re alone in the room. I close the door behind us gently while she goes to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Always assuming,” she says with a smile.
“You scared me for a moment there,” I say then, looking at her steadily.
“You need to stop doing that,” she sighs.
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Saying things like that,” she looks up at me from under her lashes. “I’m going to start thinking you care about me if you don’t.”
She sounds like she’s joking, but also not really.
“What kind of awful person would I be if I didn’t help after you fell face first in front of me?” She’s quiet for a few seconds that feel like four hours.
“The person you’ve been until a few weeks ago?” she offers then, not mean or teasing, but as if she were just stating a fact. Which makes me feel infinitely worse, because I can’t really argue with that. As much as I would like to think I would have scooped her up in my arms if she’d needed me to in the past, the truth is, I don’t know if I would have. I would have stepped back and let somebody else take charge. I sure as hell wouldn’t have carried her here. Fuck, I really am awful.
“So you know,” I add.
“Yes, I know you went all An Officer and a Gentleman on me. Very dashing of you,” she smirks.
I don’t even try to stop the smile that forms on my lips at that.
“By the way, I … I realised I never thanked you. For helping me out the other day, I mean.” She makes a face that seems to mean, you don’t need to thank me , and I raise a hand.
“You could have freaked out and called someone, but you went through it with me. It would have been much worse if you hadn’t, so accept the gratitude. Please.”
“If you insist,” she says with a small shrug, which makes her wince in pain a second later. I pick up a gauze from the glass table placed against the wall and start rolling it up. “How did you know how to do that?” I ask, as it occurs to me that not everyone is probably accustomed to witnessing something like that.
“My cousin was diagnosed with generalised anxiety in middle school. We were in the same class, so my aunt had me learn basic notions about helping her with an attack, in case it happened. I’m not an expert but the power of breathing is …” she explains.
I nod, and as hard as it is, I let the notion settle inside me. I repeat the word in my head, let it take a shape. Make the idea bearable, since comfortable seems a bit of a stretch. I can’t keep dismissing what I feel. None of it.
“I don’t mean to be rude, I really did want to talk to you, but I think I’m going to need a nap,” she says with a chuckle as she slowly rises, smoothing the fabric of her top where it bunched at the waist.
“No, of course, I’ll walk you,” I offer, crouching to retrieve her bag from the floor. Oliver must have brought it in earlier. Only when I get up with her bag on my shoulder and see the expression on her face do I realise I might be out of line. What am I thinking, carrying her bag for her like I’m–
“Sounds good.” She opens the door and mouths an after you , and she’s definitely taking the mickey out of me, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. We say goodbye to Mrs. Digby after she gives Dafne a note with the painkiller dosage she needs to take, and as we walk down the corridor I say, “Maybe I should get myself a Navy officer suit. You know, make a cosplay out of it.
She snorts, and promises she’ll help in court when Richard Gere sues me. We both end up cackling like two proper idiots. When was the last time I laughed so hard?