Chapter 26
Dafne
“For the third time,” I shout into the phone to let myself be heard over the pouring rain, “I don’t know where your red bra is. Have you checked under the bed?” I tell a distressed Phoebe, who sounds on the verge of losing her mind over one very specific piece of lingerie.
“ Why would it be –” a beat.
“You were saying?”
Phoebe lets out a nervous laugh. “See? I’d be lost without you. Now ,” she quickly changes topic. “What are you wearing tonight? You should go for that gorgeous lavender dre–” Phoebe’s deafening squeal hits me from the other end of the phone then, and I figure it can only mean one thing: Peter, her boyfriend, has just entered the room. When he and Phoebe first met, he’d accidentally splattered his scone-on-the-go on her brand new coat on a particularly busy day in Piccadilly Circus, and immediately offered to buy her a new one.
“I’ll even add a bag of scones as interest,” he’d said.
He’d held true to his word, and on their first date, much to Phoebe’s delight, he brought her a cotton candy-pink tin box filled to the brim with strawberry jam scones, as well as a beautiful bouquet of peonies. One of those peonies is dried and framed in our room, even two years later.
I’ve heard the story eleven times. I counted them. But the light in Phoebe’s eyes whenever she talks about their literal meet-cute is so bright, I could never stop her from telling it again. Unfortunately, he’s had to move to Doncaster for work, and their time together has been drastically reduced. He’s only in town for a few days at a time, and Phoebe wants him to decompress and enjoy himself.
“Say hi to Peter for me,” I’m unable to keep the softness from my voice.
“He says hi, I’ll see you later babes!” she squeals again and makes an obnoxiously sweet kissing sound before hanging up.
I throw my phone in my tote bag and make a quick run for a covered archway I can shelter myself under from the unwavering rain. It’s not that I’d forgotten about our monthly gathering at Glinda’s –the pub all the Musical Theatre kids go to for karaoke night, where Phoebe kept dragging Ollie and I again and again until it became a habit to go there–but with the crazy amount of rehearsals, regular classes and Price’s, well, everything, I haven’t really taken any time to just stop and be. I should do that .
About three hours later, I’m about to reach the handle to Glinda’s door, when a hand bats my own away.
“Allow me,” Ollie says, and I’m surprised he’s on time. We would have come together but he said he and Devon were rehearsing. Is that what it’s called now?
As we stroll inside, the too-sweet scent of the pub fills my nostrils, and above the crowd, a head of blonde hair jumps up and down, a hand waving frantically.
“That would be Phoebe,” I chuckle, but just as I’m making my way to the table she and Peter reserved for us, someone bumps into me.
“Yooo, what are the chances!” Ethan shouts.
“Hey, I didn’t think I’d meet you here,” I say honestly. He doesn’t really paint the average musical theatre fan picture.
“They make the best tacos here,” he shrugs with a huge smile. I wonder how he manages to always look so happy. Ollie clears his throat, and I quickly introduce them.
“Well, we were about to meet up with our friends,” he says after they shake hands, starting towards our designated table. “If you don’t mind–”
“I’d love to meet your friends,” Ethan pats Ollie on the arm, the latter staring at the point he touched like he just burned him with a lighter. I shoot Ollie a look to make sure he’s not about to tackle Ethan to the ground for the boundary overstep. I don’t want to be the bad guy and I figure there’s no harm in introducing my friends to him, so I lead the way and wave to where Phoebe and Peter are.
“Congrats on landing Juliet, Daf,” Peter says, offering me his knuckles to fist bump.
“Thanks Pete,” I smile at him while Ollie greets Phoebe with a nod. Weird.
I introduce Phoebe and Peter to Ethan, who goes straight for bear hugs with both of them by way of greeting. Phoebe looks only mildly shocked by the gesture, and Peter mutters a weak right as Ethan lets go of him.
This is fine.
“We took the liberty of ordering for you,” Phoebe says then, shimmying with her shoulders and chest as the first notes of L ady Marmalade play in the background.
“Wait a second,” I gasp with my palms flat on the table, “It’s Moulin Rouge night?”
Phoebe’s squeal of excitement erupts at my left, making me jump in my seat.
“You bet it is,” Ollie says, nodding approvingly. I groan, because I know what he’s going to say next. “Who’s forgotten about Dafne’s drunk rendition of Your Song ?” he muses after a few seconds, and a pair of Not Mes rises from the table.
“It was one time,” I hold up a finger, “and I was semi -drunk,” I nod in Ollie’s direction. He shrugs a half-arsed apology, and I shake my head at the memory of my little incident, which I reluctantly tell Ethan about. It’d been Phoebe’s birthday during our first year and mind you, I had never gotten drunk before in my life, and never again since. I’d been so excited for the surprise dinner Ollie and I had put together at her favorite place, that I’d chugged two pints of beer on an empty stomach.
The rest is history. Ethan thinks it’s cool, of course.
“So,” Phoebe claps her hands to gather our attention, “who is duetting with me? And my love, before you volunteer, please don’t,” she says, throwing a guilty look in her boyfriend’s direction. Peter narrows his eyes and scowls at her. “I have other talents,” he huffs, looking genuinely offended by Phoebe’s lack of faith in his singing skills.
“Of course min kj?rlighet, ” she chuckles what I’m sure is some affectionate nickname as she pats his cheek.
“I will,” I provide, because although Musical Theatre is not my field, I’ve always loved singing, and I can hardly miss a chance of performing; the one place I feel completely at home is a stage, even if it’s a crammed karaoke one. A waitress wearing a green and black Wicked-themed uniform brings our non-alcoholic drinks, and I barely have time to take a couple of sips that Phoebe is dragging me out of my seat, yelling a, “You better clap for us!” at our friends. Phoebe signs our names on the song sheet–apparently, no one has signed up for The Ele-phant Love Medley , which is mine and Phoebs’ specialty. I can’t count the number of times we’ve belted it in our room, earning us many angry knocks on the paper-thin walls of our dorm room. Worth it. As I’m turning towards the stage to listen to the next singer, an impatient huff makes me raise my eyes and–no way.
This must be a conspiracy. He’s here too? Is there a reunion of all the blokes from literally any department except for the one where they actually study th subject? Is my ex going to stroll out of the toilet next?
“Look what Elphaba dragged in,” I joke dumbly, because I’m not sure where we stand after our last … close encounter. I am simply unable to ignore how something stirs in me whenever I see him, cast in the new light of the knowledge that he feels something for me, even though he refuses to let it out. I wonder what’s going on in his head. If he thinks about it as much as I do.
Theodore releases a breath when he takes me in–he probably hadn’t seen me or was enjoying himself and my presence interrupted his peace. Which would be hysterical since he’s stuck his tongue in my mouth and had his hands all over me multiple times now. Willingly, I mean.
I’ve never seen him here before, so I can only assume that one of his friends might have dragged him here with force.
That being said … I am not here to stress tonight. That’s going to be the mantra. I turn towards Phoebe, who smiles at me weakly, and as we wait for our turn, I nonchalantly glance around us. No more Theodore in sight. That’s good. As the two girls currently singing Come What May at the top of their lungs finish their duet, the red-haired owner of the pub dressed in a sparkling white and pink dress with a tiara precariously propped on her head hops on stage and taps her microphone twice. “Alright, everyone, a big round of applause, great job darlings,” she smiles politely as they stumble off stage giggling. “Let’s welcome our lovely Dafne and Phoe–oh, sorry dearies,” she stammers, and I shoot Phoebe a confused look. “Dafne and Theodore, who will surely delight us with Your Song !” My jaw goes slack so fast I think it might detach from the rest of my face, Phoebe whispers an I don’t know, just go, into my ear before nudging me towards the stage.
“What in the–” I turn around, but Theodore is already being pushed on the other side of the stage by Devon, the latter looking at me like he’s afraid I’m going to hit him with the microphone that’s just been shoved into my hand. He isn’t wrong to be. A second later, the music starts. I have two options: I can either get off the stage and leave him to sing the song on his own just to spite whoever is responsible for this, or do what I really want to do and be here. With him.
I search for Phoebe in the crowd and find not just her, but all three of my friends staring at me with wide eyes. Ethan looks like he’s at an amusement park and shoots me a thumbs up.
It’s almost comical, really. Almost.
You’ve got this , Phoebe mouths to soothe whatever must be transpiring through my eyes.
It’s only one of the most romantic love declarations in the history of music, but it’s no big deal, right?
I decide to turn my brain off for the few minutes of the song and just enjoy this. It. Whatever it is that we’re about to do. When I finally look at Theodore, the lights casting him in green and blue, all thoughts quiet down. He looks surprised, but not as on edge as I’d thought.
Just like that I’m singing, and so is he, and Sweet Caroline, does he sing . I shouldn’t be surprised, but it seems all he ever does lately is surprise me. Three minutes and thirty-nine seconds later, we’ve just sung the last verse, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you when or how it happened, but we’re standing close. Way too close for comfort. Under the dim lights above the stage, the green of his eyes greedily makes its way among the brown; I think this might be the moment I have no doubt, it’s the prettiest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re flickering between mine, and my brain is screaming to move out of the way before he sees anything I might regret showing, but my body is planted firmly in the stubborn eagerness of being close to him.
As the music ends, a thunderous clap explodes through the crowd, and as if a spell were broken, I snap out of my rapture. Ethan is clapping enthusiastically, I see Phoebe and Peter share a knowing look, and Ollie’s towering figure as he lets out a whistle and a whoop. Theodore clears his throat, taking in the ovation, and leaning in ever so slightly, he says, “Not bad for two amateurs, huh?”
I can’t help but smile. “Yeah,” I whisper, “not bad.”
When we hop off the stage, and a few people I don’t know tell us we were great as they pass by. Not to gloat, but our voices do sound really nice together.
“So that was unexpected,” I say to Theodore.
“I’m afraid Devon might have had something to do with it,” he replies with a resigned shake of the head.
I guess both of our best friends have been getting ideas, then. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but the music gets obscenely loud, and on some unspoken agreement, we wave each other awkward goodbyes as we turn opposite ways to reach our tables. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I don’t like the space we’ve put between us. Not that it’s my job to get him to talk, anyway. Never mind our bloody High School Musical moment. It’s Troy that looks for Gabriella, not the other way around.
When I join my friends, who had already scurried back to our table, their chatter abruptly stops.
I sit in my chair and turn to Phoebe, who’s folding a napkin and pretending I’m not staring right at her. “Any idea how that just happened?” I ask. They all turn to look at me in one robot-like movement. For a split second, I regret not pretending nothing happened and imagine sprinting out of the door, because some part of me isn’t sure I want to hear whatever they’re going to say. Ollie would probably tackle me like a rugby player to prevent my escape, though.
“Elizabeth must have messed up with the names on the list,” Phoebe shrugs, referring to the pub’s owner. With Devon’s help , I think to myself.
“That was …” Ethan starts, shaking his blond mane, “… awesome, dude!”
I blink once, my head suddenly empty. Peter eyes him as if he’d just insulted his mother. I’ve told my friends about every single skirmish or fight I’ve had with Theodore, so I don’t blame him for thinking at least one of us is insane.
One corner of my mouth lifts involuntarily at the sheer absurdity of it all.
“I thought you, uh, strongly disliked each other?” Peter asks then, and I think about how if I’d been murdered by the imaginary burglar, I could have spared myself this. “Don’t let the lights and the song fool you,” I say as vaguely as possible and wave a hand towards the stage.
“Baby,” Phoebe drawls. “Haven’t I forced you to watch enough rom-coms to know that was a lot of things , but hate–” Peter coughs loudly enough to cover her next words; Phoebe is probably forgetting that Ethan is here. To be fair, he’s still smiling as he orders another drink, seemingly oblivious, or at the very least unfazed, by the situation. Bless his heart. Before his next drink even ar-rives, Ethan says, “Bathroom break, y’all! Don’t tell more funny stories without me,” and disappears through the crowd.
“I know what you said, Daf, but I think you know I’m right,” Phoebe adds the second he’s gone, rolling the straw of her drink between two fingers.
I press my lips into a thin line, turning towards Ollie, pleading with him with my eyes.
“A little help?” I mutter expectantly when he says nothing. He breaks into a seemingly innocent smile, before saying “Do you want me to lie or do you want the truth?” My face falls. I’ve known Ollie the longest, he’s seen me at my lowest and knows me inside out. I already know what he’s going to say.
“Lie, please,” I say, crossing my arms on the table.
Ollie snorts.
“I stand by what I told you, Daf.” It’s such a simple sentence, but the serious tone he reserves for delicate conversations–which is somehow discordant with the fairy lights dangling above our booth–is enough to make me close my eyes and wish things were easy, once in a while. Besides, why is everyone suddenly on team Price? It’d be so much easier if they just agreed that the best thing would be to forget about him altogether.
I sigh deeply, pressing my fingers to my temples and suddenly finding a spot of grease on the table extremely interesting. “None of it excuses the fact that he’s been an arsehole for the past few years, mind you,” Ollie adds then, and when I shift my gaze up again, they’re all looking at me fondly .
At least I know that whatever happens, the people at this table have my back.
◆◆◆
I’m lying in bed, and as predicted, that traitor organ I have in lieu of a regular brain won’t shut off even for what could’ve been a blissful few hours. Phoebe promised she wouldn’t sleep until I did, but the poor thing always had the enviable ability to fall right into Morpheus’ arms the second her head hit the pillow. It’s a few minutes past one a.m. when I’m in the thick of combing through a hundred questions all crammed in my head that my phone lights up on the night table. I assume it’s going to be Ollie, resorting to his never-ending archive of acting memes to make me laugh, but it’s that unknown number again. Well, it’s not unknown anymore–it’s Theodore.
I realise I still haven’t saved his contact. I know from experience it’s easier to let go of things if you don’t let yourself get attached to them.
I don’t know if you’re up, I’m not familiar
with your sleeping patterns.
I just wanted to tell you it was fun,
singing together .
Sent 1:04 a.m.
I consider pretending I never read the text, after all I could be sleeping, or studying, or doing whatever else one does at night, but some masochist part of me is determined not to get any sleep at all. Besides, is he really not going to mention yesterday? Or is he just ignoring it, hoping it will go away?
I’m awake. For the record, my sleeping
patterns are nonexistent. But yes, it was fun.
Not full-house-on-opening-night
kind of fun, but still.
Sent: 1:06 a.m .
Having trouble sleeping again?
Sent: 1:07 a.m.
Yeah, you could say that. How about you?
Mr. Hackle will have our heads
if we’re late tomorrow.
Sent: 1:09 a.m.
Just a lot of thoughts. I should try to, though. Devon will throw a shoe at me if I don’t turn the phone off.
Have you tried one of those rainforests sounds apps?
I’m told they work wonders. Goodnight.
Sent: 1:11 a.m .
Goodnight . Maybe I’ve actually managed to fall so deeplyasleep that I’m having a very vivid, albeit absurd dream, because that single word makes me want to shove my face into the pillow and scream, which I understand is not a reasonable reaction–but I guess that’s what emotional damage and years of depriving myself of affection that wasn’t my family’s or my best friends’ did to me.
Let’s not upset our Tybalt, then. I’ll give those a try. Night.
Sent: 1:14 a.m.
I must have completely lost my mind, because I actually do end up downloading one of those apps, and above Phoebe’s soft snoring, the sounds of tropical birds and of waves lapping on a shore eventually, incredibly lull me to a dreamless sleep.
Theodore
After texting Dafne goodnight, I’m left alone with the stream of my thoughts. Tonight really was fun. I’m not used to having genuine fun anymore, and it left me a little breathless, on that stage. And maybe it’s selfish of me, of even just imagining how much fun we could have together.
All I’d have to do is stop worrying. Accepting that it wouldn’t be a betrayal to myself. Just a change of perspective. Taking a chance. Which I realise is easier said than done, especially when there’s a voice in the back of your head reminding you of everything that could go wrong.
I think it’s time I start thinking about what could go right, even if it costs me.
I need to talk to her soon. Because the only truth is she couldn’t have been more straightforward if she’d tried, and the least I can do is be the same.
I just need to find the right moment.
“Theo?” Devon mumbles in the darkness.
“What?”
“You’re welcome.”