Chapter 12 Adrian #2
He starts talking while we work. They are small things at first, like complaints about Coach Peterson’s new training regimen and some funny stories about his teammates’ latest stupidity.
Then come the deeper things, offered in the safe darkness of the backstage world.
His father’s expectations. The pressure of everyone watching, waiting for him to be great.
The way he sometimes feels like he’s performing even when he’s not on a field.
“I know what you mean,” I say one afternoon, adding highlights to a painted moon. “Sometimes I think I’m more myself when I’m pretending to be someone else.”
Vince pauses in his brushwork. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” I meet his eyes. “When you’re up there, throwing a perfect pass, don’t you sometimes feel like you’re playing a part? The golden boy quarterback everyone expects you to be?”
Something shifts in Vince’s expression. It’s not agreement, not exactly, but recognition.
We work in comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that feels full rather than empty. I find myself looking forward to these sessions in a way that has nothing to do with the art and everything to do with the way Vince’s presence settles something restless in my chest.
During rehearsals, Vince becomes a permanent fixture in the wings. He learns the rhythms of the production, anticipates scene changes, and even helps with quick costume adjustments when needed. Mrs. Crawford jokes that she’s never seen a star student athlete take to theater so naturally.
“Maybe I should recruit more athletes,” she muses one evening, watching Vince carefully adjust a backdrop between scenes.
“Maybe you should,” I agree, though something possessive in my chest rebels at the idea of sharing this space with anyone else.
One evening, after a particularly intense rehearsal, I find Vince still sitting in the back row of the auditorium. The stage lights are off, the other students long gone. Just the two of us in the cavernous space.
“Good show tonight,” Vince says quietly.
I drop into the seat beside him, suddenly exhausted. “Thanks. Though I think I flubbed that line in the second act.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” I grin. “That’s the point.”
We sit in comfortable silence, breathing in the lingering energy of the performance. I can feel Vince looking at me, not the quick, stolen glances I’ve gotten used to, but a real look, considering and careful.
“I never understood it before,” Vince says finally.
“What?”
“This.” Vince gestures toward the empty stage. “Why would anyone want to get up there and…be someone else? It seemed like lying to me.”
I turn to study Vince’s profile in the dim light. “And now?”
“Now I think maybe it’s the most honest thing you can do.” Vince’s voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “Showing people all the parts of yourself you’re too scared to let them see otherwise.”
The words hit me somewhere deep and unexpected. I want to say something profound, something that matches the vulnerability of what Vince just offered. Instead, I reach over and squeeze Vince’s shoulder, a brief touch that somehow says everything I can’t.
Vince doesn’t pull away.
The memory dissolves as someone drops their coffee cup at a nearby table, the ceramic shattering against tile with a sound like breaking glass. I startle back to the present, heart hammering against my ribs.
Vince is watching me with that same careful attention from across the table.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, meant only for my ears.
I nod, though my throat feels tight. “Fine. Just…remembering.”
Vince’s expression shifts, becomes softer somehow. Like he knows exactly what I’m remembering, and maybe he’s been thinking about it too.
Lance’s voice cuts through the moment. “So, what’s the plan for this afternoon? Please tell me it involves lying by the pool and not moving for several hours.”
“I actually have some calls to make,” I say, surprised by how normal my voice sounds. “Work stuff.”
“On vacation?” Holly frowns. “Is it the gallery?”
Thank god for Holly giving me an idea on what to say. “Yeah, the gallery owner wants to discuss some of my pieces for the upcoming show,” I lie smoothly. “It won’t take long.”
It’s not entirely untrue. My artist manager has been leaving increasingly urgent voicemails about the exhibition deadline. But mostly I need space to breathe, to process these memories that’s settled in my chest like stones.
Vince is mid-conversation with George about tomorrow’s boat rental, but the second I look at him, he turns. It is automatic, like a reflex. George notices the shift in attention, raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment.
“I should go too,” Vince says. “I promised my dad I’d call him back.”
The group starts to disperse, making loose plans to meet up later. I gather my sketchbook, hyperaware of Vince’s presence beside me as we walk toward the parking area.
“Adrian,” Vince says when we reach the cars, voice careful. “About before…”
“Which before?” I ask, though I know exactly which one.
“All of them.” Vince’s eyes are serious, searching my face for something. “Do you ever wonder if we remember things the same way?”
I am shocked. I am in shock that he would even dare to bring this thing up now, with our friends just a few feet away.
The question hangs between us, loaded with ten years of silence and everything we’ve never said.
I think about eighteen-year-old Vince watching me from the wings, about his paint-stained hands and our quiet conversations in the empty theater.
I think about all the ways we’ve been circling each other ever since, afraid to get too close, afraid to stay too far away.
“Every damn day,” I say, the words scraping out rougher than I intended. My throat feels raw, like I’ve been swallowing glass.
Vince nods slowly, like that’s exactly what he expected and feared to hear.
We stand there for another moment, the tension of shared memory heavy between us. Then he gets in his car and drives away, leaving me alone with the sound of waves against rocks and the echo of everything we still haven’t said.