CHAPTER TWO
Lennon
The smell of disinfectants and alcohol mixed with the beeping of machines and the rhythm of my shoes against the intensive care unit linoleum floors, and I’m beat. I’ve just completed another twelve-hour shift, my muscles aching, my mind hazy with exhaustion. But there’s no time to rest. Not today.
I gather my things as quickly as possible, stuffing my nurse’s badge into my bag and adjusting the hem of my scrubs. The redhead in the mirror stares back at me, my curly hair wild and untamed, barely held together by a scrunchie in a messy ponytail. I swipe at a few stubborn curls, but they refuse to cooperate. I sigh, muttering to myself. “You’d think I’d be able to tame you by now.”
But I can’t afford to be late and miss a single battle. This is a marathon, not a sprint. I don’t have time to worry about my hair. The theater needs me. I need to be there and take care of the details for our fundraising. The building is slowly falling apart, and the owners are running out of options with the debt piling up. If we don’t pull this off, the place we love will be gone forever.
You can’t let it go. You can’t let it fall into the hands of people who don’t understand its value. It’s more than a building. It’s history.
I shove open the hospital exit door, the cool, humid air rushing in and greeting me like an old friend. I take a deep breath, the smell of the rain about to come mixing with the city’s unmistakable scent of asphalt and gasoline. I’m used to it by now—the exhaustion, the long shifts, the constant fight to keep everything together.
I think of my godmother—her German accent, the way she used to tell me stories about the old movies we would watch together. She took me to the theater every Sunday. It became our sacred ritual. Those films, those black-and-white classics, felt like magic to me. Frankenstein’s Monster , Dracula , and the silent movies that made the theater feel like another world. It was where I found solace when the world felt too harsh. It was where I felt my godmother’s presence even after she passed away.
I get into my car, my fingers finding the steering wheel a bit too tightly. I can’t afford to think too much about the memories. Or let nostalgia take hold. Not now. I’m a woman on a mission, not letting it slip like sand through my fingers.
The drive to the theater is short, but it feels like hours. Every red light, every pedestrian crossing, every damn turn seems like it’s pulling me further from my goal. My palms sweat, but I push it down. I don’t have time for fear. I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself. Not now.
When I finally reach it, my heart races in my chest. The theater is a magnificent, decaying thing. The neon lights flicker weakly, casting an eerie glow across the sidewalk. But I can still see its soul—still feel the spirit that made it home for me—the laughter, the tears, the lives touched by those seats.
I shut off the engine and leave the car, letting the cool air hit my face. The sound of my sneakers on the pavement feels loud in the silence, and for a moment, I stand there, looking up at the building, feeling the weight of what’s at stake.
The whole structure needs repairs—desperately. And keep up with the bills, starting with the taxes. The city is about to auction the place. If we can’t raise enough money at the fundraiser, the Olsons will lose the theater. The place where I spent so many afternoons with my godmother, watching classic films. I’ll be damned if I let it fall into the hands of someone who doesn’t care about its history.
Pulling up to the theater, I take a deep breath and look at the familiar old marquee. It’s a little crooked and worn, but I still love it. This place is my connection to my past, and I can’t let it go. I won’t.
I head straight for the entrance, carrying a clipboard with all the last-minute details for the event. My heart pounds as I think of all the work left to do. There’s so much to organize, including food trucks, small business stands, and merchandise, but the worst part is the constant worry that it won’t be enough.
When I enter the lobby, the smell of dust and popcorn greets me like an old friend. Despite the decay and the fact that everything is slowly slipping away, it feels like home.
Grabbing the flyers that Mike’s friend had designed and printed to promote the fundraiser, I step out onto the sidewalk, ready to give away some papers to people. I know… contamination, loitering… yes, we have a social media campaign already marching, but desperate times require desperate measures, right?
I’m busy on my task when a raindrop falls on my face, making me lift my gaze from the papers in my hands. A tall, dark-haired man stands just outside the theater, his hands shoved into the pockets of his dark, tailored coat. The first thing I notice is how confident he looks—he’s got that aura of someone who believes the world bends to his will. The kind of man who’s used to getting exactly what he wants. He’s staring at the building with a calculating expression, as if assessing its value. Its worth.
Then he turns and notices that I’m watching him. I freeze. Damn. Something in the way his gaze locks onto mine makes my pulse quicken. His eyes are dark and intense, as if they can see through me. I can’t help but feel a flicker of something unsettling, but I quickly push it aside.
I’m not here for distractions.
I force a smile and walk up to him, trying to keep my cool despite the fluttering in my chest. “Can I help you?” I ask, my voice steady but firm.
He looks me over, slowly, as if sizing me up, before his lips curl into a faint smirk. “I was just admiring the view,” he says, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. “Or perhaps… the potential.”
I raise an eyebrow, immediately on guard. “The potential?” I repeat, and a laugh escapes my lips despite myself. “Tell me about it.”
He doesn’t seem fazed by my sarcasm. If anything, he looks more intrigued. “That’s the thing with places like this,” he says, his voice low but confident. “People see the decay. But some of us see the opportunity.”
I shake my head, trying to hide my frustration. “Look, if you’re here to buy the place, it’s not for sale. So unless you’re here to donate, please move along.”
His expression shifts, a hint of surprise flashing in his dark eyes, followed by something else—an almost imperceptible smile. “This sidewalk is public space, but don’t worry about my plans. For now, I’m just observing.”
I can feel the tension building between us, thick in the air. Something about this man rubs me wrong, yet there’s an undeniable pull in how he speaks and stands. It’s as if he knows exactly what to say to get under my skin.
“Well,” I say, folding my arms across my chest, “you should know that the people who care about this place aren’t letting it go without a fight. And I’m sure as hell not going to let some rich investor come in here and make it disappear.”
He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “An investor, huh? That’s a bit presumptuous.”
I take a step closer, our distance closing with every word. “You don’t know anything about me or my plans. So, unless you’re willing to help, I suggest you keep walking.”
For a moment, there’s silence. A silence that buzzes loudly with tension. He doesn’t move, standing there, evaluating me, and for the first time, I realize I might have underestimated the weight of his presence.
“I admire your conviction,” he says after a beat. “But you can’t save this place with willpower alone.”
“I don’t need saving,” I snap back, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. “I just need to ensure this place is still standing when everything’s over. People like you think they can take whatever they want.”
His gaze lingers on me for a moment, unreadable. Then finally, he takes a small step back.
“You don’t know me at all,” he says, his tone sharp. Almost cutting through me. The corner of his mouth twitches. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
With that, he turns and walks away, his footsteps light but purposeful. I watch him go, feeling a strange mix of relief and irritation.
This isn’t over. No matter how determined he is. Not by a long shot.
I won’t let it be.