CHAPTER TEN
Lennon
Time flies when you’re busy. But lately, it feels like it’s slipping away faster than I can keep up with. Even though I’m surrounded by the hustle and bustle of today’s fundraiser, I can’t shake the thought of Ruben Posada. It’s the same damn feeling every time I try to focus. My mind keeps drifting back to him, his eyes, the way his presence took over everything the last time we were together. The way he’s got under my skin without even trying. But I don’t have time for that right now. I have an event to run. Mike and Jennifer are relying on me.
The theater needs to be saved, and we’re counting on today to make a dent in the massive hole we’re in.
I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off, delivering the red t-shirts to the volunteers. They’re simple, nothing special, but the donor who provided them is looking for publicity, and we can’t afford to turn down any help right now. The logo on the back is a little tacky, but whatever.
I hand another shirt to a volunteer, and she grins at me, adjusting her glasses. “Thanks, Lennon. Everything’s going great. The food trucks are here. The lines are already starting to form. I think this is going to be a hit.”
I nod, forcing a smile, but I can’t shake the unease sitting like a lump in my stomach. We’re sold out, sure. That’s great. But it’s just a start. It’s just one event. One day. We need at least five more like this to pay just the back taxes on the building. Not to mention the repairs. The theater has been falling apart for years. It’s desperate.
I take a deep breath and walk across the parking lot toward the food trucks, their colorful logos a stark contrast against the dimming sky. The savory smells already start to fill the air, and for a moment, I allow myself to feel a little bit of relief. The tickets for the movie were all sold within a day. The director we’ve got here is a big deal in the indie film world, someone the Olsons supported early in his career, and now his latest film is getting a special preview. That got people excited. That’s got hope .
But it’s not enough. We need more.
As I check on the last of the volunteers, I can’t help but think about what comes after today. Even if this is a success, we’ll need so much more than just a good turnout. I hate that I’m thinking about Ruben again, but I can’t stop myself. His name keeps echoing in my head, and every time it does, I think about the connection to the person I’m sure is behind the purchase of this theater. The one who wants to tear everything down to put up apartments. Ruben’s involvement in all of this—the way he’s been showing up in my life at the worst possible moments—makes it impossible to ignore the tension simmering under the surface.
But I can’t dwell on that now. Not today. Today is about the theater. Today is about the people who’ve loved this place and kept it alive when no one else cared. This fundraiser, even with all its imperfections and stress, is my best shot at saving it. I can’t afford to let anything, especially thoughts of Ruben, distract me.
The night is starting to take shape, and I have a brief moment where I feel like I’m in control. But that unease is still there, lurking. I wish I could shake it, but as the crowd begins to filter in, I remind myself of the bigger picture. I’m not doing this for me. I’m doing this for the theater. I’m doing this for everyone who’s ever walked through its doors and found a home.
I can’t fail now.
? ? ?
The first thing I see when I notice him is the way he’s walking—unhurried, like he owns the place. Ruben Posada moves through the crowd like he’s been invited to bask in the success of an event that has nothing to do with him.
He’s wearing a denim jacket and a T-shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his forearms and charcoal pants, looking more like he belongs to a glossy magazine than a fundraiser. And he’s wearing a thick pair of glasses. Why does he have to wear the slutty glasses?
How does he manage to make it look so effortless? My jaw tightens, and I force my attention back to the clipboard in my hand. I’ve got a thousand things to do, and staring at him isn’t one of them.
But as I make my way through the volunteers, distributing water bottles and checking on the setup, I spot him again—this time, shaking hands with Mike Olson. Mike looks uneasy but civil, and Ruben’s face is the picture of charm, all polite smiles and nods.
I have to stop myself from marching over there and demanding to know what he’s doing. Does he think being nice to Mike will erase the fact that he’s actively working to end the work of a lifetime? I bite back the urge and head to the vendor stands, checking on the lines and supplies while trying to shake the knot in my chest.
It’s only minutes later when I catch him again. He’s at one of the booths. He’s handing over cash and collecting a few bags, and I see him laughing at something the vendor says.
What the hell is he buying? And why does he look so at ease, like he belongs here? My grip on the clipboard tightens. If this is some sort of PR stunt, it’s infuriatingly convincing.
By the time I spot him near one of the food trucks, my headache is in full force. I walk to one of the halls, pressing my fingers to my temples, trying to will away the throbbing. It’s probably from skipping breakfast. Or lunch. Or both. There’s no time for food when the future of the theater depends on today.
I’m finishing with the guy in charge of the lighting when he appears in front of me carrying two food boxes. I blink, unsure if the pounding in my head has conjured him into existence. My stomach flips—not with hunger, but with irritation. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
“Don’t tell me you’re running on fumes,” he says when he’s close enough for me to hear. His voice is smooth, a little too amused. He sets one of the boxes down on the folding table in front of me. “This one’s for you.”
I blink at him, stunned. Looking at the damn box as if it were made of snakes, I ask, “What?”
“You heard me.” He smirks, holding up the damn thing. “I don’t want to beat you because you’re weak, Lennon. I want to win when you’re at your best.”
His words catch me off guard, and for a second, I just stare at him. Then, as if on cue, my tummy growls loud enough for both of us to hear. Heat rushes to my face, but I cross my arms, refusing to let him see me falter.
“See? Even your stomach agrees with me.” I shake at his statement. Why is he here?
“Win what?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “This isn’t a game.”
“Oh, but it is.” He leans in slightly, and his voice drops. “You just haven’t figured out the rules yet.”
I open my mouth to retort, but he cuts me off, his tone softening in a way that throws me completely off balance. “Lennon, this is impressive. You’ve done good work here.”
His compliment lands like a punch, unexpected and disarming. I want to tell him to shove it, but the sincerity in his voice makes my words falter.
“You shouldn’t be happy about this,” I manage, my voice sharper than I intend. “You’re the enemy, remember? You’re the one trying to take all of this away.”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he holds my gaze, his smirk softening into something warmer. “I’m still allowed to recognize effort when I see it.”
“Recognize?” I scoff, shaking my head. “I don’t need your approval. Or your food.”
“And yet,” he says, his eyes flicking toward the box on the table, “it’s still there, waiting for you.”
As he steps back, I’m left staring at the box, the smell of warm, fresh food wafting up to me. My headache pulses again, and I press my fingers to my temples. I hate him. I hate the way he always manages to get under my skin.
And I hate that I might actually eat the damn food.