Chapter Ten
Reed
“Life is hard. Life is humbling. I do all I can to keep it simple.”
—Mariano Rivera
The theater was Eliza’s turf. The catwalk, the railyard, the stadium—those had all been ballsy moves just to get a good read on her. Which I still wasn’t sure I had.
I mean, the girl changed a flat tire like she worked with NASCAR on the weekends, for Christ’s sake.
I shouldn’t be here.
And yet here I was. On the actual stage of the Lyric. Might as well have painted a big-ass target on my chest, but I had promised Granddad over a week ago that I’d help out Thatcher Newcomb, an old friend of his, with setwork today, since we didn’t have practice. And a Fulton always kept his word.
Would Eliza see it that way?
Or would she accuse me of following her and deliberately trying to ruin her summer again?
My gut told me she wouldn’t. That things were different…were changing. Hell, she hadn’t blamed the flat tire on me or knocked me out with the wrench.
Then again, she did make me ride in the back of the Jeep with my head down on the way home and dropped me off a mile outside of town.
Flat tire or not, this “new” Eliza didn’t stop me from eyeing every exit in this theater and keeping my head down.
At least Thatcher had me working backstage.
“Reed,” he called from the opposite side of the stage.
Jesus, just announce me to the whole crew.
He pointed behind me. “Go downstage center to where I left my toolbox and grab me one of my drill bits, will ya? The high-speed ones, kinda twisty looking.”
“Kinda twisty looking.” Right.
I turned around and looked left and right, scratching the back of my neck. Downstage? Where the hell was downstage? Was that theater-talk for a basement?
One of the actors running lines nearby, a young kid with a cool sword on his belt, pointed toward the front of the stage where an old red toolbox sat.
“Thanks,” I said, hurrying toward it.
Thatcher’s toolbox would make Granddad break out in hives. His Allen wrenches and random-sized nails sat sprinkled throughout the top compartment. Wing nuts were mixed up with hex nuts, and scrap pieces of paper littered the entire container.
How does he find anything in here?
More voices entered the auditorium, so I crouched lower and kept rummaging through the toolbox till I finally found the drill bit. I hurried back across the stage and gave it to Thatcher, who smiled in approval.
“Now, hold up this frame here for me while I mark a couple of spots,” he said. We both grunted as we lifted the piece. “Ah, darn,” he muttered. “Should’ve had you get the brad-point bit. Wood’s too thick for this kind. Don’t go anywhere. Be right back.”
He hobbled away toward his toolbox and left me alone with the frame. If I tried to lower this beast, it’d slip out from under me and bash me in the freakin’ head.
Sweat beaded up on my eyebrows, and my elbows began to twitch.
Hurry up, Thatch. Hurry your ass up.
I swallowed over a dry rock in my throat and cursed under my breath. If I hurt myself doing this, Coaches Monaco and Roeper would kill me.
The wood made a funny, squeaky sound as the bottom started sliding away from me. “Oh shit,” I yelled, not caring anymore if I gave myself away.
But then another set of hands appeared and pulled the wood upright again.
“Too heavy for you, Fulton?” Eliza now stood smirking next to me.
Her hands gripped the other side of the frame.
She had several colored pens stuck into her ponytail, and she wore a gray shirt with big block letters that said “Though she be but little, she is fierce.” I hadn’t heard that quote before.
But I liked it.
“I’m surprised you didn’t let it fall on me, Crowley.” I winced as something pricked my palm. Splinter?
“Well, you did help me change a flat tire last night.”
“Nah.” I chuckled. “You had it covered.”
Her cheeks turned pink.
Oh. Did I embarrass her?
Definitely wasn’t my goal.
She grinned, and the scar above her eyebrow wrinkled.
I remembered the time she got that very scar.
We were nine or maybe ten years old. TJ and I had dared each other to jump off one of the railcars, and Eliza had tagged along.
TJ and I had leaped at the same time, and we both rolled when we landed.
Eliza laughed, and then TJ had challenged her to do better.
I remembered shouting “No!” when she jumped—but it was too late.
She had landed harder than we did and instead of rolling to the side, she rolled forward and smacked her head on the gravel.
TJ tried blaming me, but Eliza stepped in and asked him to take her home.
The next day when I saw her outside Scoops, she told me it was her first battle wound.
I was proud of her, but I never told her so.
I should’ve told her so.
“Fulton?” Her voice sounded almost musical. “You good?”
I blinked a few times. Childhood Eliza vanished, and grown-up Eliza still holding the frame materialized in front of me.
Did she ever think back to the same memories I did?
“Sorry,” I said. “I was thinking about the time you got that scar.”
A guy I didn’t know stepped out from the shadows. “I haven’t heard that story, E.” He looked like he came straight from a country club or golf course—polo tucked into khaki shorts above the knee, white, unstained shoes. “Maybe you should tell me sometime.”
Maybe you should go find a sand trap.
Eliza nodded to Mr. Preppy. “Reed, this is Chad Dupont. He moved here a year after your family left. Chad, this is Reed Fulton.”
Dupont? As in the mayor?
Chad stopped short. “The same Fultons who own the run-down farm off Birch?”
Heat flashed at the base of my neck. “Our farm—”
“The Fultons’ farm is one of the biggest in the tri-county area, actually.” Eliza stood up straighter, taking on more of the set piece’s weight. “And how many times did your nana’s 4H club have one of those Diamond— What’s it called, Reed?”
“Diamond Clover Award,” I said. The heat cooled a bit. “She had a kid win it three years in a row.”
“Fascinating.” Chad took out his phone and swiped a few times, looking bored. “Anyway, Eliza, your dad sent me to tell you not to be late for dinner.”
She scoffed. “Why couldn’t he just tell me himself?”
Chad shrugged. “He said you weren’t answering your phone.”
“Yeah, well, I’m working today. I’ll be home when I’m done.”
Shots fired. I looked down so neither of them could see my smirk.
“Relax, Princess. I’m just the messenger.”
Call her Princess like that one more time. I dare you.
Chad started turning around and then added to me, “Good luck this season, Fulton. You’ll need it.”
Not as badly as you need bigger shorts, asshole.
Eliza shook her head as he walked away, making a call on his phone. “I cannot believe I dated him for five months. Worst decision of my life.”
Clearly. “Bet he drives a Beemer.”
She laughed, and something warm and unfamiliar stretched across the inside of my chest. Eliza Crowley had defended me.
Where had that come from?
Thatcher’s hand appeared out of nowhere and clasped my shoulder. “Found it!” He held up the different drill bit and looked at Eliza with surprise. “Needed a break from the booth today, Ms. Crowley?”
She let go of the frame as Thatcher took it back and helped me lower it to the ground. “Actually, I came down to meet with our director and a couple lighting technicians, Mr. Newcomb.” Her eyes moved around us both. “And I think they just got here, so I’ll see you around.”
Eliza walked toward the front of the stage and shook hands with two older guys in matching dress shirts as a tall woman with a peacock-colored scarf and bright framed glasses joined them. Eliza’s gaze moved back to mine, and that unfamiliar warmth returned.
“Theater brings out some interesting characters, eh, Reed?” Thatcher commented.
“Yeah.” I broke eye contact before the heat moved to my face. “It does.”