Chapter Eleven
Eliza
“When you feel like you’ve only got a bit part in your own life, write the script yourself.”
—Benny Bellamacina
Outside of a damn golf swing, Chad probably never worked with his hands a day in his life. He wouldn’t know hard work if it hit him in the teeth.
Yet here was Reed, on his day off, helping one of this theater’s oldest supporters. Grandma always said Thatcher Newcomb was a “good egg,” giving a lot of time and his own money to different projects at the Lyric and never wanting any credit for it.
She used to say Reed was a “good egg” too.
I never told him that.
I should have told him that.
“Ms. Crowley?” Roy, one of the lighting technicians tapped my shoulder. “You were saying?”
Oh, right.
“Sorry. What I was going to say was that I double-checked the board this morning, and it looks like I have a couple ERS bulbs out. I was told this theater always used them, but I’d like to see a quote for a Fresnel instead.”
Roy and the other technician, who happened to be his brother, gawked at me. I beamed, feeling taller than the Yankees’ best outfielder, Aaron Judge.
That’s right, boys. All rise.
I may not have read the brochures from all the business programs Dad had dropped on my desk over the last year, but I did listen to Girlboss Radio.
Carl tugged on the belt of his jeans. “But the Fresnel won’t be nearly as strong of a light—”
“I don’t need it.” Hold eye contact. “Everything else was updated last year and works great. We’ll save money by going with a Fresnel too.”
Roy harrumphed. “Maybe Ms. Sparrow has different thoughts about it though?”
“It’s like I already said on the phone, gentlemen.” Ms. Sparrow propped her glasses on top of her head. “Eliza’s opinions regarding lighting choices are my opinions.”
“So go ahead and draw it up,” I added.
Roy tapped his clipboard with a pencil that had a chewed top—gross. “We’ll get a quote to you soon.” He and Carl hurried away as Ms. Sparrow fist-bumped me.
“Men,” she muttered. “And my mother still wonders why I’ve never been attracted to them.”
I snorted and thanked her before turning around to where I had left Reed. The frame now stood alone, fastened to the floor. Reed was gone, and my heart sank a little.
I bet he would’ve liked seeing me put those two jerks in their place.
“So everything still on schedule with your cues?” Ms. Sparrow now faced upstage, taking notes.
On schedule? Um… “Yes.” Total lie. “Yes, the cues are going well.”
Truth: The board had frozen twice in the last few days.
I had lost dozens of cues and had to nearly start over each time. Now I saved my progress every two to three cues in case it happened again. It was painstakingly slow, and I was scared shitless it would happen during one of our live performances.
Ms. Sparrow bought my fake smile, though, and patted my shoulder before leaving the stage.
Later that afternoon, I pulled into the driveway to find Dad leaning on his truck with his arms crossed, staring at me.
I wasn’t late for dinner, so what was this about?
Wait.
My stomach dropped.
Did he know about Reed being with me when I left the stadium last night? Shit. I was so about to be grounded.
I stepped out of the Jeep, swallowing over grittiness when he laughed. “Relax, Eliza,” he said. “You look like you’re walking to your doom.”
“Am I?”
“I noticed your spare tire on the Jeep. How many times do I have to tell you to drive the BMW? When did you get the flat?” he asked.
Oh. “After the game.”
“Well, I’m glad Triple A was able to help you. We’ll take it in for a new tire this—”
“I changed it myself,” I said, leaving out the part where Reed was there too.
He rubbed his chin. “Who taught you how to change a flat?”
“TJ.” Because you were too busy to show me, remember?
He nodded approvingly before he pulled out his North Face backpack, the old hiking one, from the back of his truck. “I thought maybe we’d hit a couple trails today before dinner. You know…like we used to.”
Dad and I hadn’t hiked in over five years. What the heck brought this idea into his head? Maybe his therapist?
“Eliza?” Dad returned his backpack to the back of his truck. “Hike? Today?”
“Dad, I don’t know if now’s a good time. I came home for a snack, and then I wanted to go back to the theater for some cue work while the cast wasn’t there.” I flicked my keys back and forth in my hand.
“Come on. You can spare one afternoon for a walk with your old man.” He made a pouting face—no one had a pout like his.
Dammit. “Okay, fine. Let me go get my old sneakers.”
A half an hour later, Dad parked the truck at the Chestnut Oak and Swift Creek Loop Trail.
We used to walk this every Sunday evening together, just the two of us.
Mulched, shaded pathways looped around the tall trees, and in areas where the overgrowth was too thick or where the ground sank too low, wooden planks turned the path into more of a boardwalk.
The trail even had benches and lookout posts.
I used to love coming here in the late spring and summer when everything was in bloom, but my favorite time to visit was always the winter, when it was still.
I felt as much reverence for winter in the woods as I did in church, maybe more so.
“Swift Creek or Beech Tree Trail?” Dad asked me as he tightened the straps of his pack on his shoulders.
“Swift Creek.” I had forgotten to put on bug spray, so Swift Creek’s boardwalk paths would be a safer bet.
The first half of our walk was taken by silence, but not an uncomfortable one, with Dad in front of me.
I picked up a fallen branch and broke off the twigs to use as a walking stick.
Dad had his binoculars out and stopped to scan the trees every so often.
Chipmunks scurried under the ferns along the path and squirrels raced effortlessly up and down the trees.
Sunlight filtered in through the leaves high above, tinting the path in different shades of green.
With a bit more blue, this kind of lighting would be perfect for the balcony scene.
“So your mother tells me your show is going well,” Dad said, pausing to lift his binoculars toward a tall oak.
Did she? Half the time I talked about it, I wasn’t sure she heard me. “It is. Kinda.”
“What do you mean, ‘kinda’?”
I ran my stick back and forth over the boards. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Just had a run in with a couple of chauvinistic jerks this morning—”
“Do I need to go down there?” Dad’s binoculars smacked against his chest, his hands now resting on his hips.
“No.” I smiled. It was nice to see him stand up for me like this. It had been a while. “I took care of it and set them straight.”
He beamed and patted my shoulder. “That’s my girl.”
My heart squeezed. My girl.
It had been a while since he had said that too.
After stopping at an overlook, Dad spoke up again.
“I know I made some pretty big decisions about this summer without talking to you or your mother”—You got that right—“but I stand by what I did.” He took two bottles of water from his backpack and offered me one.
“We needed the bigger crowds, and we’ve already gotten them. ”
“Yeah, but what if we lose, Dad?” I tossed my stick into the woods. “I don’t wanna move my senior year. I’ve worked so hard—”
“I know you have. And you’ll continue to work hard no matter where you are.”
“Not helping…”
He rummaged through the pack and grabbed his Crowley Cardinals hat out of the main compartment. “We won’t lose, Eliza.”
“But what if we do?” Sweat beaded up at the base of my neck. “Reed Fulton is really good, and—”
“Reed Fulton is a loose cannon on and off that mound. Always has been. Always will be. Steer clear from him, you hear?”
Steer clear?
I literally steered out of the stadium with him yesterday and was fine.
Other than the flat tire.
I swallowed hard.
Dad patted my shoulder and smiled tensely. “Not that I need to tell you that. You know all about that family.”
Did I though? “You know, we used to be friends before—”
“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with starting somewhere new.” He started walking again. “Sometimes it’s good to leave behind the ghosts.”
Ghosts? What ghosts?
Sure, our house made some creaky noises when the wind moved too hard against it, but—
And then it all clicked into place.
Grandma.
Grandpa.
Both had died unexpectedly in the last six years, Grandpa first followed by Grandma three years later. Is that what all of this was about? Running away from our memories?
A lump in my throat sharpened. “Dad, if this is about—”
“It’s about baseball, Eliza,” he snapped. “And what’s best for our family.”
I didn’t push it after that. You can’t argue with grief. I had lost my grandparents, but he had lost his parents. I couldn’t imagine that kind of loss, and I didn’t want to.
Too bad ghost lights were reserved only for the stage.