Chapter Twenty
Twenty
“Look down, the bodies weave a path to the gates, look down, and build, we ride upon their souls.”
—“We Build,” The Wooden Horse, Act Two
Official Statement from Colbie Paris Theatre Group and The Persephone Theatre
It is with deep regret that tonight’s performance of The Wooden Horse has been canceled due to a very serious incident that occurred after Tuesday night’s performance. We do not tolerate any
form of abuse to our hardworking cast and crew, and the safety of our company is our top priority. We are evaluating our security
protocols today and hope to resume performances for both the matinee and evening shows on Thursday. However, we’ve made the
tough decision to close the Persephone stage door to the public. We would like to take this opportunity to remind audiences
that interactions at stage door have always been at the discretion of the cast or crew member and it never has and never will
be an obligation. For ticket holders affected by tonight’s cancellation please contact your point of sale to rebook or request
a refund.
Jonah stared at the screen of his phone, or, more precisely, the picture of himself displayed on the screen of his phone.
Eighteen minutes ago, Dexter posted a photograph of Jonah taken during the rehearsal week, his hair a curled mess, face flushed but smiling as he sat on the floor, cross-legged, with a bottle of water in his hands.
He remembered Dexter taking it. His phone constantly out during rehearsals, the man obsessed with taking the most mundane photographs, this being one of them.
But it wasn’t the photo that caused Jonah to stare; it was the caption beneath it:
@Itsjonahpenrose I promise to always make you smile like this, even on the days when smiling is the last thing you want to
do.
Jonah glanced at the bathroom door. Dexter had been in there a while, the sound of the shower water hitting the tiles on the
wall oddly comforting, and something stirred inside him knowing Dexter made the post while naked in his bathroom, his clothes
still in a heap on Jonah’s floor. Part of him knew the caption came from the agreement with Colbie, to keep up a facade, but
after last night, did the facade even exist anymore? Jonah didn’t want to ponder the lines between fantasy and reality, but
surely things were different now, which meant he could absolutely read into the words. And read into them he would.
The comments beneath the picture were filled with nothing but love. It didn’t take long for rumors to spread about what happened
the night before, the statement from Colbie and the theatre adding fuel to the fire of wild tales circulating on the internet.
Jonah untagged himself from a couple of photos posted of him being ushered back into the theatre, his nose bleeding, head
down, with security trying to shield him from the crowd. He knew photos would find their way online, but why someone felt
the need to tag him in them was beyond him. Reminders of the night someone punched him in the face were hardly on the top
of his wish list.
The comments, however, were welcome. The incident seemed to have sparked a debate about the expectations of actors when it came to leaving theatres, if they should be left to finish work and go home unbothered or if they should always stop to talk to the people waiting.
It only took a quick glance online to see the discussion swirling around other cast members from different productions who shared their own positive and horrifically negative experiences at stage doors.
The casual sexual groping and intrusive grabbing seemed alarmingly common.
Jonah flinched as the comments on his phone vanished, revealing instead the little phone icon shaking in the center, just
below Edward’s name. The urge to fling his phone out of his window crossed his mind, though he knew simply blocking him would
be the easier option, but Jonah lived for dramatics and his phone shattering on the pavement outside seemed the more fitting
option. However, to save himself the hassle and expense of getting a new phone, he answered it, surprising himself at how
quickly he came to the decision, and placed the phone against the good, unharmed side of his face.
“What the hell do you want?” Jonah asked, impressed with the authoritative tone in his voice.
“What happened?” Edward sounded tired. Jonah had heard him speak with the same exasperation after endless nights of staying
late to work at the office, or, now that he thought about it, more likely staying late to conduct his affair with Wes.
“Your boyfriend thought it would be a good idea to assault me when I left work last night.”
Edward groaned. “He went through my phone and saw my messages to you and went off on one. He left, and I didn’t know where
he went. I assumed to the office or a bar or something. I never . . . I never expected him to go find you . . . Can I come
over? I want to make sure you’re okay.”
Jonah pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. He could still hear Edward talking, his monotonous tone
going on and on and on until Jonah pressed the red phone icon and hung up on him. He swiftly blocked his number than deleted
it from his contacts, then proceeded to block him on every form of social media and also went to the effort of blacklisting
his email address. He could hear Dexter singing softly from behind the bathroom door, the shower no longer on, his voice quiet
but clear. He knew the song—“Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John—and Jonah placed his phone down on his bedside table
as the song transported him back to the sandy tides of St. Ives.
In the summer months, the large glass doors leading from his father’s study opened out onto the back garden.
Jonah dug holes in the vegetable patch, his little yellow spade turning over the earth as the sound of his dad’s records playing from inside trickled out into the balmy air.
He remembered plucking sugar snap peas from where they grew on the trellis beside the green garden shed and crunching them in his mouth as David Bowie, Elton John, and Phil Collins became the soundtrack of his youth.
He wondered what his dad would say if he saw the bruises on his face, though he knew he wouldn’t have suggested hitting Wes back.
No. Bill Penrose prided himself on being an assassin with words, never with physical violence.
“Oh, you’re awake,” Dexter said as he emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of hot steam, Jonah’s towel wrapped around his
waist.
“It’s all right, just use all my hot water. Help yourself to all the food in the kitchen too. I’ve got some change in a jar
somewhere, might as well take that too.”
“You can’t take a man to bed, then not let him have a shower in the morning. It’s common courtesy. And, yes, I used your shampoo.”
Dexter ran his hand through his wet hair, rubbing his fingers through it, causing droplets to trickle onto the carpet. “How
are you feeling this morning?”
Jonah shrugged and shuffled himself up the bed so he could sit with his back against the headboard. “Fine? My nose hurts.”
“I should warn you, it . . . doesn’t look great.”
“My face?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks for that, Dex.” Jonah rolled his eyes as Dexter sat himself on the edge of the bed. “Though I guess I don’t have to
cake myself in makeup given the performance tonight is canceled.”
“Yeah,” Dexter said somewhat skeptically. “I saw the post. I messaged a few people, and no one else has heard from Evie or
anyone else. It’s kinda weird they’ve not told us directly.”
“They will. It’s still early.” He watched as Dexter took the towel from his lap then slid back under the covers. “I liked
your post.”
“Oh. Yeah, I probably should have asked before, but you were asleep.”
“More trip-gate damage control?”
“No,” Dexter said quickly. “No. I wanted to post that.”
“It was kinda . . .”
“Shit, you hated it, didn’t you? Do you want me to delete it?” He quickly reached for his phone, hands fumbling as he smacked
his thumbs against the screen.
“No.” Jonah laughed. “I’m just saying . . . promising to always make me smile? That’s an awfully big commitment.”
The color drained from Dexter’s face. “So, I’ve frightened you off by being too keen?”
Jonah cocked his head as he looked at him. “Did I say that?”
“I’m not asking for commitment, you know that, right? I know this—” he gestured between them “—is just a casual thing.”
Jonah felt winded. He hadn’t thought about what he might call the relationship with Dexter, but he certainly never thought
it would be something just casual. He didn’t think Dexter would refer to him as his boyfriend anytime soon, but he also didn’t
want to think of Dexter flirting with anyone else either. He knew the irony of his thoughts; it wasn’t long ago he couldn’t
stand the guy, his very presence an annoyance, and now, well, now he didn’t like the thought of being something unimportant
to him.
“Do you want it to be casual?” Jonah asked, his hands gripping the sheet on the bed beneath the duvet.
Dexter tipped his head from side to side, as if the movement helped him consider his options. “I think casual is a good place
to start. I mean, I’m not looking for anything more than that. I’m sure you’re not, either, right?”
Jonah shrugged then shook his head before nodding slightly, unsure if he was agreeing or simply covering all his bases because
it was the only thing he could think of doing.
“So, you won’t freak out if I flirt with someone else?” Jonah asked.
“I . . . I don’t know. I’ve never done casual before,” Dexter admitted.
“Me neither.”
“I just . . . don’t want there to be too much pressure? We work together, so we need to be careful about this. From my experience,
feelings in the workplace can create complications.”
“You’ve dated someone you worked with before?”