Chapter 17
Mike’s smile falters when he sees me. I, of course, turn bright red. He sets down his white wine, thanks Lady Macbeth, and directs her toward a group of chittering grandmas.
He extends his hand to me as if we’ve never met, as if I’m a complete stranger and not his cottage squatter, and greets me like I’m someone important, a critic from LA, an entertainment reporter from the Union-Tribune.
While his demeanor is that of a consummate professional, his words are anything but.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you heckling me from the front row. If you came here looking for rotten fruit to throw, you’re fresh out of luck.”
“Oh, you know me.” It’s my turn to smirk. “I’m always looking for a quiet place to read uninterrupted. I figured your show was a safe bet.”
“The house was packed.”
“With comatose bodies.”
“Who have all reanimated and are eager to talk to everyone in the production?”
“Free food and cheap booze can do that. You know, I was curious why Malcolm’s monologue wasn’t cut from the production, seeing as how it is such boring, low-hanging fruit. But now that I know you’re the director, it all makes sense. You weren’t about to cut your own lines.”
Mike’s smile is dazzling. Not because of his teeth—which are nice and white—but because of how his eyes become part of it. “Have you been to the library here on campus?”
“What? No. UCLA and Berkeley, remember?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“And abandon your guests? Every one of them is related to you somehow, right?”
“So scared. Fine. I can wait.” He leaves my side to go mingle.
And I hate him for it.
The gentleman in the black suit approaches me with a friendly smile. “I see you were talking with Mike Benedick.” He offers me a glass of wine, which I politely accept even though I have no intention of drinking it. I don’t need to feel any more flustered than I already do.
“Yeah, a bit unusual for an undergrad to direct campus productions,” I say, twisting the glass in my hand.
“Oh, so you know your department history? I’m impressed. Mike never shares that he started doing this three years ago.”
Three years ago? I nearly drop my glass. “Right. Because this obviously isn’t his first directorial rodeo. That was, um, oh, why can’t I keep my Shakespeare straight? The first play he directed was…”
“Twelfth night.” The man gestures to a still on the wall.
“Quite the senior project to direct and star. Mike, of course, was more than capable. We begged him to take the role of Macbeth last April, but he had a different vision. And he said he needed to keep his character light for Much Ado later this fall.”
The Starship Cruiser meme flashes in my mind at the possibility of seeing more of Mike onstage. I swirl the wine in my glass, trying to mask my lack of internal chill. “He’s directing that one as well?”
“No. Starring role and finishing his thesis are enough for him. And, of course, there is still the matter of that dissertation that hangs as an unanswered question in all our minds.”
Thesis…dissertation? Oh my stars. “Mike’s a grad student—”
“The most promising we’ve seen in generations. But you must think so too. Why else would you come to see Macbeth twice?”
Before I can ask who this man is, he excuses himself to go talk to some other guests.
I ditch my glass of wine for a bottle of water and an excuse to wander over to Mike. “You paid them all, didn’t you? This reception is nothing more than an elaborate set piece.”
“Elaborate and expensive.” Mike sighs. “This is good. Your venom is a good contrast to the high of a show ending.”
“Is it always a high when it’s over?”
“No, but elation and relief are good at disguising the melancholy.” Mike thanks a few more guests before turning back to me. “Thanks for coming, I mean it.”
“If I knew this was going to happen, I wouldn’t have come.”
“‘I thank you for your pains.’”
The dripping sincerity he’s woven into that line makes me blink twice. I excuse myself while Mike finishes making the rounds. When he returns to my side, I ask, “Do you prefer directing to acting?”
“It’s different. They cross-pollinate each other. You ready?” He ushers me through a set of doors and down a flight of stairs.
“Where are we going?” I ask when we’re outside. No fear colors my words, just mild annoyance that I can’t navigate this place the way he can. If we were at either of my alma maters, things would be different.
“The library. I want to show you something.”
“Oh my gosh. Did you find the early-reader section? Have you finally learned how to read?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Not just read. Come on.” He holds the door open for me.
We walk past stacks of periodicals. “Do they still archive papers?” I ask. “I thought everything was digital now.”
“Not everything, which is why I want to show you where these are.”
“Believe it or not, I have better things to do than read yesterday’s news.”
“Not news.” Mike pauses in front of an empty circulation desk. He glides a single hand across the wood.
And I’m proud to say that I do not ogle his wrists or the fact that there are no rings, not a single one, on his fingers.
“Am I supposed to pretend that I see your imaginary friends? Because it’s rude to just start up conversations without being introduced.”
He chuckles. “You’re a lawyer, Bea. You live and breathe rude.”
I puff out my chest. “Not anymore.”
“You can’t fool me. There are two types of lawyers—miscreants and bookworms.”
“And then there are the miscreants who are bookworms. Which am I, Mike?”
He looks me up and down for a heartbeat, like he’s trying to figure that out.
“I could turn you loose on the wilds of the internet, where you would search like a madwoman down every rabbit hole for recordings of my old campus productions. But the best you’ll find is a grainy two-minute clip of the curtain call for Twelfth Night.
However, if you come back here”—he taps the desk—“during regular hours, you can check out DVD recordings of all my work.”
I snort. “Who’s the miscreant now?” I take a step closer. “Where does it come from? All that arrogance.”
“Arrogance? No. I take thee for pity, and while some heartless, February-faced reprobates require years of rehabilitation before they can tap into their empathy, I have higher hopes for you.”
“I’m not heartless.”
“Anyone who watches that many old episodes of Starship Cruiser has to be.”
“How did you—”
“I can hear it playing every evening. Broaden your horizons. Try something new.”
“I’m not new to Shakespeare.”
“Prove it.”
Gladly. “You’ve been practicing your lines on me all evening. Thanking me for my pains, I take thee for pity, February face… And while the irony is not lost on me, Beatrice, and you, Mr. Benedick, forgive me for not being impressed.”
“What does impress you?” Mike, in one graceful, fluid movement, vaults over the circulation desk, grabs a key hanging on the wall, and unlocks the back room.
“Not potential felonies! Mike!” I hiss.
He pokes his head out and winks—winks!—at me.
He returns momentarily with a stack of DVDs.
“Now we’re going to add potential misdemeanors to the docket?”
“You can watch them in jail.”
“Mike!”
“Tell me you weren’t already googling my name and Twelfth Night after your conversation with Dr. Weismann, and I’ll put them back.”
I’m about to object, but I can’t.
“‘Nay, do not pause.’”
I snort. “You did not just quote Richard III at me.”
Mike grins. “I figure I’m saving you at least ten hours of research. If you really weren’t about to waste the rest of your Sunday night trying to find these, I will admit that I am a loathsome toad and put them back because you have absolutely no interest in what my directorial debut looked like.”
“Absolutely none.”
“Then you won’t mind letting me search your browser history.”
I instantly press my phone tight to my chest, and Mike laughs gleefully. I’m turning to go, but Mike grabs my hand.
“Wait, Bea. Don’t be like that! Here.” He drops my hand and stretches out his arms in a friendly gesture of truce.
I’m only human, and this man knows his Shakespeare.
I step closer, if only to prove to myself that I can.
The brief moment when our hands touch means nothing, and my mind does not jump to lines from Romeo and Juliet about holy palmers’ anything.
Yet, my knees feel weak as Mike unexpectedly wraps his arms around me.
Before the instinct to burrow my face into his chest takes over, he pulls out his phone and snaps a picture. “Look at how pink you turn when you have to eat crow.”
I don’t push Mike away. Instead, I burrow closer, and I can feel his shock and surprise by the way his posture has gone all stiff. Good.
“‘I must tell you friendly in your ear, sell when you can, you are not for all markets.’” Then I push him away.
“As You Like It.” Mike’s tone becomes dry. “Bea, I think quoting Shakespeare is my love language.” He grabs the stack of DVDs.
“No! I’m not stealing campus materials.”
“Would you relax?” He produces his student ID and scans it at the kiosk by the door. And then, as he pointedly stares at me, he scans all six DVDs.
“These should be digitized,” I say. “Why aren’t they?”
Mike shrugs. “Old habits. Lack of funds. Not all of us are Del Mar heiresses.”
“Right, some of us are La Jolla heirs.”
He hands me the stack of DVDs. “Anytime you want to trade your parents’ mansion for my beach shack that is one El Nino from washing away into the Pacific, you let me know.” He pushes open the library double doors. His phone pings, and he swears.
“Campus police?” I ask. “Letting you know that you have a hearing regarding unlawful use of library materials?”
“No.” Mike shoves the phone into his pocket. “Can I get a ride? My Lyft just canceled.”
“You have a truck.”
“That is currently parked in the garage at Neptune.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to show up covered in plaster dust, okay?” His ears are going red. That’s more than embarrassment. That’s shame.
“Yeah. Sure.”
We walk in thick silence to my Porsche.
Mike groans when he sees the car. “Never mind. I’ll walk home.”
“Would you get in the car?”
“I’m going to sneeze and ruin it, and you’re going to sue me.”
“Mike,” I snap with the same tone I use on the puppies who start chewing on my sneaker.
He sulks into the passenger seat. “Has to be a 1977.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I toss the stack of DVDs onto the back seat.
Mike slams the passenger door. “Because it is.”