Chapter 26 Isak
ISAK
We finish act one and take a break, then start act two.
Ms. Laurent had told us to be prepared for rehearsal today to go long.
Even so, I’m getting hungry for dinner. The cast members who don’t have to be onstage all the time are snacking in the seats when they’re not saying lines.
I’ve resorted to sneaking gummy cola bottles from the package in my pocket.
On the other hand, the more time we spend at school, the more benefit Lachlan is getting from being in the play. It makes my eyes burn. I wish no one in the world had a family life like his.
A sinking feeling comes over me as we get further through the script, because I know what’s coming. My heart pounds. I keep licking my lips and pacing.
Two more pages, and there it is. My stomach tightens up.
Billy kisses Forest. Billy kisses Forest.
Lachlan kisses me.
I want to kiss him. I’ve wanted to kiss him since long before we started hooking up.
But he doesn’t want to kiss me, and he’s definitely not going to kiss me for real in front of a whole theater full of people. I’m okay with a stage kiss, but I can’t help wishing for more.
That’s pointless, though. I’m a weirdo who wears nonconformist clothes and hangs out with the people on the fringes—and even if I were somehow cool, I’m a guy.
Based on the things his uncle yells, I’m pretty sure that’s a nonstarter.
I’m betting Lach has a metric ton of homophobia to work through, both external and internal.
Lachlan doesn’t even really want to be in this show; he’s just avoiding going home, and I don’t blame him for that.
I will blame him if he keeps being tentative with the part he’s playing, though.
His character is falling in love with mine, entering into a same-sex relationship, and the audience needs to see all of that portrayed as good and normal and healthy.
Lachlan needs to deal or he needs to go.
He reads the lines at the beginning of the scene. His voice isn’t exactly wooden, but he’s not emoting, either. More like he’s practicing saying the words but not acting them out.
I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.
Ms. Laurent stops us and says, “I need the two of you to move a couple of steps to stage right, because you’re going to be in the way of the chorus … Yeah, there you go. Okay, continue.”
I brace myself, then say my lines and skim down the page. Of course, right below our next exchange is the stage direction that seems to be written in bold type with flashing lights: Billy kisses Forest.
No problem. No big deal.
Why am I acting like this is a big deal? It’s a stage kiss. He’s going to pretend to kiss me. I don’t know why I’m all worked up.
“How would you even go about doing that?” I ask, in character.
We’re at the part where Lachlan kisses me.
I mean, where Billy kisses Forest.
Lachlan’s going to balk. There’s a big difference between reading about this on the page and going through with it.
He looks at me, and I stare him down. Am I imagining the longing I see in his sad hazel eyes? I must be. His chest rises and falls, and mine does the same.
Lachlan says his line: “Like this.” He takes a step closer to me, but I stay rooted in place.
Wait.
What’s he doing?
Our gazes lock. Lachlan smells amazing. He’s got a presence that affects me down to my core. He turns his cap backward.
Is he going to do it?
Don’t blow this out of proportion. It’s just a stage kiss. Fake. He’s going to pretend to kiss me.
Then he mutters something that sounds like “Fuck it.”
Before I can react, he reaches around the back of my neck, his fingers warm, strong, clutching me to him.
And his eyes go to half-mast as he moves closer, closer, closer … and then he kisses me.
For real.
Lachlan’s soft lips press against mine, and his nose bumps my cheek. Our bodies line up, his leg slotting in between mine. He smells like soap and tastes like every fantasy I’ve ever had.
His body is so big and solid. He’s my height exactly, but he feels strong, safe.
My knees almost buckle, but I lean into him. I grip his face and kiss him back hard.
He lets out a soft moan, and I hold him to me. Lachlan doesn’t part his lips, but the touch of his skin sends vibrations through me. A delicious tingle.
Fuck, this kiss is short-circuiting my brain. It’s making every fantasy I’ve ever had about him come true.
I thought it was good to see him come. But this, when he’s giving me something, is what I really wanted. His lips on mine are connection, electricity racing between us with a crackle and a zing.
Finally, after what has to be way too long, we break apart, panting, eyeing each other.
There’s a stunned silence. The entire cast is staring at us. I can feel the gazes of dozens of students, most of whom know my history with embarrassing situations onstage.
Lachlan, to his credit, isn’t beet red. But I might be. Because, okay, even though the last time I kissed without tongue was Jordyn Abrams in sixth grade, I loved every second of that kiss with Lach.
I’m overheated. My ears are burning, and I’m not sure I can stand up straight. But we have to keep going with rehearsal. If I book out of here, everyone will know—Lachlan will know—that that kiss meant more to me than I can admit.
It did mean more to me than I can admit. What the fuck do I do now?
Ms. Laurent wrings her hands, approaching us with a worried expression. “I should have discussed this more clearly with you in advance, Lachlan. You don’t have to actually kiss Isak. A lot can be communicated through your stance, your back, and the tension between you and your acting partner.”
“Oh, shit,” he blurts, still breathing harder than usual. His body language screams his regret before the words come out: “I’m so, so sorry. Oops. My bad.”
I narrow my eyes at him. I’m not sorry that he kissed me. I’m sorry he’s sorry.
This is going to make my dreams so much worse. I wish I could rein them in, but most of me doesn’t want to. Lachlan Doyle knows how to kiss.
And his apology irritates me. My nostrils flare, and I raise my chin high.
Ms. Laurent keeps talking. “One way to do a stage kiss is to grip his jaw with passion and lean in, but then turn and put your hand up by your lips with your palm facing him. With your back to the audience, it looks like a real kiss, but in fact you’re kissing the back of your hand.
Or you can put your thumb on his lip and kiss it. ”
“Yeah,” he says. “Okay. Got it.”
She turns to me. “Are you all right, Isak?”
It’s bad enough that I’ve been sucking Lachlan Doyle’s dick in secret since October. That he told me we can’t get off with each other anymore. Now he went and reorganized my brain, and … I can’t.
I wish he’d never touched me.
My teeth grind, and heat races through my body. I can’t explain why I’m so pissed; I just am. We have to keep putting on this show, and he’s sorry he kissed me once.
What am I going to do?
“I need a moment,” I say in a carefully controlled tone. I draw in a slow, steady breath and avoid eye contact with anyone.
Lachlan Doyle is off-limits.
And now he’ll be kissing me—faking it, faking it—almost every day for the foreseeable future.
We’ll be pretending to fall in love. Night after night after night.
Fucking fuck.
I run away, storming off the stage and out into the dark evening.
Behind me, I hear Ms. Laurent telling everyone to take five and asking someone to “Go check on Isak.”
Outside, I pace, running my fingers through my hair as the cool air hits my face. A door opens, and I expect to see Zanita or Jody or even Malik coming toward me.
But it’s Lachlan.
He moves as if he’s approaching a wild animal, his hands out, palms down, signaling that he’s not going to hurt me.
Problem is, he already did.