Chapter 14
Theodore
“Devon, it’s me,” I shout over the sound of the shower water running, “and I’m going to kill you,” I add quietly. I can’t say for sure whether this whole thing was a ploy to force me and Dafne to spend time together–after all, there were too many variables, no guarantee it would actually happen. Devon has, however, watched The Parent Trap an unhealthy amount of times, so I wouldn’t put it past him. I gulp some water from the canteen on my nightstand, drop on my bed, close my eyes, and hope today’s events will soon fade into a dusty compartment of my memory, knowing damn well it’s not likely to happen.
I really do have a great memory. It’s quite useful when learning lines, much more annoying when you’re unable to forget a pair of impossibly long lashes. “Theeeeo, my man,” Devon singsongs from behind the bathroom door. “I’m going to be awhile but get ready to spill all the delicious tea!” he thrills, steam seeping from under the door. I walk to said door and lean back .
“I don’t understand why this is so important to you,” I say, both depletion and an odd feeling of hesitant gladness settling within me. I don’t let myself think the latter is because of tonight. That’s dangerous territory.
“I mean besides the fact that you’ll launch yourself off a mountain top before giving in in any capacity,” I add after a beat, shaking my head.
“Like you’re not the exact same,” he replies, and I hear the squeak of the handle turning the water off.
“This could be good for you, mate. She could be good for you, whether you see it or not.” The water starts running again, and I take that as a suggestion to think about it. And despite myself, I do. I think.
What if, and it’s a big if, in the midst of this madness, he’s actually right? About the fact that it could be good, somehow. Ignoring this … whatever is going on between us? It feels stupid.
I’d like to think I’m not a complete idiot, most of the time. There’s a tension, of sorts, that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was there all along and only now that we’ve been forced to spend time together on stage–and off, if my best friend has a say in it–is it finally making itself heard.
You know that voice that tells you not to do something because it’ll come biting you back in the arse? Mine is either dead or in hibernation.
I grab my keys and start towards the door .
Dafne
If you looked up the definition of impulsive fool, you’d probably find a picture of me smiling from ear to ear. Today has been the most bizarre series of events in twenty-one years of walking the earth, next to that day I took a swig of iced tea straight from the fridge, and for a solid five minutes was sure I would pass away on my grandparents’ kitchen floor out of thermal shock.
I could lie and say I wouldn’t be able to explain what was going through my head when I challenged him with that question this morning just so I could–what? Get a reaction out of him that wasn’t one of contempt? I have never cared for his attention, and there are probably not enough good reasons why I should start now.
But I do know. Does it have to do with admittedly perfect hair texture and arm veins? Of course. But also, and most importantly, with how for the first time since I’ve known him, he’s looked me in the eyes without that impenetrable wall of his. I don’t know why that affected me so much, but it bloody did.
The fact of the matter is, these glimpses of humanity and warmth I’ve been getting of him don’t magically change how we’ve been at each other’s throats for this long, nor the fact that he’s probably got a small army of women already hanging off his words and I refuse to become part of the ranks. I meant what I told him when we were stuck in the prop room–that I wanted to know whether it’d all been for nothing. And maybe it’s wishful thinking, but I’d rather we proved we were better than a petty rivalry. I genuinely feel that my brain is at full capacity today, and something will have to get kicked out of it eventually.
Phoebe isn’t back yet, so I take my formerly white pants and the rest of my clothes off, and fling myself into the shower, hoping the steaming water will help with the painful knots in my shoulders and scatter my thoughts. Unsurprisingly, only the first comes true. I wrap myself in my softest bath towel, put my wet hair up in a bun, and pad towards the bed to retrieve my phone. There’s a missed call from Ollie, a message from Phoebe–letting me know she’ll be back in fourty minutes tops and to pretty please wait for her to watch the Great British Bake Off –, and one from my mum, who’s sent me a blurry photo of what I assume is a new set of hair curlers. My priority seems obvious right now.
I scroll to Ollie’s chat and press call. Not a whole ring goes by before his voice picks up, clear and bright. “Daaaafne,” he drawls, and I interrupt him immediately. “Do not Dafne me,” I purposefully draw out. “Care to tell me why you left with Devon without even letting me know?”
Ollie makes a hmmm sound on the other side of the line. “What if I told you that you don’t need details?” he asks, and we both know that’s a rhetorical question because I won’t settle for anything less than details .
“Alright, listen, I got caught up in the moment,” he starts again at the impatient sound I make in lieu of an answer, “but why don’t you look at the silver lining?
I scoff, holding my bath towel in place around my chest as I put on clean knickers.
“Which is?”
“Maybe spending time outside of rehearsals with Price could prove to be a good thing in the end. For the play, of course.” Of course my sweet arse.
“What happened to he was born an arsehole and he’ll die as one ? Those were your exact words, and at the Globe you brought up that it’s okay if you don’t want him to date other people nonsense, I mean, where is all this coming from?” I get up from the bed, and crouch to retrieve my pajamas from the pink wicker basket I keep under the nightstand, holding the phone in place between my ear and shoulder. Where the hell are they?
“I know what I said but … sometimes people de-serve second chances, right?” he says quietly, and my brows pinch together at the sudden seriousness in his tone.
“Ollie, is there something else you’re not telling me? Are you okay?” I ask as I unknot the towel and shift my gaze around the room to look for at least the top part of my pajamas. Before I can insist he tell me what’s wrong, I hear a shuffling sound from outside the door, and I freeze.
I tiptoe towards it and press my ear just below the Something witty this way comes banner I won at least year’s monologue competition we did in class. It sounds like someone is walking back and forth just outside the room, but I don’t hear any voices.
I am naked and someone is about to break in and murder me–is this how I’m going out? That’ll make quite the story in my hometown.
“Ollie,” I whisper, clutching the top of the towel so that it covers my breasts, as if that would provide any protection from an actual murderer breaking in. “I think there’s someone outside my door who isn’t supposed to be there.” He snorts, all traces of weariness seemingly gone. “It’s probably Phoebe turning her bag inside out looking for her keys.”
“She would be knocking,” I hiss. “Alright, screw it, I’m opening the door,” I decide then, because at least they won’t call me a coward in my eulogy. I let go of my towel and grab my vintage Fleetwood Mac shirt I’ve left crumpled on top of the bed, which I hastily put on.
“If I die you can have my Dame Judi DVD collection,” I whisper in the phone, clutched so tightly it might just break.
“No one uses DVDs anym–” I place the phone on the nearest shelf, grab the first potentially blunt object I can find, and I take a deep breath before wrenching the door open.