Chapter 32
Thirty-Two
Swayze
The closer we got to opening night, the more rehearsals we had stacked on the schedule.
Free time was becoming an increasingly rare and precious commodity, so when Bristol called an emergency meeting of the library fundraiser committee on one of the few nights we weren’t expected at the theater, I gave serious consideration to bailing.
Every muscle in my body ached with exhaustion, and the dark circles under my eyes now required industrial-strength concealer.
Colter was on-shift at the fire department, which meant there was nothing stopping me from face-planting onto the nearest horizontal surface the second I dragged myself through the front door.
But I knew Bristol had to be running on fumes too, so if she was calling us all together on such short notice, it had to be important.
Rather than gathering at El Paisaje like we usually did, she had us meet at the actual library building itself.
I hadn’t been inside the structure before, so I had no real sense of how much it might have changed from its pre-flood state.
The floor beneath my feet was scarred, stained concrete, stripped down to the bare bones.
The walls were still in the framing stage, skeletal two-by-fours creating the ghost of what the space would eventually become.
I could see how someone with actual vision had divided the footprint with what would likely be offices or private study areas running along one wall.
A bigger area had been framed out toward the back that might have been intended as a classroom or community meeting space, though it was hard to tell at this bare-bones phase of construction.
Electrical wiring snaked through the studs, but there was still so much work to be done before actual shelving could be brought in for the new collection our show was intended to fund.
Bristol emerged from somewhere in the back of the building, her footsteps echoing on the concrete.
Even with her glasses, I could see the pinched lines of stress carved around her eyes and the pronounced frown bowing her usually cheerful mouth.
Before she moved over to address the assembled committee members, I reached out and touched her arm gently.
“Hey, you okay?”
“No.” The grim, flat tone of her voice had all my spidey senses tingling with apprehension. “But we’re about to talk about all that, so just... hold on.”
Uh-oh.
She strode purposefully to the center of the echoing, half-finished space and lifted her voice. “Okay, y’all, can you bring it in?”
The other committee members drew closer in a loose semicircle, wearing various shades of curiosity and concern painted across their faces. The tension radiating from Bristol was palpable, making my stomach clench with worry.
“I know this isn’t our usual meeting spot, but I wanted to have you all here in person to see what we’re fighting for.
What we’re working towards building.” She gestured around at the skeletal structure surrounding us.
“And where everything will grind to a complete stop unless we somehow manage to pull off an absolute miracle.”
“Wait, wait,” Miss Addie said, lifting one wrinkled hand in the air, her silver rings catching the harsh work lights. “What are you talking about, child? What’s happened?”
Bristol took a deep breath. “A significant chunk of our funding for this rebuild was coming from a substantial grant offered by a private literacy non-profit out of Nashville. We have match funds already lined up through another mechanism, contingent on receiving that grant. But the grant is falling through. They’ve pulled their commitment entirely. ”
Adalyn crossed her arms over her chest, her expression darkening. “Meaning we’re not just out the original grant money, but we’re also losing the matched funds that were tied to it?”
“Got it in one. This is—I can’t even begin to express to you what a huge, devastating blow this is to the project.
Even with ticket sales from the show, presuming we somehow managed to have a sold-out performance for every single night of the run, there still won’t be anywhere near enough money to finish the actual physical renovation of this space. ”
Emmaline rubbed absently at her growing baby bump, her face creased with concern. “Could y’all maybe extend the run of the show? Add more performances to bring in additional revenue?”
Bristol shook her head wearily. “Not nearly enough to make the kind of dent we actually need. We’re limited by the physical capacity of the theater.
There are only so many seats that can be sold per performance, no matter how many shows we add.
And as happy as those of us who are in the show are to help in any way we can, we’ve all already given up huge amounts of our personal time and energy to do this, and I’m not sure it’s reasonable or fair to ask people for even more. ”
My brain immediately kicked into high gear, spinning through possibilities.
I certainly understood the concept of scale and reach—my entire former career had been built around the art and science of bringing exponential attention to causes and products.
Maybe I could put that hard-won knowledge to practical use for the show.
“What if we could livestream the performances?” I suggested, the idea crystallizing as I spoke. “That would dramatically open up the potential audience opportunity beyond just the physical seats in the theater.”
“Livestream?” Monique perked up at the suggestion, her eyes lighting with interest.
“Steve, is that a thing we have the technical capacity to do?” There was no reason to go too far down this particular rabbit hole without confirmation that it was even feasible. “I mean, logistically and equipment-wise?”
He scooped one hand through his perpetually floppy brown hair, his expression considering.
“I’d need to check on a few specific things, but we’re already planning to record the performances for archival purposes.
It honestly wouldn’t take that much additional work to set up the infrastructure to stream it live as well.
The real question is, how many people could we expect to actually want to watch something this local and community-focused? ”
“It’s definitely something worth considering,” Gabe acknowledged, nodding as he processed the implications.
As the conversation turned in other directions, with various committee members throwing out suggestions about additional fundraising opportunities and alternative revenue streams, my focus turned inward.
I couldn’t help but remember what Tasha Williams had said to me about the potential benefits and reach of my platform.
She wasn’t wrong. Not that I knew how much of a platform I actually had left after four months of total, self-imposed silence and withdrawal from the digital world. But maybe it was time to find out.
When the meeting ended, I thumbed a text to Blair on the way out to the parking lot.
Swayze:
Hey, you busy?
Blair:
Depends. Does rewatching The Witcher for like the fifth time count?
Swayze:
Totally counts. Mind if I come over for a bit?
Blair:
Only if you share my appreciation for Geralt in those leather pants.
Swayze:
It is one of the finest asses to ever model leather.
Blair:
You may proceed.
Swayze:
Be there in a few.
Ten minutes later, I climbed the steps to the Craftsman cottage Blair shared with her wife, Elena.
Cafe lights wrapped the perimeter of the front porch, their warm glow illuminating a hodgepodge of brightly colored pots overflowing with cheerful pansies and an assortment of fragrant herbs—rosemary, thyme, and what looked like cilantro.
Someone had taken the current upward trend in temperatures to mean that the end of winter had definitively arrived.
I hoped they didn’t get bitten in the ass by a late-season freeze.
I knocked on the teal front door, the sound echoing in the quiet evening air. It swung open a few seconds later to reveal Blair in yoga pants and a slouchy gray t-shirt emblazoned with a sparkly unicorn, her long blonde hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swished when she moved.
Her gaze skimmed me from head to toe. “Is this a wine, chocolate, or ice cream sort of situation?”
My stomach offered an audible growl at the mere mention of food, reminding me that since we hadn’t had our meeting at El Paisaje as originally planned, I hadn’t had dinner. The granola bar I’d grabbed at lunch felt like a distant memory. “Any or all of the above?”
Blair backed up, opening the door wider and calling over her shoulder toward the interior of the house, “Honey, we have a hungry woman in our house who needs feeding.”
Elena stuck her head out of the kitchen doorway, her dark curls bouncing. “Hi, Swayze. I’ll make you a plate.”
I didn’t even ask a plate of what. At this point, anything sounded good, and Elena’s reputation as an amazing cook preceded her. “That’s so kind of you. Thanks so much.”
Trailing Blair back through the cozy living room to the kitchen, I watched her wife move efficiently from fridge to stove with the ease of someone who genuinely enjoyed cooking, warming up some kind of food that smelled divine—savory and rich with spices that made my mouth water.
As she worked, transferring the aromatic dish into a bowl and garnishing it with fresh cilantro, I told them both what I’d found out at the meeting, laying out the financial situation and the potential solutions we’d discussed.
“Well, fuck. That’s a problem,” Blair announced without hesitation, her characteristic bluntness somehow comforting in its familiarity.
I took another generous bite of the pollo guisado Elena had heated up for me, the tender chicken practically melting on my tongue, the tomato-based sauce perfectly seasoned with garlic and cumin.