17. Alone #2
The final run ended in a thunderclap of noise and color.
Stagehands flooded the deck, stripping tape and resetting marks while the lighting crew dropped gels from the sky like confetti.
I peeled off to the wings, found the nearest quiet spot, and let my lungs figure out how to work again.
My hands wouldn't stop fidgeting. Maybe from hunger, from the leftover static from the rehearsal.
Or because every minute I didn't say something, the urge to do so doubled in strength, until I felt like I might yell something wild just to get the pressure out.
I watched the backstage traffic. For a second, I couldn't find her anywhere, which was weird—she was usually impossible to miss. Then I spotted her by the wardrobe table, alone, tugging at the zipper of her stage piece with a frantic look.
She was struggling. Both hands reached behind her back, fingers clawing at the zipper, but it wouldn't budge. She twisted, tried the other hand, then gave up and tried to flag down a passing assistant. No luck—everyone was sprinting toward the next emergency, all eyes anywhere but on her.
I hesitated. In another life, I would've left her there. Let her fight it out or swallow her pride and call in the cavalry. But something in my chest snapped. I crossed the floor, legs moving with a certainty that always got me into trouble.
She didn't see me until I was right behind her. "You need a hand?" I said, quiet, so only she could hear.
She stiffened. For a second, she didn't answer, glanced around the room like she was looking for literally anyone else who could help. A makeup artist, a wardrobe person, hell, a janitor. But everyone was busy breaking down the set or prepping for the next block.
I was about to crack a joke about her being stuck with me when she finally said, not turning, "If you're volunteering."
I nodded, then realized she couldn't see it. "Yeah. Hold still."
She folded her arms in front of her, shoulders hunched, and let me close the last few inches.
The zipper ran from the middle of her back to her tailbone, sealed tight by a row of invisible hooks and an industrial optimism.
I braced one hand near her shoulder blade, the other on the zipper tab, and gave a gentle pull.
"Stuck?" I asked.
She huffed out, "story of my life."
I pressed closer, trying to leverage the fabric.
From here, I smelled her skin—a scent more subtle than, like shea or almond, layered under the deodorant and the faint tang of stress.
Her breath went tight as I worked the zipper.
The back of my hand brushed the soft spot at the small of her back and she winced.
I tried again, slower. "You're tense," I murmured.
She looked back over her shoulder then, for a split second. Our eyes met, something passed between us that I wasn't ready to think about. Then she turned away just as fast. I was grateful. Looking at her directly while feeling this much was starting to be a problem.
"So are you," she said, voice quieter now.
The zipper gave with a soft yank. I eased it down, careful not to catch on her bra, and let my fingertips linger a second longer than necessary. When it was loose, I stepped back. "You're good."
She turned, holding up the front of her bustier with one hand. Her eyes found mine, and for a moment we stood there, the noise of the world fading to a low roar. My stomach flipped at the look she gave me, ready to empty everything in my chest.
Kept thinking maybe that's all it'd take. One kiss to shut the whole thing up. One slow look, my fingertips tipping her face toward mine and it would've been game over.
If I were bolder, or more stupid, maybe.
She said, "Thanks," in a voice that didn't quite sound like her own.
I shrugged. "No problem." But I didn't walk right away.
My hand was still near her shoulder, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin.
I wondered if she was going to turn around fully, if we were about to have a moment.
An insult. A kiss. Both? Hell, anything.
But then she shifted away, and I felt like an idiot for wanting it. Yet again.
God, I wanted this rehearsal over. Wanted to be anywhere she wasn't, where I could go back to being a girl with some damn dignity. A few walls between us and I'd be cured. Probably. Mostly. Fine, no.
Get it together, Wolfe. This is how you end up writing another diss track.
I took a step back, ready to have a stern chat with myself, when she spoke.
Romi turned to me, her face careful. "Actually, can I talk to you? Alone?" There was an edge of, I don't know, something that hadn't been there since all this started.
I nodded, even though it terrified me. "Yeah. Wherever you want."
She led me down the hall, away from the chaos, past the dressing rooms and into a side hallway lined with cases of bottled water and stacks of gaffer tape. It was colder here, the air heavy with dust and the faint hum of the A/C.
She stopped, checked that no one was within earshot, then leaned against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. For a moment, she looked at me, taking in every flaw.
"I'm no good at this," she said. "But I can't not say it."
I froze, waiting.