Chapter 9
Shay
Oh no.
He was going to be my Romeo.
Landon got on stage and blew his audition piece out of the water. He was exponentially more engaging than the other guys who auditioned for the role. He made it look easy, effortless. It was as if he’d been acting his whole life.
Even Mr. Thymes jumped to his feet and started clapping.
“Bravo, Mr. Harrison, bravo!” he shouted. “I think we just found our Romeo!”
For the love of all things righteous, this wasn’t fair.
Landon was an amazing actor without even trying.
My hatred for the guy started climbing. He couldn’t be that good-looking, that rich, that popular, and that talented.
I wondered which demon he’d sold his soul to in order to become the person he was.
When Landon came to sit back down, he leaned forward near me once again. “What was that about me not being your Romeo?” he mocked.
“Bite me, jerk.”
“Of course.” He leaned in closer, his lips gently touching the edge of my ear. “Just tell me where.”
I tried to deny the way that slight touch sent warmth throughout every inch of my being.
I turned to face him. “I know you think you somehow managed to figure out a way to hang out with me, but the joke’s on you—I haven’t even gotten the role of Juliet yet. You could end up spending your time with some other girl.”
“Come on, Freckles,” he whispered, shaking his head. “You were made to be Juliet. There’s no one better.”
Freckles.
Hmph.
I kind of liked Freckles. Most people didn’t even notice I had freckles. You had to look close to notice them. I didn’t tell him I liked the nickname, though. I didn’t want him to have that pleasure.
I narrowed my eyes. “Truth or game?” I asked.
“What?”
“Is it true that you think I’m the best for Juliet, or is it just part of the game to try to get me to fall in love with you by being sweet and crap?”
“What do you think?” His eyes locked with mine. There seemed to be such sincerity in his stare. Then again, I’d just discovered that Landon was an actor. For all I knew, his whole life could’ve been an act.
Still, his approach seemed to be working on me, and I hated that fact.
For the most part, he’d keep with his rude comments, but every now and then he’d slip in a few nice, gentle words, and my heart would start to melt like butter.
But do you know what you get from a melting-butter heart?
Clogged arteries.
That was what Landon did to me—he clogged my freaking arteries.
* * *
Mr. Thymes waited a week to announce the cast. Even though I felt as if my audition hadn’t been strong enough, Landon was spot-on about me being his Juliet, and even though it killed me inside, he was the perfect Romeo.
After I found out, I hurried home with joy racing through my veins. I knew it was stupid, but being Juliet was a dream come true for me. I’d been giving it my all, and the first person I wanted to share the news with was the man who’d helped me perfect my audition piece.
“Dad! Dad!” I shouted, rushing into the house and tossing my backpack to the floor. After searching the whole house, I hurried downstairs to his writing cave, where he was sitting at his computer, typing frantically.
“Dad . . .” I paused and raised an eyebrow. “Are you writing again?”
He turned around to look at me and gave me a dopey smile as he ran his hands over his head. “Yeah, I am.”
“I thought you gave it up, since . . . you know . . .”
You seemed unable to write without a joint in your hand and whiskey in your cup.
“I know, but I felt inspired, and when an artist is inspired, we have to create. You know this better than anyone.”
True. An artist without art lives a very lonely life. I just hated that he did his best work when drunk and high.
“Well, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I got it!” I shrieked, unable to hold in my excitement. “I got the part of Juliet!”
“Of course you did,” he said, with complete assurance. “There was no way you wouldn’t have. You did the work, put in the time, and it paid off.”
He gave me two nods.
He was proud of me.
He didn’t say it, but I saw it.
My feelings were still soaring from excitement as I raced over and gave him a hug. As I wrapped him in my embrace, he turned his head slightly away from me, but it was too late.
I smelled it.
The whiskey on his breath.
My heart dropped in an instant, and I took a few steps back. I gave him a big smile and tried to push away the tears that wanted to fall from my eyes. “I’m gonna let you get back to your work, but I wanted to tell you the good news.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you onstage again. You’re going to nail it.”
Whiskey. Whiskey. Whiskey.
Had I made up the smell? Was I delusional? Had he gone back to his old ways?
He was making art again.
That should’ve been my first warning sign, not the alcohol on his breath.
“Thanks. OK, good night. I’ll see you in the morning,” I said before hurrying off to my bedroom. I closed the door and shut off the lights before climbing into bed and pulling the covers over my head. That was when the tears began to flow all on their own.
Dad was tapping into his old habits again . . . I’d smelled it. At least I thought I had. Soon enough, Mom and Mima would notice. Soon enough, there would be fighting. There would be yelling. There would be hatred. There would be tears. There would be drama. There would be pain.
So. Much. Pain.
I was so tired of how history kept repeating itself.
I was so tired of being tired. I hated that a part of me believed Dad would change his ways after being locked up, but it seemed he wasn’t a different man after prison.
Maybe people didn’t change. Maybe that was a truth that only existed in fairy tales.
I lay in bed and mourned my father who was still alive. I mourned the man I was hoping he could someday be. I mourned my dreams of who he could’ve become. I mourned the loss of my trust in him. Maybe someday, Mom would start mourning him, too.