Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Jordana
Morning dawned cloudy, with soft gray light filtering through the window. Sheets that smelled like soap and pine. The soothing patter of rain outside.
Gavin was spooning me as we lay cocooned in his blankets. Wriggling in his embrace, I tried to turn over, but he pulled me back and gave me a sleepy squeeze.
“Mmmph,” he mumbled.
Spending the night sober — this was a first. But here in Gavin’s arms, I felt at ease. Welcomed, as his hands tangled around my waist and my toes pressed against the top of his feet.
Relaxing, I snuggled against him, but my gaze moved to the clock on his table. It was a few minutes after nine, and I had a class at ten.
“Tonight?” I whispered. “I’ll come to you after rehearsal?”
“Tonight,” he rumbled.
Retrieving my robe and swimsuit, I stepped into my boots, preparing for the dash of shame to my building next door. I found my cheetah coat draped neatly over the camp chair in the living room and buttoned it up, naked underneath.
But as I passed the kitchen, the counter caught my eye.
The coffee maker was set up. A container of ground coffee stood next to it, along with a white mug, a sugar bowl, a spoon, an orange, and a note:
Help yourself to this and anything in the kitchen. There isn’t much, but it’s yours.
G
Oh, my heart. I pressed my hand to my chest to keep it from bursting out.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Quickly, I brewed coffee, munching the orange while I waited. On an impulse, I found the biography of Tennessee Williams and put it in my tote bag.
Hurrying home to shower, I threw on a change of clothes. The rain had stopped, the town was washed clean, and the sun peeked through the clouds. A brisk walk got me to class bright and early. I was fizzing with excitement at everything Gavin and I had done, and everything that could happen.
My class was in a studio in a wing of the main theater building. When I arrived, the door was locked, the hallway empty.
Grateful for the quiet, I sat on the floor and took out a small notebook from my tote bag. Magazine clippings collaged the cover. I skimmed the handwritten notes, then began scribbling.
This was my most closely guarded secret.
I didn’t let myself think too hard about the ideas I jotted in this notebook.
I wrote what came to mind and tried not to judge.
Plays, scripts, screenplays. Scraps of dialogue.
The outline for a musical. If anyone saw my scribbles, all those ideas would go poof, blinked out of existence.
Or they’d be too stupid to survive, or completely unoriginal. So I told no one.
Right now, I was working on my favorite idea: a web TV show called Typecast about two girls trying to make it in the theater world after graduation.
They kept getting into scrapes because they were so stuck in their roles of good girl and bad girl.
I was writing it for Eden and me, but Eden, of course, knew nothing about it.
As I scrawled some dialogue, my phone buzzed. It might be Gavin. I grabbed for it, giddy.
Jorie: did you receive the emails I sent about legal internships? Expect more today. I want to hear that you’ve at least applied. This is for your security and future.
I stared at the screen. Before Saturday — when my father announced the divorce — this message would have made me feel annoyed, but protected. He cared; he was looking out for me. If I felt anything else, I would have sectioned it off and hidden it.
Now, my stomach crawled unpleasantly. I kept hearing Gavin’s voice, calm and sure: Push back. Value yourself and your time.
Were my father and I ever going to have a conversation? Or were these messages his only way of dealing with the divorce, his affairs, his impending kid?
I shoved my phone into my bag. I was not going to let my parents’ mess ruin my good mood about Gavin.
Quickly, I returned to the zany world of Typecast. If I could tell anyone about this project, it would be him. He’d tilt his head, light up with that glorious smile, and listen with total attention. Inspired, I scrawled a line that cracked me up and laughed out loud.
A shadow fell across my lap. I hastily slipped my notebook into my bag. Corey stood over me, his feet planted on either side of my knees, his blue eyes angry slits.
My throat tightened. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Yeah, I bet you are.” He unbuttoned his jacket with slow, deliberate jerks. “Just like you were last night when I texted you. What's your excuse? Your phone broke? You were spreading your legs for someone else?”
When I looked up at him, I really saw him. His eyes were puffy and pouchy, his sandy hair rumpled. His hands restlessly opened and closed. He didn’t seem so strong or handsome anymore, and even though he towered over me, he didn’t seem so big, either.
“Are you on something?” I asked.
“Answer me.”
The words were coming. Corey, we're done. I don't want your hands on my body ever again. But I needed to stand to break up with him. Face-to-face, eye to eye. And he loomed over me, his feet trapping my legs.
“Step back.” My voice came out soft but sure.
“I don't want to.” He sneered.
“Give me space.”
Corey blinked. “I don't feel like it.”
“Listen, if you don’t—”
A noisy creak behind Corey drew our attention as the door to the outside opened. He quickly stepped aside, leaning against the wall in a casual pose.
“Hey, guys!” Eden hurried toward us, her backpack jouncing. Her wet, blonde-streaked hair showed slices of her natural dark color between the pale strands, and she looked fresh-faced and happy. “Did I miss something? You're here so early.”
“And you’re right on time.” Corey gave her a charming smile and took a foil-wrapped packet from his bag. “I brought you breakfast.”
I breathed in sharply, and his eyes cut to me with a glint of satisfaction. Eden, who was busy unwrapping the foil, didn’t notice.
What game was he playing? He was clearly wooing Eden, but did he truly want her back, or was he trying to get to me? Either way, it made me worried for her.
“Awww, Corey! You're the sweetest.” Eden took a big bite of the English muffin sandwich inside. “Jorie, you want some?”
“No, thanks.” I forced a smile, my heart racing. “Eden, can I talk to you for a sec?”
“Of course!” She looked apologetically at Corey. “We'll be right back.”
“Take your time.” Corey patted her shoulder.
As I slipped my arm through Eden's and we headed around the corner, I felt his eyes bore into my back. We found a secluded spot at the end of the hall, near a bulletin board papered with department news.
“What’s going on with you and Corey?” I asked. “You said you were just friends, but I’m getting a vibe.”
Eden laughed and swatted me. “Oh, you.” She took another bite of her sandwich. “Maybe he’s giving a vibe, but I am definitely just interested in being friends. But what’s going on with you? You didn’t come home last night. You know you can always talk to me.”
“This weekend has been…a lot.”
“It's okay.” She wrapped up the English muffin, her gaze moving over me with concern. “Whatever it is, I'm here.”
I stared at a poster on the bulletin board: 10 Ways To Know You're A Theater Major. A door creaked open halfway down the hall, and a professor emerged with an armload of books. I waited until he hurried off.
Leaning in, I lowered my voice. “My dad's leaving my mom for another woman.”
“Oh God, Jorie.”
“They’re having an affair. She’s expecting their child. My mom’s a mess, and…and so am I.” My face crumpled.
“Sweetie, I'm so sorry.” Eden embraced me tightly.
We swayed back and forth. All the sadness I’d been holding back gushed up like a geyser. I gulped, burying my face in her shoulder.
She didn't ask for details, or comment on my parents' marriage. She simply held me, with love and understanding.
Finally, she asked, “Are you still going to be able to do Streetcar?”
“Nothing can keep me from doing this show.”
“Good. Because I’m not playing Stella without your Blanche. I want my sister with me.”
“I’ll be there.” I sniffled, raising my head. “You’re the most beautiful, brilliant Stella, and I love you.”
I’d left two damp spots on Eden's sweatshirt. Being with Gavin had unstopped a well inside me, and I didn’t know if I could contain it.
“I love you too.” Eden squeezed me and pulled a tissue out of her backpack. As ever, she was prepared. I knew there were hair ties, maxi pads, hand sanitizer, and probably an entire first aid kit in its depths. “I am always, always here for you.”
I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, pulling myself together as voices drifted down the hall. A group of students was passing by the far end.
Suddenly, I wanted to tell Eden about Typecast, the show I was creating for us. If it ever happened, I wouldn't want to do it with anyone else.
But I was afraid if I mentioned it, my creativity would dry up. Too many expectations for an idea that was still a precious baby.
Instead, I whispered, “I stayed at Gavin’s last night.”
“Jorie!” Her eyes widened. “You spent the night? Was it good?”
“It was incredible.”
“That’s amazing! Did he, uh…” Eden put her lips by my ear. “Did he do what he said he’d do? You know, did he make you…” She paused at a clatter of footsteps on the far staircase, then went on when they subsided. “Did he make you come until you cry?”
I heaved out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. It was intense. In a good way. I guess I trust him.”
“Wow.” Eden let that settle. “I think I like him for you. He’s got that mysterious, quiet, sexy thing going on, but he also seems steady. And he’s older, so he’s got his act together.”
I wondered if Gavin would agree. My mind flicked to the book project, the nude photographs, the bondage. As much as I wanted to explain it to Eden, I knew Gavin wanted to keep it under wraps.
“Eden, listen.” I glanced down the hall, where three people were crossing to the staircase. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Rachel would get upset. Especially since Gavin wants to teach here in the spring. I don’t even know what’s happening between us. It was just one night.”
“A forbidden affair?” Eden grinned slyly. “My lips are sealed. I saw him watching you at rehearsal yesterday. His face went all soft, and he couldn’t stop staring at you.”
A smile sneaked across my face, and I bumped my shoulder against hers.
As we turned to walk to class, a pink flyer on the bulletin board caught my eye. It announced a paid summer theater internship in Chicago with three tracks: acting, directing, and scriptwriting.
“Are you applying?” Eden asked, when I stopped to read the flyer. “The deadline's Monday, a week from now. The day after Streetcar closes.”
“This is the first I've heard about it.”
“Really?” She blinked at me. “The department sent out a few emails back in September. It's a big deal. I'm applying, and so is Corey. And Hope and some others. You should go for it.”
“You're encouraging me to apply?” I laughed.
“Hey, I don't believe in edging out the competition. Spreading the love around means we all benefit.”
I took a picture of the flyer with my phone. It was crazy to pull an application together in such a short time, but excitement flickered inside me. This was what I should be doing. Earning money in the field I loved, not pursuing the legal internships my father sent me out of guilt.
I grabbed Eden’s hand, and we headed down the hall, talking and laughing as people filed into the studio for class. But when we reached the door, Corey was waiting. His gaze cut to our joined hands.
“I told Jorie she should apply for that internship in Chicago!” Eden exclaimed, unwrapping her sandwich to polish it off.
“I can’t believe you didn’t hear about it,” she added to me.
“The emails must have gone to your spam folder. Corey, you should check on that since you work in the department office.”
His broad shoulders stiffened. He was touchy about his work-study position for financial aid. Corey got prickly about anything money-related.
“It's too late,” he said calmly. “If Jorie hasn't started the application yet, she won't have time to put one together. Especially with dress rehearsals and the show this weekend. After all, she's the star.”
Eden frowned. “Why are you talking about Jorie like she’s not even here?”
Somehow, no one had ever noticed that Corey and I talked around each other, not to each other.
“No big deal,” I said airily. “I'll think about that internship.”
As we headed into the studio, Corey leaned close. Quietly, out of the corner of his mouth, he said, “Don’t.”
What the hell?
Finding a seat, I looked up the application requirements — a letter of recommendation, two work samples, a résumé, and a cover letter.
I toggled between the acting and writing tracks, my stomach twisting at the prospect of putting my writing out there. But acting? That, I could do.
All through class and lunch, I mulled it over. Finally, I bit the bullet and fired off an email to Rachel. No professor would be thrilled about getting a recommendation request a week in advance. But she was my best hope.