Chapter Twenty-Two Elise
He bursts out of his sports car, a man on a mission. My initial shock is overtaken by confusion.
Is it possible to conjure someone if you miss them enough? Why is he here? Is he here for me? Is he wearing sexy gray sweatpants? Does he even see me?
The last question prompts me to wave. A cement edge catches my foot, big toe taking the brunt of the collision. I dare anyone to notice the uneven pavement when Randall Haughland appears across the street like a mirage.
Stumbling and flailing, I drop the grocery bag and land hard on the sidewalk. A lightning bolt shoots up my arm, making me holler like a wounded animal. Surprised and in pain, I realize the primary victim of my clumsiness: my wrist does not look right.
“Elise! Fuck, Elise! Are you alright?” He’s saying my name as if he’s the one in agony. Randall kneels beside me and brackets my back with a brawny arm. His blond hair flops over furrowed brows. My wrist is gently cradled by his large hand.
“I tripped,” I say feebly, mortification clogging my throat.
“Your wrist is hurt, baby,” he mumbles. “How’s your back? I need to know before I lift you.”
“My ass is sore, but there’s nothing wrong with my back.”
Randall carefully slips an arm under my knees while the other one tightens across my back. He lifts me effortlessly. My nose is pressed against his white shirt, and I inhale his clean, masculine scent.
Is now a good time to tell him I can walk on my own? In a minute.
“This is my fault,” he murmurs softly. “Jesus, I can’t believe I thought surprising you was a good idea.” Randall’s voice is choppy with worry.
“What are you doing here?” I ask while he transports me to the passenger side of his car.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“Randall, why are you here?” I repeat when I’m positioned on my feet so he can guide me in. Instead of answering, he shuts the door and jogs to the driver’s side.
Despite the throbbing pain, my brain reorients its priorities.
“My phone. I dropped it.”
“I’ve got your phone in my pocket. I left the condoms on the sidewalk.”
Oh, right. The grocery bag.
“I need to call someone from the theater to fetch those.”
He presses his lips tightly while grabbing the phone from the front pocket of what I can confirm are sexy gray sweatpants.
“I can dial for you as soon as we get to the hospital. I’m sure the orgy can wait.”
He begins driving.
“Orgy?”
He shrugs, looking past the windshield instead of at me.
“Not my business, Elise. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
“Please stop the car, Randall. I need to make this call and my wrist isn’t going to get worse in the next two minutes. Do you even know where the hospital is?”
He turns right, away from the main thoroughfare, and settles on a quiet side street.
“Thank you. Please hold the phone while I use my good hand to dial.”
His gaze flickers to my injured right wrist, which is limp on my lap. Randall frowns and swallows with effort. I want to comfort him—and correct him about the orgy assumption— but this call can’t wait. Holding my phone up, Randall watches me dial Kaden’s number.
“What’s up? You’ve been gone a while,” Kaden answers.
“Hey, I tripped and dropped the condoms at the sidewalk in front of the theater. Can you grab them?”
“Are you OK?” He’s on speaker, so his concern echoes in the car.
“Yeah. A friend is driving me to a doctor to get my wrist looked at. Get them to tech as soon as you can.”
“Guys!” Kaden says loudly. “She’s not lost, she got hurt! Heading to the hospital!” I imagine him on the stage dramatically announcing the news. A chorus of concern trickles through the speaker.
“I gotta go. Grab the box of condoms before someone else does,” I repeat firmly.
“Call me as soon as you get patched up. We’re all worried.”
“I will.” I end the call.
“Thanks,” I address Randall. “There’s no need for an emergency visit. I can give you directions to an urgent care facility close by.”
Randall resumes driving. I watch his profile like I did when I saw him in that video. Except now he isn’t happy and carefree.
“You look like you’re having an aneurism,” I say, only half joking. “Maybe you need a doctor more than I do.”
“Where do I turn?” he asks.
“Take a left on the third light. And for your information, condoms have many uses besides orgies. A couple of actors sweat a lot, so we have to wrap the mic transmitter in a condom before sticking it on their bodies.”
Randall’s brows raise so high, they’re almost touching his hairline. “Really?”
“Actually, no, I was on my way to an orgy,” I deadpan.
He exhales and nearly smiles. Still staring at the road ahead, Randall speaks haltingly.
“Sorry I surprised you. I’m here because the season ended last night and, well…” He pauses and glances at me. This time, the megawatt smile is blinding. “I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.”
Be still, my beating heart. He cannot be saying all manner of swoony things.
“To be clear, you’re not talking about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, right? People from all over the world come to Cleveland for it, after all.”
“Elise, I’m serious.”
I take a minute to look at him. “You wanted to be here.”
“With you. I drove here because the first thing I thought about when I woke up this morning is I wanted to be with you.”
“Oh.” Oh, indeed. I know Randall and I have gotten closer than either of us expected. And maybe sleeping with him when I was in Columbus stirred my emotions more than I’m willing to admit.
But didn’t he bring another woman home recently? Isn’t there a stash of condoms in this glove compartment?
When I don’t say anything else, he clears his throat.
“I see the urgent care sign. I’ll bring you in before I park.”
“Randall, there’s nothing wrong with my feet.”
“No way you’re having another spill.” He’s out of the car in a blink. Opening my door, Randall leans over like he’s about to carry me again.
“I’ve got it!” I announce cheerfully while swinging my feet out. Unfortunately, he’s leaning over at the worst possible angle. Upon contact, Randall exhales an oof and bends over.
“I’m so sorry! I can’t believe I kicked you in the nuts!”
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, clearly in pain. He stretches his back and holds his hand out. “I should have listened when you told me you’d rather walk.”
“Chivalry is lost on me,” I say, taking his hand and standing. The movement brings us closer.
Looking up at those sparkling blues, I can’t help my confession.
“I was thinking about you all morning. I fell asleep in front of the television trying to finish the game. You must be exhausted. I still can’t believe you’re here.”
“Believe it,” he states, staring at my lips. “Let’s get you patched up.”
He delivers me into the building before securing a parking spot. I provide my information to the receptionist whose jaw drops when Randall walks in to stand by my side. At this point, the adrenaline is waning, replaced by a pulsing ache. Randall refuses to stay in the waiting room when I’m called to the back for x-rays. He waits outside the door and follows me into the doctor’s examination room.
“It’s not fractured, but the sprain is severe.” The physician’s diagnosis comes quickly. “A splint will keep you stable. I’ll prescribe something for the pain.”
“Thank you, doc.”
“Won’t she need to elevate and ice it? The swelling is getting worse,” Randall says.
“Absolutely. Rest and try to stay immobile. The splint will help, but icing, compression, and elevation will be essential for a couple of days.”
“How long do I need to wear the splint?”
“A week or two.”
I try to take the news with some grace. This was an accident, and things could have been worse. But I can’t help worrying about how inconvenient it is to have an injury when I’m expected to be at my best. We open next week. I need to be available for anything that comes up, from casting issues to publicity events.
“Elise,” Randall says, standing in front of me and lifting my chin. “Don’t look so worried. The painkillers will kick in, and I can help with whatever you need.”
I simply nod while attempting to comprehend his words. He means till I can manage my life with one functional hand.
Before I leave, the doctor injects me with medicine for immediate pain relief.
“I think I’ll be fine without the hard stuff,” I tell Randall since I don’t have time to stop by the pharmacy. “I’ve got ibuprofen and Tylenol at home.”
He nods, but still pockets the prescription for me.
“I need to update everyone. Do you mind taking me back to the Plaza? I’ve been away from the theater long enough.”
“I’ll take you wherever you need to go,” he says.
I nod and settle into my seat. He had the theater’s address in his GPS and easily works his way through the city.
“Thank you for taking me to the doctor, Randall,” I say with my eyes closed.
“I’m sorry you got hurt, Elise.”
“It’s not your fault that I’m clumsy.”
“You’re not clumsy. I…I could have handled it better. Coming here. Seeing you. I should have asked if this was OK. I woke up and all I could think about was coming over, uninvited.”
“Randall, we’re past the polite invitation phase.”
“Are we?” he asks, looking unsure.
“Park here. You don’t have to come in. I’ll get my things and make arrangements to take the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Can I come in with you?” He’s giving me the strangest expression. Not only concern, but something else I can’t figure out. I nod because where else is he going to hang out?
I take him through the theater’s main entrance, which is open this week. People will be rushing in and out for tech runs and final dress rehearsal. The foyer leading up to the grand lobby is filled with photographs and posters from Imagination Ohio’s decades-long presence in the local community. And in front of the will call window…
“Elise!” He calls out while scrambling for his phone. Randall stops in front of the poster of Blood Will Have Blood featuring a background of towering skyscrapers overlayed with a stylized rendering of a woman’s hands. Production details such as dates and venue are displayed under my name.
“Do we have time for a selfie?” he asks, already taking pictures at multiple angles like the damn thing is about to disappear.
“Go for it,” I say, amused.
“I’m definitely fan-girling, aren’t I?” he says with a wide smile. “C’mere, I want you in it.”
I stand in front of him as he raises his right hand for a selfie. A glimpse of the screen shows that I’m leaning back against his chest, both of us smiling. We look like a couple.
We look like a couple? That’s nuts. The drugs must be messing with my perspective. Randall has thousands of selfie pictures exactly like this one. I’ve seen them with my own eyes when I stalk-scrolled his hashtag.
We slip into the theater from the lobby, our entrance hidden by the darkened section of the back rows. The expanse of red seating and the overhead chandeliers of the Plaza Theater never fail to impress.
Randall whispers “wow” and I couldn’t agree more. How is my little play up on that massive stage?
The theater is dim except for the stage where they’re running tech on a sequence that features our most complicated lighting design. It’s the scene equivalent of Macbeth encountering the witches in the forest whose incantations initiate his violent ambition.
Instead of a forest, the setting is a boardroom. Replacing three witches are three zombie-complexioned men in expensive business suits. The men’s insidious drivel is accompanied by shifts in lighting from the bland florescent glare of corporate bullpens to erratic strobe lights. A stage length distance from the men delivering cryptic messages is Joy who stands at the end of the table.
This is the beginning of her corruption.
The actress playing Joy, Marisol Yang-Cruz, is exceptional in her role, embodying ambition and vulnerability equally. But something is off with the men.
When the scene ends, I walk down the aisle and into the light. Cast and crew gather around to greet us. I give a quick introduction of Randall and stave off the group’s concern over my wrist. It’s sweet but unnecessary, because my mind is elsewhere.
The scene looked wrong from the back because the men appeared passive when, on the contrary, they should look aggressively predatory.
“We need to run it again. From the back rows, it doesn’t work that you’re sitting. Let’s redo the scene quickly. You need to crowd in on her. John and Kaden, you two move from this angle,” I jump into instructions while leading the cast through a re-blocking.
The change isn’t complicated, but ought to solve the scene’s unwanted stagnancy. After fixing that scene, we move on to others. I dictate notes about tomorrow’s rehearsal to Susan, my assistant, because I can’t write for shit.
Time flies when you’re a week from performance. Randall steps beside me and places his hand on my lower back, prompting me to check my phone. Hours had passed and I completely ignored him. He’s probably pissed.
“How’s your pain level?” he asks, concerned. “It’s been over two hours since your injection, and you haven’t sat down. I went to the drugstore down the street to get ibuprofen and something cold.”
Randall holds up a bag of peas. Now that he’s mentioned it, discomfort radiates along my entire right limb. Not pain, exactly, but an unwanted tingling.
“Thank you,” I say when he presses the peas against my wrist. “I’m good now.”
“Elise, you’re pale. And your wrist is swelling. I need to get you home.”
“I said I’m good,” I state with more curtness than I feel. But I can’t handle Randall right now.
His concern, although it comes from a good place, brings on the familiar weight of guilt. What was I thinking, taking him in here when he has no interest in theater? Did I expect this man to wait around for me while I fixed endless, last-minute details?
“It’s fine if you want to leave,” I say.
Earlier, he claimed he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. I bet he regrets driving all the way to Cleveland.
“I don’t want to leave. At least take this,” he says, holding up a bottle of water and two pills. “It will take the edge off.”
The way he says it, so low and sultry, I’m brought closer to another edge; one where I’m imagining the last time we were on a stage, having sex behind heavy curtains.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m supposed to focus, not get horny.
“Thank you,” I say, fighting the lump in my throat as I sway closer. I get a whiff of Randall’s clean masculinity. The desire to bury my face in his neck overwhelms me. It takes considerable effort to remember why I cannot be thinking about his aroma, or his neck, or his kisses.
Randall is a helpful friend and a great guy. However, he is the ultimate distraction. In one week, there is a performance that will determine the trajectory of my future.
Being around him opens a pandora’s box of reactions I’m not ready to process: glee, affection, care, but also distraction, confusion, and jealousy.
God, I hate myself for that, most of all. I can’t get over the video of him driving away with another woman.
That’s why there are rules, dammit. To keep this attraction in check and our expectations to zero. I don’t want to be accused of being a shitty, neglectful partner who drives her boyfriend into the arms of another woman. Been there, done that, and hated every minute.
When he’s sure I’ve taken the pills, Randall moves a stray hair falling over my forehead and kisses me on the temple. “You’re welcome.”
It’s like he read a swoon mandate and is determined to follow instructions to the letter. Susan sighs beside me, which is when I notice that the cast and crew have stopped what they’re doing just to watch the Randall Show.
He’s a distraction even when he doesn’t mean to be.
I clear my throat to get everyone’s attention back where it belongs.
Randall walks away from the stage and sits in the theater’s back row. I don’t see him from my perch on the stage, but I know he’s there.