Chapter 1 #2
It’s not the first time Jaz has brought up the idea of me moving to New York and working out there.
Career-wise, it would probably be a good idea.
The theater scene in Portland is a lot better than people think, but it can’t compare to New York City.
Honestly, if I were only concerned about advancing my career, I would have taken her up on her offer.
But as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized the importance of other things.
Like living in a city I love, one that holds memories of going to the theater with my dad.
It’s having my own two-bedroom apartment with a tiny yard and trees outside the window, rather than sleeping on the couch in Jaz’s cramped studio.
It’s being close to the cemetery where my dad is buried, so I can visit him once a month to check in.
My nose prickles again, but not from the dust this time.
It’s been seven years since my dad passed, but sometimes the loss feels as fresh as if it just happened.
There are still times I pick up my phone to call him, getting as far as dialing his number before I remember, He’s gone.
His number was assigned to a different person. I’ll never hear his voice again.
A lump lodges in my throat, and I swallow several times against it. I don’t want to cry now. Not when Ken could come in any minute to check on me. Then he’ll see me sniffling over my weird collection of body parts, and God knows what he’d think—
“Noelle!”
Ken’s deep bellow echoes through the closet, making me jump. My elbow whacks the tallest of the arms, sending them toppling over like dominoes.
“Noelle! Where are you?”
As Ken’s voice gets closer, I quickly collect the arms and legs and toss them back in the cardboard boxes. Playing a silly little game when I’m by myself is one thing, or sharing a goofy photo with my best friend, but for my boss to see it? No thanks.
Once everything’s cleaned up, I leap to my feet and call back, “Yes? Did you need something?”
A beat later, Ken appears in the doorway. He looks immaculate, just as he always does—his silver hair neatly combed, his beard meticulously trimmed, and his button-down wrinkle free even after a ten-hour day.
In comparison, I’m covered in dust, I have a gray smudge on my boob, and half my hair is falling out of my ponytail. I couldn’t look less professional if I tried.
Ken takes a few steps into the closet. His gaze dips to my shirt, lingering there for a moment before returning to my face. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I have to fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
He stares at me for another few seconds before saying, “I thought you’d be done already.”
Irritation flares. I’ve only been at it for two hours.
There’s no way I could have finished by now unless I just made up the numbers.
But I don’t say that, of course. Instead, I plaster on a smile and reply, “Not quite yet. I have the luggage done, plus the bikes, the upholstered chairs and couches, and”—I angle my head at the boxes still sitting at my feet—“these. I still have all the wooden furniture to go.”
He glances at the boxes. Then he looks at his watch. “Well, I guess I didn’t realize how long it would take. Since it’s nearly eight, why don’t you wrap it up for today? You can finish the inventory tomorrow.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to insist on finishing now. I have a packed schedule tomorrow, including running orientation for our interns, meeting with the costume designer for our upcoming production, and updating the prompt book for the cast. I don’t have the time to finish counting chairs, too.
But, like Ken said, it’s almost eight o’clock at night. I’m starving. My shower is calling. And there’s a new episode of Maine Cabin Masters I’ve been waiting to watch.
No, I’ve never lived in a cabin. I’ve never been to Maine, for that matter. But there’s just something addictive about the show. At some point during every episode, I find myself thinking, Maybe I should give it all up and move to Maine.
Then I remember the time Jaz made me go glamping with her and I ended up with approximately five hundred mosquito bites, poison ivy around both ankles, and discovered allergies I never even knew I had. And that’s all it takes to put an end to my Maine cabin aspirations.
“Noelle?” Ken gives me a curious look. “Are you going to go home?”
Shaking myself free of my wandering thoughts, I reply, “Yes. Sorry. I was just… Nevermind. If you’re sure it doesn’t need to be done tonight, I’ll finish it tomorrow.”
He steps back into the hallway and gestures for me to follow him. “Tomorrow’s fine, Noelle. I didn’t realize what time it was when I asked.”
“Oh, it’s fine.” I give in to my instincts and cross my arms over my chest. I feel too vulnerable otherwise, with the gray smudge drawing attention to my breast. “I’ll come in early to get started. Hopefully, I’ll finish before the interns get here.”
Ken waits for me to start walking down the hall, then flicks the closet light off and follows behind me. “Right. The interns. What are their names again?”
“Hannah and Edward.” I glance over my shoulder just in time to discover Ken’s gaze glued to my butt.
My face flames as I jerk my head forward again.
I know it’s not abnormal for a guy to look at a woman’s ass, but it creeps me out.
He’s my boss, and he’s twenty years older than me.
Which, in my book, makes his staring at my butt very much not okay.
“Hannah and Edward,” he repeats, sounding completely unfazed. “After you take them on the rounds, bring them to my office. I’d like to meet them.”
“Okay.” I reach my tiny office and dart inside it. “I will.” Turning to face Ken, I add, “I’ll make sure to give you a heads-up before I bring them in. It’ll probably be around ten or so.”
“Sounds good.” He gives me a small smile. “I’ll be here a bit longer. So don’t worry about closing up.” Then, before I can reply, he continues off down the hall.
Grabbing my bag off the back of my chair, I make sure my computer is locked before I leave for the night. A cursory glance around the office shows that everything looks as it should, so I hoist my overflowing bag onto my shoulder and head for the door.
As I hurry out of the building, I envision myself shedding the yucky parts of the evening like layers of clothing. First goes the annoyance of being asked to stay late for a dirty job. Then the loss of the sushi I’d been thinking about all day. And finally, the icky feeling of Ken’s eyes on me.
No job is perfect, I remind myself. And it’s not like he did anything inappropriate, really. I’ve been stared at worse while I’m at the grocery store.
Still. I didn’t like how exposed it made me feel.
I don’t like how I’m going to be on my guard from now on, constantly wondering if he’s staring at me, if I should wear looser clothing to discourage him, if my only value to him comes from how I look and not my skills.
It can happen in any profession, I suppose.
When the man is in a position of power, he can get away with things because people like me—a woman who just wants to be left alone to do her job—don’t want to rock the boat.
I know it’s happened to Jaz plenty of times; actors and directors who think she’ll be willing to do anything to advance her career.
Which is gross and awful and I hate it for her.
But as a stage manager, I guess I thought I’d be overlooked.
As I reach my car, I click the key fob to unlock it and take a deep, steadying breath.
It’s fine. So what if he stared at my ass? It doesn’t mean anything, really. It’s probably just instinctive. He might not have even realized he was doing it.
Just as I slide into my car, my smartwatch lets off a little ting. I glance at it, expecting to see a text or reminder, but instead it’s an alert letting me know my phone is out of range.
“Shit,” I mutter. If my phone is out of range, that means I left it inside. Most likely, it’s still on the floor in the prop closet, left behind in my rush to leave.
With another sigh, I haul myself back out of my car and hurry back towards the theater.
My feet tap a rapid rhythm on the asphalt, made louder by the relative quiet around.
During the day, it’s a busy area, with plenty of professional offices and shops to keep the sidewalks crowded.
But at this hour, everything’s closed, leaving me alone on the street.
Once I get inside the theater, I make a beeline for the prop closet, relieved to find my phone sitting just where I thought it would be. I shove it in my bag and head back to the exit, hoping Ken won’t even realize I’m here.
It seems like a stroke of luck as I approach his office—his door is only a few inches ajar, which should block his view of the hallway if he’s sitting at his desk, which I would assume he is.
Ducking my head, I get ready to speed past his door when a familiar voice catches my attention.
Not someone I know. But me.
I freeze in place, listening.
At first, my brain doesn’t want to accept what it’s hearing.
It’s me, singing softly to myself.
A song I remember singing while I was in my office earlier.
But how? My door was closed at the time. And I was careful to keep my voice low, so no one else would hear.
Could he have recorded it somehow? Opened the door without me realizing?
Why, though? For what purpose? I’m a passable singer at best, certainly nothing to get excited about. And if he’d really been curious about how I sounded, he could have asked.
A small, cynical voice in my head whispers, Noelle. Are you being intentionally dense? He doesn’t care about your singing ability. There’s something far more sinister going on.
Maybe not, another voice argues. Maybe it’s nothing. Just leave. Come back tomorrow like nothing happened. And don’t sing in the office again.
Part of me desperately wants to choose the easier option.