7. June
JUNE
Open a New Window - Mame
On my way out of the dining hall this morning, I sneak an extra cheese danish.
This little beauty will be the highlight of my day, because it’s certainly not Acting While Singing.
I actually love teaching, surprisingly, but Chantal’s been big mad all week since she didn’t get the part she wanted in Les Mis and it’s bleeding through the rest of the cast.
Plus, Shaw’s an ass.
I must’ve been painfully hard up when I contemplated hooking up with him. Even if he wasn’t engaged, he’s annoying, and arrogant, and self-centered, and?—
Augh, I jam the pilfered danish in my mouth and wipe my hands off on my shorts. At least it’s Friday, which means after today, I get two whole days without sharing an enclosed space with him.
Except, it’s morning announcements, which means I’ll see Nick. He’s been detached and withdrawn all week. It’s obvious he regrets agreeing to pretend-date. At least I can tell him our week is up and put him out of his misery.
The danish turns rock hard in my stomach.
Breakups and makeups happen all the time at Conservatory, and hopefully by the end of camp, Natalia will barely remember that Nick and I “dated” anyway.
I scan the DPAC auditorium for said fake boyfriend and find him leaning against the stage. My feet are leaden, but I force them to walk down the aisle, stopping a few feet away. He’s holding two to-go cups.
Two?
He spots me, shoving one of the cups in my direction. The rich, nutty scent of coffee— good coffee—swirls up from the cup, and I grip it in both hands, bringing it to my nose for a big whiff. “I could huff this, seriously. Thank you.”
“I remember how much dining hall coffee sucks,” he says, and we both fall quiet because … did he conveniently remember this last night or something? I’ve been slurping that garbage for five days.
“Thank you,” I repeat, quieter this time, and take a sip. “Mmm, and oat milk?”
“Wasn’t sure where you stood on dairy.”
Most singers don’t drink dairy on performance days, and some skip caffeine as well, but I’m not sleeping great and it’s not like I’m performing a solo any time soon. “That’s so thoughtful. Thanks, I—thanks. There’s always an upcharge for it.”
“It’s less than a dollar. My teacher’s salary isn’t that bad.”
I clutch the cup tighter, dangerous considering it’s made of paper. But scalding hot coffee all over my boobs is preferable to insulting Nick’s financial situation. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, it’s okay. I didn’t mean it like that, either.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Listen, last night?—”
But he stops, eyes darting beyond my shoulder. And I somehow just know, like I’ve got fuckass clown radar, that it’s Shaw.
I expect one of his signature gaslighty remarks, but he doesn’t even bother with me. Instead, he stares down Nick, voice flat. “Shelley talked to me this morning.”
“And?” Nick challenges. I’ve never seen him like this. Confrontational.
“Nothing, man. Have fun.” Those last two words drip with so much sarcasm, my eyes widen. But with no further comment, he stalks to the back of the house.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Let’s sit.” Nick takes my hand, steering me to an empty row of seats stage left of the auditorium.
I sit and wait not so patiently.
Nick’s shoulders stiffen as he faces me. “Yesterday, I went to Shelley and asked if I could play for you in Acting While Singing.”
“You what ?” This is … a lot. On so many levels.
“You’re right, saying it to you out loud sounds controlling.
Or like you can’t fight your own battles.
But I didn’t mean it that way. I just—” He sighs, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve checked in on your first day, then I would’ve known you needed someone to play for you.
And I thought, I hoped, this would make it right. ”
I suck my bottom lip between my teeth. “Who told you he’s playing for me?”
“Chessie.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“June, I’m so sorry,” he ends on a whisper as Shelley takes the stage for announcements.
Being a grown-up sucks. We have to set a good example for the campers or some shit and at least act like we’re paying attention to Shelley.
I’m not even doing a good job pretending.
I’m too focused on Nick, how he went to bat for me with Shelley, how close we’re sitting, and how he’s not so distant this morning.
What changed? Why is he getting me coffee and being nice ?
And why is he doing it at the end of the week?
The hot of his hot and cold act feels so, so good. But what if it doesn’t last? And why would he offer to sit in close proximity to me for an hour and a half every morning when we won’t be fake dating anymore?
My mind spins nonstop until Shelley releases us.
Dozens of seats thump as they swing up when everyone stands.
Nick stands as well, offering his hand to me, and I allow myself one extra second of staring at the ridges of veins and tendons before taking it.
I can’t stop myself from thirsting after those hands; I’m literally just a girl.
We’re caught in the stream of campers and counselors heading for the exit, but Nick turns, his hand sliding to my waist as he pulls me aside, out of the general procession.
He keeps his voice low, leaning close to my ear.
“I did it because … if you were my real girlfriend, I wouldn’t leave you alone with him. ”
Goosebumps race down my neck and shoulder, prickling my skin where I feel Nick’s breath ghost across it. I want to ask why he cares, but that’s not what comes out. “Don’t you teach a morning class?”
“Music Theory. Shelley gave it to Ethan.”
“Oh my god, Shelley. What did you tell her?”
He shifts on his feet. “I—I said that he made you uncomfortable.”
“I mean, he did. It’s just …” I rub my lips together. Shaw, the trust fund douche, deserves to face a consequence for once in his life. “If I have to lead the charge, so be it. But it would’ve been nice to know about it beforehand.”
“I understand that, and I’m sorry. But … I don’t think you or I need to do anything else. Shelley wasn’t surprised, and she said this marked a pattern of behavior. We can let Shaw ruin his career all on his own.”
Pattern of behavior . “It’s giving breach of contract.”
“Maybe he’ll quit.” Nick shrugs.
“Only if we’re lucky.”
“Yeah,” he says. We’re so close that the coffee I’m holding between us almost touches him. “We should get to class.”
I meet his eyes and wish I didn’t, they’re so intent, so focused on me, dark and warm and inviting. For now. What if he changes back? I should tell him we can’t do this anymore, but I’d still rather my fake ex-boyfriend play for my class than Shaw. “Sure, I’d like that.”
Nick
June and I head for the exit, and I grab her free hand in mine and lace our fingers together. Once I held her hand, pulling her away from Shaw, I couldn’t stop. She shoots me an indecipherable look, but my brain needs a break from all the deciphering, so I’m not going to focus on it.
I’m gonna go with the flow, show her how I feel.
The crowd thins outside, everyone darting off to various morning activities. We pass some theatre kids heading to June’s class. They smile and wave, but I slow my pace, letting them walk on ahead.
“Are you going to the concert tonight?” I try not to stare, but she’s wearing a copper colored, satiny button-down shirt that ties at her waist, and I’m dying to pull that knot and unravel her a little.
She doesn’t meet my eye, facing forward as she takes a long pull from her coffee. “Dinner plans with my family tonight, sorry.”
“Oh. Chessie asked if we wanted to hang out with her and Nat. Drinks after the concert.”
A shadow of something passes over her face, but it’s there and gone. Frustration lights underneath my skin. Fuck being indecipherable. I want to know what she’s thinking, feeling. I don’t want her hiding from me. Good job going with the flow.
“Please tell them thank you for the invitation. Maybe next time,” she says.
We continue across the Commons, and Campbell comes into sight. June speeds up, and she still won’t look at me. My steps hasten until I’m in front, turning to face her. “Why do you sound like Linda from HR?”
She halts, her sandals scuffing pavement. “Excuse me?”
“Tell me what’s wrong.” The commanding note in my voice takes us both by surprise.
June runs her teeth over her bottom lip, sighing. “I wish I was a cool girl, I really do. But I’m a chalant bitch.”
“Okay?”
“And there’s no cool girl way to say this, so I’m gonna spit it out.” She holds my gaze for a second before continuing, “It’s basically been a week. We should break up. Fake break up. Or whatever.”
“Is it because of what I said to Shelley?”
“No, that was … surprising. But you avoided me all week. We barely talked at morning announcements or lunch, you didn’t sit next to me during Con choir, and—” She presses her palm to her reddening cheeks.
“Yikes, I couldn’t sound clingier if I tried.
But I forced you into this. If you need an out, you can walk away. I understand.”
“I want this.” I want you . I don’t know how to tell her without revealing the crush I’ve harbored for so long. But I should offer her some of the truth. “I’m sorry I was distant. This week, I was—I’ve been dealing with some … stuff. With my dad.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
Her posture shifts, guarded. “Now I feel guilty for making you feel guilty about making me feel guilty, when you shouldn’t feel guilty at all. And now I’m Susan in Therapy .” She sighs, waving her hand around. “At least that makes you Raúl Esparza.”
“Huh?”
“ Tick, Tick … Boom !”
“’Cause that explains everything.”
“There’s a movie of the musical—you know what? Not the point,” she murmurs, shaking her head.
I reach for her, lacing our fingers together again. “Everything’s fine now. I’m sorry I was standoffish this week.”
June pulls her hand from mine.
Closed fist or open palm . Can’t catch water, raging or calm .
Thanks, brain, what an incredibly shitty time to make up song lyrics.
Campbell looms in front of us. June’s going to go in there and that’s it. We’re over.
She stares at her coffee, saying, “You’ve got a lot going on, more than I realized. I put this on you, and it’s too much. I’m too much. We should tell everyone we broke up.”
My insides shrivel into nothing as I rip these words from my throat. “Come out for drinks after the concert. Talk to Nat and Chelsea. Let me make it up to you, please.”
“You want to …” Her voice breaks off as her tongue darts out to swipe at her bottom lip. “You want to keep pretending for the rest of the week?”
“Yes,” I lie. This was never pretend for me.
“You want to take me out for drinks, with your friends, and you’re fine with acting like we’re a real couple?” Her brows shoot up, tone laced with skepticism.
“I haven’t given you much reason to trust me, I get that. I was confused, and I needed time to process. I’m sorry if it made you feel like I didn’t want to do this.”
She worries at her bottom lip, looking up at me through lowered lashes, and whispers, “Okay.”
We cross the street to Campbell. Chantal storms past us, up the steps and inside. Nat and Chessie cast her as Mme Thénardier, and she’s clearly unhappy about it.
We silently agree to give her some space, and as we wait, I ask, “Drinks. Tonight. Will you need a ride?”
“My sister’ll drop me off.”
“Okay—” My phone chimes in my pocket. Like any respectable millennial, it’s set to vibrate, except for calls from my dad and notifications from the app his doctor uses.
“Finally.” I sigh in relief, reading the notification. His prescription went through and it’s ready to be picked up. Turning to June, I say, “I’ve got to make a phone call, but I’ll be up in a second.”
With a wave, she heads inside, and I dial Dad’s cell.
But he doesn’t pick up. Texting is pointless since he never checks them, and any time he texts me first, he signs each message with a quick “From Don.” My hand slides to the strap of my messenger bag across my shoulder, squeezing.
It’s totally normal for him not to pick up his cell—he can’t even find it most of the time. So, I call the landline next.
It goes to voicemail.
When he got hurt last year, he never called. I found out from his foreman, who dialed my number after Dad had been in the hospital for several hours already, and was about to head into surgery.
More than the terror and dread of his foreman’s phone call, what haunts me is the grief that he didn’t tell me himself. Did he think I wouldn’t care or show up? Or does he think of me so rarely that I didn’t cross his mind?
All questions I’d love to ask, but … it’s like June’s twisted words from that song.
I don’t want to make him feel guilty for making me feel guilty.
Especially right after it happened, he needed to focus on recovery.
I couldn’t drop emotional baggage on him when we didn’t even know if he’d walk again.
I force myself to inhale as deeply as I can, and blow the breath out steadily and slowly as I dial his landline one more time.
It rings four times—not that I counted—before he answers, scratchy and slightly out of breath. “Yeah?”
The tightness in my chest melts and my fingertips tingle. “Hey, Dad.”
“Nicky,” my dad says, then pauses a beat too long. But before I ask if everything’s okay, he says, “What’s up?”
“Your prescription’s filled. Just wanted you to know I’ll swing by and drop it off during my lunch.” Will I have time to actually eat over my lunch break? No, but it’s fine.
Another pause, this one muffled, like he’s covering the receiver. “I’ll pick it up.”
With this weird as fuck phone call? I need to lay eyes on him. “No, I’ll grab it. I’m sure you’re still sore from physio yesterday.”
“Nicky.” His voice is farther away, and there’s shuffling on his end of the line.
“Is everything okay?”
“What? Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Great, see you at lunch,” I plow ahead.
“See you then,” he replies.
The resigned tone in his voice doesn’t bother me.
Not at all.