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She’s dropped the accent, thank god. I can tolerate Anastasia without the accents.
I’ve been so consumed by our post-rehearsal kiss that I haven’t even thought about our stage kiss. But now that I’m thinking about it, it was . . . different. I’ve kissed a number of people onstage and I never think anything of it. And besides, Ian’s first attempt was exactly like I expected it to be: an awkward tech theater kid attempting a stage kiss. But the second one . . . the second one felt real. Like it wasn’t his character kissing mine; it was Ian kissing me. In retrospect, it made our post-rehearsal kiss seem . . . inevitable.
“Was it as good as it looked?” Anastasia asks.
“Was what?—?”
“The kiss. Was it as good as it looked?”
Better.
But the way her eyes are darting around the room and the fact that she asked that question set off alarm bells in my mind. Heat burns in my sternum, spreading up into my throat.
“Do you . . . have a crush on Ian?” I ask Anastasia, taking a swig of my drink.
“No!” she answers too quickly, chewing on her straw and scanning the room again.
Why does the thought of this make me sick? We’re not dating. We’re not together in any sense of the word.
But that kiss . . .
“He’s single. And he’s not bad to look at,” I say more casually than I feel.
“Oh my god, he is so cute,” she says with the sudden enthusiasm of a girl who’s found a confidant.
She hasn’t. I want this conversation to end. I’ve got a stabbing feeling in my side that I’m hoping is just gas.
“I’ve had a crush on him for ages. We were on a light crew together sophomore year, and, ugh, I kept hoping we’d get cast together in something, but obviously he’s not auditioning for a lot of things, so when I saw that he was auditioning for the one-acts, I was like, ‘Well, close enough!’” She laughs nervously and slurps up her drink through her straw.
Anastasia looks like she’s about to continue, but I cut in, a realization settling in my stomach like sour milk.
“Did you . . . cast him because you have a crush on him?”
Blood rushes in my ears. I’ve gotten over the fact that I’m doing this one-act with a non-actor. It’s worked out just fine, and I like Ian and getting to know him, but also . . .what the fuck?
“No! I just think he’s cute.” She answers too quickly again. “Okay, maybe a little, but?—”
I roll my eyes and groan audibly. “Are you kidding me, Anastasia?”
“I’m sorry! You would do it too if you were me.”
I wouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter now. We’re in too deep for me to actually be mad about this. I sigh deeply and decide to let it go once and for all. I didn’t get the experience I was looking for—the chance to lose myself in an affair with my acting partner—but I can’t complain about what I did get. Ian is . . . pretty great.
I scan the room again, but I still don’t see him.
“Do you guys spend a lot of time together outside of rehearsal?” Anastasia asks.
“You told us to build chemistry, so yeah, kinda,” I say. “We probably won’t as much now that he’s off book and, ya know, our chemistry is good.”
Ian and I haven’t talked about that, but it only makes sense, right?
So why does it feel like someone is pinching my intestines?
“I know this is, like . . . so dumb, but since you know him a little better than I do, do you know, like, what his type is? Do you think he could be into me?”
He absolutely is not into you. He’s into me.
“You know . . . I don’t know,” I say. And it’s true. I don’t know his type, but wondering about it brings back that stabbing feeling in my side.
