Page 111 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Evan tapped on Birdie’s shoulder, his own face radiant.

While the room hummed, Bree turned and took in the world around her.

The hanging rack of bejeweled costumes glinting in the corner of the dressing room. The dressing-room tables beneath aureate bulbs strewn with mascaras, eyelash cases, lipsticks, curling irons, cans of hair spray. The buzz of conversations, many already turning to topics of practice the following morning, of plans to celebrate with food at Chick-N-Little.

The Barter—theatre as a whole—wasn’t a career she had ever thought she’d choose. But still, there was something peaceful, something relieving, something nice about the knowledge that this was going to be her occupational home.

Her place.

Her people.

For now, yes. But maybe, possibly, for good.

Most of the group was now halfway down the hall.

Birdie stopped when it was obvious Bree hadn’t followed. “You coming, Bree?”

Bree’s eyes flitted toward the opposite hall, toward another exit.

Where, just outside the door, he would be waiting.

“I’ve got plans actually,” Bree said, smiling as she turned her gaze back on Birdie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Birdie’s eyes danced as she pointed at Bree. “Because we’ll be here. Tomorrow.”

Bree watched Birdie turn back to the group, her bounce so weightless she appeared to be walking on clouds. Probably because she was.

Just as Bree was.

She turned around.

Faced the door.

And took a breath as she started walking toward it.

She noticed the irony as the adrenaline started to well within her, just as it had the first night she had marched down that same hall for that same door. The ball of nerves in her stomach pushed her onward.

Get there. Hurry up. What if he’s gone?

Now there was a thought. What if his meeting was over long ago? What if he’d finished up and had sat there, wondering when on earth she was going to get done. Got bored. Started doubting this crazy scheme. Started doubting everything.

Bree felt her steps quickening, getting closer to the door.

She wrapped her fingers around the metal handle and pushed the door open.

Light flooded the hall as she took a step onto the metal platform. A slow one this time. Cautious.

She took another.

Bent down.

A bouquet of flowers stood wedged into a fresh roll of duct tape and the slits of the platform. A simple, folded piece of notebook paper was taped to the bouquet’s plastic wrapper.

She opened it.

MEET ME HOME

Home.