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Winter’s words play on repeat in my head.
You accuse me of being quick to judge, and yet you do the same.
They’re so similar to what Olivia told me once. Even Julia said something about this before when she asked if maybe I hadn’t judged Winter too quickly.
He proved me right, though, didn’t he? My first impression of him was right all along.
Then why can’t I shake the feeling that maybe there’s more to him than I let myself see? Why do I keep hearing the hurt in his voice when he told me to forget he’d ever come here? And why can’t I stop feeling the taste of his lips on mine?
Just a few hours ago, our biggest problem was working on our chemistry, and now it feels like we have a much, much bigger question to solve. How am I supposed to walk into rehearsal tomorrow and act like nothing happened? Like I don’t know how his tongue tastes when it invades my lips? Like I don’t know how his hands feel on my skin, burning and unforgiving?
I consider calling in sick.
I must be. If I’m having these kinds of thoughts about Winter, I’m definitely not okay.
For a long time, my mind doesn’t stop running, working overtime until exhaustion takes over, sending me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Hours later, when the gentle sunlight of dawn bathes my bedroom in a golden hue, I wake up, and for a second, it’s like none of it happened. Then it all comes crashing back, the memories hitting me hard.
Until the moment I arrive at the Palace Theater, I’m not exactly sure I’m coming in. A part of me still considers the possibility of making a run for it. Calling sick. Coming up with any excuse not to have to face Winter today.
But the universe is clearly not on my side. As I pace back and forth in front of the door, trying to decide what to do, Emily arrives.
“Luiza, I’m glad I caught you here.” She has a smile on her face that catches me off guard. I half expected her to still be angry with me and Winter about the disastrous rehearsal yesterday. “We’re not rehearsing today.”
I sigh in relief. Maybe the universe is on my side indeed.
“Oh, okay.”
“I was thinking about yesterday, and maybe I’m at fault too. I shouldn’t have skipped the icebreaking dynamics I usually do with the cast, and maybe that’s what’s missing for you and Winter to really hit it off.”
“Oh,” I say again.
“I called in the entire cast, and we’re going back to the beginning today. We’re doing our icebreaking dynamics to get you guys all in better shape.”
The exercise Emily proposes is pretty straightforward. She takes us to the room where we had our table read, but now each desk sits between two chairs facing each other. In pairs, we’re supposed to take turns asking each other questions. Everything is fair game, but if we don’t want to answer a certain question, all we have to do is get up and look for a new partner. This way, no one has to share anything they’re not comfortable sharing, and there’s a better chance everyone will get to know each other better.
Winter chooses me as his first partner, and I don’t know what’s his plan. After yesterday, I expected him to avoid me, but instead he’s sitting in front of me ready to start the exercise as if none of it happened.
Forget this ever happened.
His words echo in my mind. Maybe that’s his plan. To pretend he didn’t say all the things he said yesterday. To ignore the fact that his kiss might have ruined me for any other kisses. To make it so he never said he wanted to be with me. Perhaps if we pretend long enough, both of us can eventually forget it for real. I decide it’s worth a try at least.
The questions start innocent enough. Age: him, 29. Me, 26. His favorite color: forest green. My go-to drink at Starbucks: white mocha. The first big play he ever watched: the Oklahoma! revival on Broadway. My favorite discipline at school: grammar. A food he hates: corn. My favorite discipline at school, for real: grammar, for real. His favorite costar in School Hallway: Ali Hoang and Henry Borison, who played his siblings. My go-to song at karaoke.
“Who says I like karaoke?”
He arches an eyebrow in a knowing way.
“Natalia Imbruglia’s ‘Torn,’” I concede. “What’s your dream role?
“I don’t have one.” He lifts his hand to pinch his chin as he thinks of the next question, but I cut him off before he can open his mouth.
“That’s not an answer. That’s a cop-out,” I accuse.
“It’s an answer. An honest one. What’s yours?” he returns the question.
“An Avenger.”
