“I’m sure she does.” I can hear the sarcasm in Blake’s tone.
“What do you have against Veronica Burke?” I ask.
“Nothing. She’s just making a dear friend think less of themselves, and I don’t like it.” Blake pats my back. “Remind me to get your back again after the fair. You’re too tight. But I’ve got to get ready to start screaming wildly around the fairground that we’re all ruined.”
Standing, I crack my neck a few times, feeling far more relaxed than I did entering the tent. “I’ll take you up on that. Sorry for the panic I’m about to cause, Mama, but I’m sure you’d have done similarly if you were in my position.”
“I definitely would have let Wickham whisper sweet nothings in my ear, my dear. You’re right. Oh, shit, Aulie?” Blake furrows a brow, glancing at me. “You’ve ugh—” They clear their throat.
“What? I’ve what?”
They rub the back of their neck. “You have something on your…butt.”
“Is it dirt?” I ask, inspecting the fabric at the back of my skirt. A crimson stain catches my attention, and my heart drops to my stomach. That’s not dirt.
I’m not supposed to have my period for another week. What the heck!
“The birth control,” I groan. “Emy warned me the first few months would make me wonky. Thank you for letting me know, though. You’re a lifesaver.” I press a kiss to their cheek. “Now go bring the house down with your panic-ridden screams, Mama.”
I rush over to the rack of dresses I keep in the tent for all the characters just in case something like this happens.
“Do you need help changing?” Blake asks.
I do, but they’re running late for their moment to shine. “Jack should be here soon. I’ll have him help.”
“What am I helping with?” a deep, rich voice asks.
“Well, that’s my cue.” Blake chuckles, patting Jack’s shoulder on the way out. “I’m sure you’ll take care of our girl just fine.”
I turn to face Jack as Blake breaks through the tent flaps and meanders to the fairgrounds. A familiar shriek follows shortly after.
“I need you to undress me,” I say as matter-of-fact as possible, considering the request.
Jack’s eyes widen, and a surprised cough rattles his chest. “I’m sorry, you—what?”
“Please, we don’t have time for questions. I’ve got something on my dress, so I need to change into something else, and we need to be as far away from the tent for the search soon.”
Jack blinks at me like I’m asking him to do the most unpleasant thing I could ask.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s just me, and I’m more clothed under here than you were in that damn photo shoot.” I turn my back, giving him access to the zipper.
“You’ve—seen that?” he asks. His fingers lightly graze my neck, and a shiver works down my spine.
I panic. “Yes. No. Maybe.” Slowly, Jack brushes my sleeves off my bare shoulders, and all words in my brain go up in smoke.
The dress falls to the grass with a thud. And I’m left in my underwear, in the tent, with Jack, not having thought this through. Growing up in the theater, I’ve been in my underwear for quick changes backstage more times than I can count. At first, they were awkward, but I learned to grow comfortable with them and my body eventually. We were like a family in the theater group; our bodies were instruments we used to tell stories together. To make art.
Standing here exposed, it feels like I’ve finally shed the last of my defenses, and now I’m holding out the heart that’s been Jack’s for a while, waiting for him to finally claim it.
With a deep breath, I turn to face him. The first aid kit is sitting on the table directly behind him, and I need to grab a pad and put it on in the cast port-a-potty.
His gaze sticks to my face like he’s determined not to let it roam any lower, and a pang of misplaced disappointment drops in my stomach.
“I—uhm—I need to—” I motion to the table behind him. “I have to get something from the kit if you’ll—” I reach around him. My chest brushes against his arm, and I hear a frustrated exhale over my head.
“Seriously, Dessy. You’re killing me here,” he says in a clipped tone. “Get whatever you need and get dressed. We’re running late.”
“Right. Right. Sorry.” I don’t glance at Jack again, knowing whatever agitated facial expression he’s wearing will only make me feel worse. That’s not fair to him. I’m the one who put so much pressure on his reaction to me. It’s fine that he’s not attracted to me, isn’t it? I already knew that, more or less, given his actions. The man tried to escape kissing me twice now; once, he vomited, and the second, he plunged into the depths of an icy fountain.
