“He’s being himself.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “Which is kind of awful by default, but at least he’s consistent.”
She smiles, sympathetic. “Dean’s complicated.”
“That’s the PG-13 version way to put it,” I contend on a small laugh.
“He watches you,” she shares, resting her chin on her hand.
My heartbeat stutters. “He watches everyone. He thinks it’s his job.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Dean scans everyone. That’s different. He watches you.”
I want to deny it, to laugh it off, to say something sarcastic and offhand that proves I’m above this, above him, above all of it. Instead, what comes out is, “You’re not helping my ability to keep my professional detachment, Lily.”
She laughs quietly. “You’re allowed to be a person and a professional, you know. Those things can coexist.”
“Not according to my editor.” I chuckle, because it’s easier to joke than admit how badly my hands want to shake.
“Well, your editor doesn’t have to live on a bus with the people she’s covering,” Lily points out. “There’s history here. Pain. Love. Friendship. You’re not a sniper on a rooftop watching through glass. You’re in it. You’re becoming a part of it.”
I swallow hard. “That’s the problem.”
She studies me for a moment, then reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her fingers are warm, steady. It hits me that I haven’t had a friend lay a hand on me in months. Years?
“You won’t hurt him,” she says simply. “I can tell.”
“That’s not always my call,” I whisper.
She smiles sadly. “It’s more your call than you think.”
A shadow falls across the doorway. My head snaps up, expecting Dean, bracing for impact.
It’s Hayden instead, fresh shirt thrown on over ink and long lines. “Cherry’s doing a debrief in the hall if either of you care,” he informs, then gives us both a look that says you two sitting here talking is probably more important anyway. “Lily, Luc was just looking for you.”
She chuckles as she gets to her feet. “He moves from his little baby straight to this baby I guess.”
“See you later,” I shoot over my shoulder as she pads back out the door she came in.
When she’s gone, Hayden lingers in the doorway like he’s debating stepping in. “You doing okay, Sadie?” he finally asks.
“Fine.” I nod.
His lips form a tight line, like he hears the lie and chooses not to call it. “He’ll come around.” His tone is apologetic and honestly it doesn’t need to be. And I also don’t have to ask which he.
“Not really my priority,” I say, more to convince myself than him.
He smiles just a little, his eyes knowing, then disappears. I stare at the half-closed laptop and the reflection of my own face in the dark screen. Damp hair, tired eyes, something too soft threaded through the set of my mouth.
I hate that I know it now. I hate that Lily said it out loud. I hate that Hayden didn’t deny it. Dean Ross is watching me. And the worst part? I’m watching him right back.
I open the laptop again, hover over that one image, him side-stage, silver light, his gaze locked right where I was standing and I feel my pulse stutter.
“You are not the story,” I tell the screen softly. “You are not the story.”
But the more I say it, the less I believe it. I close the laptop and push it away, then tip my head back against the wall and shut my eyes, wishing sleep could be ordered on room service.
Down the hall, someone laughs. Someone cranks music. Somewhere, Dean is brooding like it’s his full-time job. And me? I’m starting to understand that somewhere along the line, I stopped being just the girl behind the camera. I’m in the frame now. Whether I want to be or not.
Enough spiraling. Enough letting him take up space in my head that he didn’t earn. I grab my camera bag, sling it over my shoulder, and slip out of the greenroom. The hallway is finally cooling down now that half the crew has vanished to the bars and the rest to their beds. My boots echo faintly against the concrete as I make my way toward the loading dock.
