There were bigger, more important things happening right now.
The whole world stopped as the backs of Ward’s knuckles brushed my jaw, thumb following in their wake.
“Don’t be,” he murmured, leaning in inch by agonizing inch.
My phone vibrated beside us for the thousandth time, and then again right after.
Ward laughed as his hand fell away. “You’d better check it. Sounds important.”
I couldn’t imagine a single thing that’d be more important than what it’d just interrupted, but the universe was determined to test me lately.
Seth:I need your help
Seth:Ryder
Seth:RYDER
Seth:check your phone
Seth:it’s an emergency
* * *
This did not constitute an emergency.
“They’re not gonna fit,” I said, looking over the pair of tights Seth was holding out to me.
“They’re stretchy,” Seth said, demonstrating the dubious stretch by tugging on them. “Come on, Ryder. You’re our only hope. The play opens in ten minutes, you know all the lines, you’re a real live actor and the kids are counting on you. They’re raising money to fix the roof of the theatre after it caved in last year. What’s more important than the kids?”
Seth had said he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of Ward’s puppy eyes, but his own were just as bad. Worse, even.
I looked at the tights, then at Seth, then toward the gaggle of kids between fourteen and seventeen who were looking at me like I was their potential savior, a dozen pairs of young, hopeful eyes focused on me.
Romeo had been struck down with mono, and like Seth said, I knew all the lines.
Which was why, twenty minutes later, I was standing on a makeshift outdoor stage with thankfully terrible lighting considering I’d had to go commando in the glittery leotard that came with the costume—Seth’s design, I knew without having to ask—declaring my undying love for a sixteen-year-old Juliet who was actually pretty good.
Much better than I was after ten years, anyway.
Ward was sitting right at the front on a fold-up chair that looked like it was supporting him through sheer force of will, grinning at me the whole time like this was the best thing that’d ever happened to him.
Things were going well, honestly.
Right up until I felt something fall on my head, and Mercutio—who had a real future as an actor if he wanted to pursue it—shrieked.
A collective gasp from the audience didn’t make me feel any better about whatever had just landed in my hair.
Then whatever it was moved.
This was it. I was going to die right here on this makeshift stage, and my obituary was going to readhe died doing what he loved.
“Squirrel,” Mercutio hissed.
Squirrel?
The something that had fallen on my head climbed down to my shoulder, clinging for dear life onto the frills of the leotard.
I really hoped it was a squirrel and not a rat. I wasn’t cut out for rats, despite a decade of living in LA.
