Skye’s voice is nothing but calm as she forces herself into composure. No accents. No wild hand gestures. Just blunt words paired with distant eyes.
“The one and the only,” she says casually, whereas I look like I’ve had five cups of espresso upon hearing this information—bug-eyed and jittery.
She stands up to turn her back to me, now facing the family portrait I have hanging near my reading nook.
“You need to do something, Charlotte.”
“I need to do something about you being dead?” My voice is pitched higher as my gaze watches her carefully.
“No! The press release. Chris took that out from under you. Holden is clearly not okay with it, because why else would he call you in the middle of the night?”
She is gathering her hair into a ponytail as if she is about to fight someone, gripping her knuckles at my personal life, still staring at the picture of my mom, dad and me ten years ago at a theme park in Florida.
“If Chris had a client who was spiraling and lost all of his confidence, what would he do?”
The jump from my realization about Skye to Holden’s career feels like a mental whiplash. My attention drifts to the window. The leaves outside twist and carry themselves wherever the wind decides to take them.
“You are right.”
The statement comes out as more of a whisper. Mulling over the idea that she may be onto something this time.
Holden was missing something. It didn’t take a genius to realize the “nobody cares about me anymore” sentiment is probably his reason for why he came into our offices in the first place.
My attention snaps back to the window, where all the leaves shudder against the glass as the wind picks up rapidly. Everything shifts all at once.
“I’m going to sign him up for an acting class.”
“That’s perfect.”
Skye is back to her upbeat self, twirling around my room. I’m just as relieved that we are no longer talking about the fire.
Within two hours, my scenery has changed. From a dull, time-suck of a bedroom to the black leather interior of Holden’s Porsche, on our way to an underground studio in Burbank. Off to see Mr. Lafayette, the master of the master class.
“So, are you going to tell me where we are going?”
“You waited this long since I messaged you, might as well wait a few more seconds to see where we are going.”
He shrugs, walking into a sepia-lighted room with a stage at the center of it. All the students are in folding chairs on the stage, in a circle. Waiting patiently for the class to start.
“Go on. You were the last sign up in the class. They are waiting for you.” I push Holden forward. He gives a half turn as he makes it down the aisle to see if I am still there behind him.
“Welcome! Welcome! For anyone new, I don’t care. We are here to become different characters. Real names don’t matter, only executing the scene does. Now, everything I do… I want you to react to the emotion that should follow. I look sad, what do you choose? No wrong answer. Just act!” Mr. Lafayette says.
The man theatrically throws his hands up in the air, like a true thespian, as every student springs to their feet. It’s the first thing I’ve done all day that takes me out of my head—watching strangers act like fools on stage.
When the exercises are over, the students finally sink their teeth into an improv scene. They aren’t allowed to ask questions, only react to their scene partner.
A redhead says, “You don’t mean it.”
Holden follows with, “I meant every word you overheard.”
The redhead continues, “So I mean nothing to you? The circus means more?”
Holden says, “The circus is my home.” I can almost feel his pain.
The redhead goes on with, “Home? I thoughtIwas your home.”
The woman turns her back to Holden, fighting back tears. He looks the most free I’ve ever seen him. It is about another hour of scenes where the class acts out with different pairings of people.
