Not My Romeo

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “At least talk to her.”

  I shake my head. “Whatever I say now, she might use it.”

  “You been with her every day for weeks. You’ve slept in her bed every night without coming home. You never do that! You were livid that night I danced with her. You wrangled us up to go work at her house! Every time you talk about her, you’re different, Jack. When you look at her, hell—”

  “Get out.”

  He frowns. “You’re fucking up.”

  “I know. I trusted her.”

  “Maybe in your head you think you did.”

  I lick my lips, feeling unsure, waves of grief hammering inside me, a tsunami of emotions I don’t want to dwell on.

  Devon walks out, and I stumble into the bathroom, groaning when I see the dark circles under my eyes, the desolation . . .

  Fuck that.

  I can’t be in love with her, because that will . . .

  It will kill me even more.

  Everything from last night piles up again in my head, and I lean over the counter, that nausea rising back up as images of her devastated face slam into me—when I confronted her, her anger, her quiet dignity when I pressed her.

  But . . .

  She gave me no real explanation.

  I love you, she said. Those three little words linger, tugging . . .

  Then . . .

  Why didn’t she tell me about Blue Stone?

  Chapter 31

  ELENA

  “Here, let me do that,” Aunt Clara says as she comes in my bathroom and takes the curling iron from my hand and proceeds to take over doing my hair. She showed up after work to help me get ready. I’m moving on autopilot since two nights ago. And then Lawrence showed up at the library yesterday, dressed in an expensive suit, bulldogging his way through the door and barreling his way to me at the checkout desk. With a grim face, he slapped down another NDA, and I barely managed to hold myself steady when he asked me how much money it would take for me to sign it. I told him there wasn’t enough money in the whole world. With anger flaring, I pulled out the scissors and cut it into small strips and threw them at his feet. The man sputtered and looked at me as if I had two heads. Topher took care of the rest, escorting him to the exit.

  Last night at our last rehearsal, Jack arrived late, his face stoic. He spoke to everyone but me, except for when we ran through our lines. When it came to the kissing scenes, he told Laura he had a cold. I kept myself together, my hands clenched, my heart torn and angry and just . . . broken. Laura frowned at us, but whatever she read on our faces, she let it go and didn’t press us.

  After practice, he stalked out without a word to anyone, shoulders tight and drawn.

  “Thanks for helping.” I blink at my reflection, my throat dry.

  “Want me to do your makeup too?” Aunt Clara asks.

  I don’t answer her. My face is pale. My head a million miles away, circling back to his cold demeanor. How could he just walk away . . . then send his jerk of a PR guy to clean up? My face feels tight, stretched over the bones, and I suck in a breath.

  Don’t think about him. Forget he ever existed—

  “You okay, Elle?”

  I nod, pushing a smile up. “Of course. It’s only a play.” I wave her off. “Just do whatever you want with the makeup. The more the better.” I don’t want to talk about him. Not now. I’m done. All I have to do is walk in there, say my lines, and leave. Finished. He’ll go back to Nashville, and I’ll go on in Daisy. As if it never happened.

  She nods and gets to work.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in leggings and a loose denim shirt that buttons for easy wardrobe changes that won’t mess with my hair and makeup. I grab my costume for Juliet’s first scene at the masquerade ball, a flimsy short white dress with lace. I frown, darting around my bedroom. Where are the little fluffy wings for the party scene? I worked on those for several days, adding little jewels and small roses.

  “I can’t find the wings,” I wail as I run to the kitchen, where Aunt Clara and Mama are talking.

  Mama studies my face. “Where did you have them last?”

  I shake my head, feeling off. Disoriented. I chew on my lips. “I thought I had them hanging on the hook in my bedroom—”

  She stands. “You’re scattered, dear. Go check again. I’ll look in the den.”

  I nod and go back to my bedroom, swinging open my closet again, riffling through clothes, checking the hook on the bathroom door. Tears form. Dammit. I’m not thinking straight. I just saw them yesterday! What is wrong with me?

  I dart out of the bedroom. “Mama, did you find them?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I walk down the hallway.

  “Elena.” Her voice is low, off. “What is this?”

  No. No. No.

  I turn the corner, see the door to my sewing room open, Mama standing in the middle of it, her gaze on my dress forms. She spins in a circle, her face white as she takes in the samples. Barbarian Princess with the fringe seems to get most of her attention. “Did you make these?”

  Aunt Clara comes in from the kitchen, bumping into me. She gives me a wide-eyed look. “You left it unlocked.”

  Mama turns to look at both of us, her eyes darting from me to her sister. “You knew?”

  Aunt Clara nods and turns right around and walks away. I glare at her back. Thanks for the support.

  “Mama, I can explain.” I walk in the room, wincing as I see that she’s moved to the glittery unicorn set.

  “I’d like to hear it.” She fingers the bra, examining the fabric, rubbing her hands over the sequins, her brow furrowing as she sees how it changes colors. She makes a noise in her throat when the unicorns flash. “Is this why this door is always locked?”

  “I didn’t want you to find them.”

  “Why?”

  I close my eyes. It’s now or never, and the truth is I’m sick and tired of hiding it. “I love making them. That meeting in Nashville was about this . . . a lingerie company.”

  She sits down at my drafting desk, flipping through my sketches. “You want to quit your job?”

  I ease in. Wings are here. I pick them up, clutching them tightly. I take a deep breath. “I have to go, Mama. Let’s talk later.”

  Topher comes down the stairs and enters the room. “Elena, you ready—”

  He comes to a halt, eyes flaring. “Shit.” He looks at Mama, then me, and walks right back out.

  “Get right back in here, young man,” she calls.

  He pokes his head in. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Did you know?”

  Topher gives her a resigned nod. “Elena’s been dreaming about this for years—”

  She cuts him off, her face tightening. “And Giselle, does she know?”

  I nod, closing my eyes briefly. “Preston too. He hated it.”

  “Bastard,” I hear Clara mutter from the doorway, and I guess she’s gotten the guts to slink back.

  Mama sits there, her head dipping. “I’m the only person you kept it a secret from.” She swallows, emotions flitting across her face.

  I shift on my feet and move to the chaise near the window. My legs are rubbery as I sit down. “I . . . I didn’t want you to think bad about me.”

  She bites her lip, and I wince. I’ve only seen my mama cry three times. The day Daddy died; then his funeral, when she wept so hard none of us were able to console her; and when Nana passed. She’s a rock, a solid piece of granite.

  Moving closer, I grab tissues and push them at her. “Mama, please . . . I’m sorry I enjoy sewing these. I’m a disappointment to you.”

  “Stop that,” she says, her face crumpling. “Please. Don’t say that. You’ve never been a disappointment.”

  “I didn’t go to medical school. I didn’t get married and have babies right away. I barely come to church—”

  “You would have been a terrible doctor. You hate blood, and your heart is too tender. Although it would do you good to listen to a sermon every now and the
n.” Her shoulders cave in, tears rolling down her face, and it breaks me, to see this strong woman weep. “It kills me to think that you were keeping this from me when it was important enough for you to . . .” Her voice trails off, and she sniffs.

  “Mama, don’t cry, because if you cry, then I’m going to cry, and my makeup is already done, and it looks good, and Clara will have to do it all over again.”

  “Well, it’s too late for that, because you’re already crying.”

  “I know!” I sit down on the floor at her knees, emotions riding me hard, from Jack and now this. “Don’t be mad at me for wanting to be different, please.”

  Her eyes find mine, shiny and wet. “Elena, how could you ever think I’d be mad? I’m surprised. Shocked at these . . . provocative . . . things.” She shakes her head. “I just never dreamed you wanted anything more than the library.”

  “But it’s never going to satisfy me. I want to make things that make me feel pretty, that are different from anything else.”

  “Oh, Elena . . . how could you think I’d judge you for doing what you love? Since the moment my mama taught you to sew, you took to it like a fish to water. How could you not tell me? Am I that terrible of a person? Do you think so little of me? Haven’t I always supported you, even when I didn’t agree? I let you run off to New York for college; I tried to keep my mouth shut when you stayed—I tried so hard when you went on that trip to Europe by yourself!”

  It’s the anguish in her voice that sends me over, and I wrap my arms around her waist. “No, never . . . Mama . . . this town means everything to you. Your church. Your friends. I didn’t want you to worry about me embarrassing you.”

  Another tear skates down her face. “Well, I don’t know why not. I love you, Elena. You are my precious baby girl, and I want to support you, even if . . . even if I don’t always approve of you; you’re mine, part of this family, and I thought you knew.” She sucks in a breath. “A mother’s love is unconditional, Elena. And I know I’m just a small-town woman who doesn’t know much about the world, but you’re different, and I know that; I accept it. You’re not me. Maybe you won’t ever get married and give me grandkids. That’s okay. I just want you to be happy, Elena. I don’t want to be the person who’s the last to know.” Her voice breaks, and I wrap my arms around her. She rests her head on mine. “I’m hard sometimes, I know, but in the end, I just want you to be happy. If making these things is a dream for you, I don’t care what people think. I just want you to have everything. I want you to be the person you want to be.” A long breath comes from her. “Don’t you see that?”

  She grimaces and wipes at my cheek. “You’re the little girl who always did exactly what she wanted anyway. You have so many gifts, Elena, so much talent and creativity and drive. I’m so proud of you and the person you are. And I never want you to do or be someone you aren’t. I want you to love yourself first and take your own path, even if it isn’t mine but one next to me where you go further than I ever dreamed, where you’re happy. My love for you is strong, baby girl. It holds no laws; it is limitless. I want you to be you.” Her voice strengthens. “And I will trample down anyone who dares to mutter one spiteful thing about you in this town.”

  “I’m so sorry I never told you.” I weep more, realizing that she loves me no matter if she doesn’t agree with me.

  She tilts my chin up, and I feel like I’m five years old again. “I will never ever leave your side. I am here.”

  Clara and Topher sit on the floor next to me, and I guess I hadn’t even realized they’d come in.

  “Nothing should ever keep us apart,” Clara says, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  “Why can’t I be part of the Daisy Lady Gang? I’m not a lady, per se, but I like to dress in women’s clothes,” Topher whispers and wraps his arms around us.

  “Might as well. Honorary member,” Mama says softly, wiping her face. “We need to have some kind of induction ceremony like those sorority girls do. Cloaks and candles and a swearing in.”

  “And whiskey,” Clara says, nodding. “We’ll need whiskey.”

  Mama scoffs, but says, “Wouldn’t hurt.” She gives me a long, lingering look. “Hate to tell you, but you’re gonna have to redo that makeup.”

  I give her a hug, holding her tight. “I won’t keep you in the dark, Mama. I won’t do it again.”

  She smiles. “Good. And when you become a superstar pantie person, if Birdie Walker says one damn word, I’m going to dye her hair bright purple like Devon’s and call it a win.”

  I laugh.

  “Come on,” Clara says, pulling me to my feet. “We have a play to get to.”

  Chapter 32

  JACK

  The gym is packed when I arrive, chairs in two groups along the floor with an aisle, the bleachers bursting with people.

  “Dude. Everyone is here to see you.” Devon gives me a questioning look. “You got this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Liar. You gonna puke again?”

  He had to pull over once on the interstate. Same thing happened last night when I drove down for the last rehearsal. My stomach is screwed up. I can’t eat. I can’t think. Thoughts of Elena mixing with nervousness over speaking in front of all these people.

  “They’re not reporters,” he reminds me. “Just good people who want to see you. There’s Timmy.” He nudges his head as the tornado that’s Timmy sees me and barrels over to us. He’s got jeans and a slightly wrinkled dress shirt on.

  I swing him up and give him a big hug. “You look nice, little man,” I say to him, forcing warmth in my voice—when I feel so damn cold.

  “You’re late! Mama is asking everyone where you were!”

  I grimace. “Sorry. Here now. Go tell her I’m coming.”

  He nods and dashes back down the gym floor.

  “This is a one-night-only show. The last time you’ll see Elena,” Devon murmurs, sticking his hands in his jeans. “Think about that tonight.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine. Break a leg, then. Go on. I’m going up front. Elena mentioned they had seats for us and Quinn.”

  “Me too,” Lucy says, coming in the door with Quinn and hearing us. She’s a surprise guest. I mentioned the play to her a week ago, telling her about the people of the town. About Elena.

  I didn’t think she’d be able to make it since she’s had a recent bout with the flu. Quinn picked her up since she doesn’t drive much anymore, while I rode with Devon.

  “I want a good look at this Juliet you’ve been talking about on the phone,” she says, arching her brow. In her late seventies with bobbed brown hair, she’s wearing black dress pants, a white silk blouse, and a strand of pearls I bought her for Christmas last year. They make me think of Elena . . .

  “Yeah,” I say tonelessly.

  Her eyes are hazel and faded—but sharp. I haven’t told her anything about what happened because I don’t want her to worry, but Quinn . . .

  I nod. “Should be three seats up front. I told Laura, and she reserved them.”

  She shoos me off. “Go on, then. Don’t worry about us.”

  They wish me luck, and I wander off toward the front, but I pause, my chest knotted. I hang back, feeling eyes on me from every direction. My hands tremble as I hoist my duffel bag up on my shoulder.

  Part of me wants to just . . . run away.

  The other side of me . . . wants to see Elena. Last time.

  Anxiousness rides me as people watch me jog to the stage, a wave of relief hitting me as I shut the door and climb the steps to the stage. Curtains are drawn, and everyone mills around with final prepping. Cast members huddle in groups, going over lines. Shit, I hate being late. I head into one of the dressing rooms for the men, thankful it’s empty as I change out of my clothes and into Romeo’s shirt, jeans, and black boots.

  By the time I’m out, miked up, and waiting with the rest of the cast, I still haven’t seen Elena.

  Is she late?

  Did she dread coming as
much as I did?

  “Jack.”

  I whip around at the sound of her voice, nearly stumbling.

  She looks . . . beautiful. Her short dress falls above her knees, her wings in her hands. It was hell being around her last night at rehearsal, fucking awful.

  “Have you been crying?” I say gruffly. Her face is perfect, but those eyes are road maps.

  A slight smile. She thrusts a Tigers mug at me, the first one I bought when I got drafted to Nashville. “You forgot this. Guess you were in a hurry.”

  “Oh.” I take it with stiff fingers, fighting . . . shit . . . battling with myself to not brush them against hers.

  “Be glad I saved it. Clara wanted to throw it against the wall.” She turns to leave.

  “Elena?”

  “What?”

  A long exhalation comes from deep inside as she faces me again, and I say something I said I wouldn’t, but I can’t stop it, because the whole drive here, all I could think about was her, that torn, angry, yet resigned expression on her face when I left the gym.

  I love you. I knew you’d sweep me away—and in the end, you’d crush me. I stayed right with you all the way because I couldn’t bear to not be part of your world.

  I recall the pride I read in her eyes that held her strong. Kept her from talking to me.

  “What was your phone call about? I’d like to know so I can be prepared.”

  She gives me a professional nod, a wan smile. “Yes, of course. You stalked out without getting the whole story.” Her expression is blank—God, I miss her emotions—and never changes. “In a nutshell, Marvin wanted me to see if you wanted to sell your story. He asked on behalf of a coworker, the agent who handled Sophia, who saw the video of us. They thought I’d be able to convince you or give them your contact info for a conversation.”

  Ms. Clark waltzes past us in her purple dress. She smirks at us. “Lover’s tiff already, Romeo and Juliet? Can’t say I’m surprised. You two don’t go together.”

  Elena never looks at her, voice still toneless. “Fuck off, Sheila.”

  She harrumphs and flounces off, shooting eye daggers at us.

  I focus back on Elena. “You never told me you worked there.”