She might as well have shoved the boxing glove straight through my stomach. I swallow, plunging my nails into the fraying strings creating the fake holes in my jeans.
Shit. I’m so stupid.
Of course she doesn’t want me to kiss her. Why the hell would she? I don’t deserve that. Not yet. I broke her trust in a massive, idiotic, irreversible way. Before we can go anywhere, I have to earn it back.
So, when she peeks up at me with those wide eyes, I give her a warm smile accompanied by a small nod.
Catie’s eyes soften and she returns the grin, tightening her ponytail. “Can’t wait to start punching. You?” Her sneakers scuff the mats.
Just what I had in mind. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.
She stretches her arms in front of her, bringing them forward and leaning left and right.
I clear my throat and scratch the back of my neck with my left hand. “This is going to be interesting,” I say, standing on one foot and stretching my opposite quad.
I only get about a fourth of the way into the stretch before my balance starts to wobble.
“Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Slapping my rubber sole against the mats, I catch myself until the lack of friction makes my foot slide backward.
“Gotcha!” Catie grabs my arms before my ass hits the floor. “Up you go.” She smiles and pulls me back to my feet.
“God.” I flush but brush away the spectators and force a laugh. “I’m a mess.” Go figure. Everything we’ve done tonight, and a basic gym stretch does me in.
Catie opens her mouth to reply, but bass vibrates the floorboards.
“All right ladies,” calls the instructor. “Gabby here will come check your tape.” She gestures across the room to the young woman standing by the equipment racks. “And then you’re free to grab some gloves and pads.” She holds up a set of black and neon pink boxing gloves along with two soft-looking, mitten-shaped things with black centers and straps around the back. “Then partner up and let’s get to work.”
Catie clasps her fingers around my wrist before “partners” is fully out of the instructor’s mouth. We float into the equipment line.
After a quick demo where the moves look more like the chicken dance than a mode of defense, Catie hands me the gloves .
I plaster on a smile and send up a prayer as I strap them on. As the instructor begins calling out combinations, though, I can’t help but grin. Maybe those endless Rocky and Jackie Chan marathons Maddy has forced me to sit through a million times since we’ve been friends aren’t so useless after all. Some of the instructor’s crazy terms sound semi-familiar.
Uppercut.
Punching upward with a bent arm. Catie’s eyes sparkle as I return to the basic fighting stance they taught us at the beginning of class. Yes! This isn’t so hard after all.
Jab.
I deliver a short, swift punch. Catie fumbles to make the pad meet my glove. I puff my chest out. I’m a faster learner than I thought.
Bob and Weave.
No, wait. What the fuck is Bob and Weave?
Catie starts, sweeping the pad toward my left shoulder. I thrust my arm straight out, angled toward the ceiling, missing her chin.
“Hey!” Catie gasps and reels back as my forearm smacks the pad. “You’re supposed to duck, not clock me!”
Can I do anything right?
“Sorry!” I unstrap one of my gloves and step forward to inspect her jawline. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes dance and she uses the back of the pad to cover her grin, but the corners of her lips curl over the sides. “Fine. You missed. Warn me before you go all Black Canary next time, okay?”
I whack her on the shoulder. “Like you could do any better.”
Catie snickers and holds out her hand. “Winner buys drinks?” My heart leaps as I shake it.
“Game on.”
Five minutes later, I’ve bullshitted my way through seven combinations. Only Catie’s incredible skills allow her to avoid multiple black eyes. I’m about ready to chuck these damn gloves at the wall when the instructor signals for us to switch. My body washes with relief as I exchange the gloves for pads and we swap places. “Pay up.”
Her ponytail swishes. “In your dreams,” she purrs. The sound rolls over my senses like liquid sunshine, but I shake off the adrenaline long enough to grin back.
“We’ll see.”
The instructor shouts combinations rapid-fire and Catie nails them with such fierce precision I have to back off the mat and dig my heels into the carpet to stay upright. By the time the round is over, I’m soaked in sweat and gasping for breath.
“Ten minutes,” calls the instructor, dabbing her own forehead with a cloth. “Then we move on to bag drills.”
What? There’s more? Perfect. Maybe she is trying to kill us.
I keel over and hang my head, enjoying the blood rushing to my face as I pant for a gulp of oxygen not tainted with the BO of twenty toned women. Oh my God, what am I doing here? On the bright side, if I stay long enough, some of their badassery will rub off on me. I hope.
“Hey.” A hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “Nice set,” Catie says, smiling. “Way better than I was my first time.”
I snort, standing and arching my back. “Yeah right.”
“Seriously,” she swears as she heads toward the front of the room to grab her duffel. When she returns, she unzips it and collapses cross-legged on the mat. I follow and catch the extra water bottle she tosses out.
“The only way I did better than you are if you is if you were, like, Griswold family levels of clumsy.”
Catie unscrews the top of her bottle and takes a drink. “Well, that’s pretty much how it was.”
I roll my eyes, turning the plastic in my hands. “No way.”
“Uh-huh!” She nods. “Truth is, I hated it at first. I started because my therapist thought it would be good for my hand-eye coordination.
I swallow a gulp of water as my eyebrows meet my hairline and the liquid tickles the back of my throat. A cough sputters out as I replace the cap. “You have a therapist?”
Catie’s throat convulses. I gasp as water splashes out between her lips in a Hollywood-style spit take that leaves my careful makeup feeling more like a child’s watercolor. I shake the droplets out of my hair and scoot close enough to slap her back.
“You okay?”
Cough. “Yeah, I’m”—Cough, cough— “fine,” she wheezes. “Trainer.”
“What?”
“Jess. She’s my—oh.” Then she notices the foundation dripping down my cheeks and snorts. “Sorry.”
I shrug. “I needed a shower anyway.”
“Here.” Chuckling, she turns and rummages through her bag, yanking out a towel and handing it over.
I smirk and run it across my face, turning the soft white fabric brown. “Thanks. I’ll give it back after a good wash.”
Catie shakes her head. “Keep it.”
“You sure?” I ask, using it to wring out my hair.
“Yeah.” She gives me an odd look and digs in her duffel again. “It’s a towel.”
A weak chuckle rattles my chest as I twist the fabric between my fingers. “Right.” She smiles. There’s a second of silence. I clear my throat and point to the pile of bound papers she’s pulled from the duffel and has perched on her knees. “What’s that?”
“Hmm?” Her chin dips to follow my gesture and a rosy tint speckles her cheeks. She fingers the edge of the stack before grinning at me. “Nothing.”
I inch closer. “Come on.”
The patches on her cheeks redden and she looks away. “It’s silly.”
“I doubt it,” I reply, nudging my knee against hers. “Can I see?” She nods shyly and I slip it from her lap, flipping it open.
WICKED: THE MUSICAL
Script
Music and Lyrics by Stephen Schwartz
Book by Winnie Holtzman
My gaze meets hers and I laugh. “What’s this?”
“Well
.” She clears her throat and picks at the white stripe on the edge of her shorts. “When you said I got a callback . . .” She shrugs
Flicking through the pages, I let out a low whistle. She’s already highlighted Nessa’s lines with a bright blue highlighter. “How the hell did you find a script between 7:25 and now?”
She scoffs and slaps my thigh. “It’s called the Internet, Lyn. They have everything there.”
I stick out my tongue. “Smart ass.”
She laughs. “I was hoping to get a bit of practice in tonight.”
“Want me to run lines with you?”
She perks up. “Would you? That’d be great!”
I beam and page through the scenes. “Where do you want to start?”
“Hmm. How about—” Catie scoots close enough for our legs to touch. I force a breath out of my lungs as she indicates a page number. “Here?”
We’re almost to the end of act one by the time the instructor calls us back. I sigh and flip the stack closed. “Great. Back to the torture chamber.”
Catie shoves my shoulder. “You know you love it.”
I morph my cringe into a lopsided smile. No, I fucking hate it. But, if it means spending time with her. I stand and tuck the script under my arm. As I hand it over, a packet of stapled papers flutters to the floor. “Oops.”
Catie lunges to the side, but it slides across the mat.
“I got it.” I stride toward the wall and squat down, spinning the packet around in my hand as I pick it up. Staffs of music notes stare back at me. The Life I Never Led is written in bold font across the top.
My heart jumps into my throat. She still has it. I mean, of course she does. It was her audition song. But holding the sheet music in my hand sends a strange wave of warmth coursing through my veins. If she still uses our song, maybe she doesn’t totally hate me. Until I notice writing scrawled across the top.
What the fuck? What is she doing dedicating our song to some other woman? A few months after we broke up? A searing burn stabs at my eyes and my vision blurs. The paper crumples in my hand as I run the back of my wrist over them. I stalk back toward Catie.
“Lyn?” she asks. “What’s wro—”
“What the hell is this?” My hands fly and nostrils flare as I gesture toward the papers.
She scrunches her brows, lips parted. “What are you talking about?”
My gaze narrows and I grit my teeth, my nails punching holes through the music. Oh, hell no. She’s not playing dumb right now.
I scoff. She cringes as I step close enough that our lips could touch, folding my arms. “Don’t play fuckin’ coy, Catherine,” I spit. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
Catie winces. Some of my anger trickles away as a tiny semblance of sense breaks through my rage. The room has grown dead quiet.
Maybe we should take this outside.
“Actually, I don’t. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to class.” She snatches the packet, yanking the front page with a rip. My heart clenches as a few nearby onlookers turn to stare. Bile creeps up my throat as I lunge forward to grab it back, but she sidesteps and I face-plant.
“Go home, Addie,” she says. “You’re not yourself right now.”
Fuck it. Fisting my right hand and pushing to my knees, I roll on my back and snap up at her, “To Lyssa. The light of my life. Three months after we broke up.”
Her face loses most of its color and I can’t help but sneer as she glances between the ripped paper and my hardened expression, more and more horrified with each passing second.
“Am I that easy to replace?” I rasp. Fuck. Why can’t my vocal chords do what I ask for once?
She shakes her head, undoing her hair in the process. For the first time, I notice the sheen of moisture clouding her eyes. Shit. Even under the ungodly florescent lights, they’re beautiful.
“No, Lyn. God, no.” She stretches out a shaky hand, and my heart bleeds in my chest, scrambling to a squat and pushing up with my palms.
“That was our song, Cate,” I choke out, swiping my arms over my face. Damn you, humidity! “How could you?”
“Addie, I didn’t! Please, I swear!”
“Whatever. I don’t give a damn about your excuses.” I shake her off as her fingertips claw at my shoulder.
"Ladies,” the instructor calls with a sharp clearing of her throat. “We’re getting back to class. Are you joining us? If not, please go outside."
“Please,” she sobs. “Just listen!”
“Forget it,” I snap. “At least I know what I meant to you all those years.”
“No, Lyn, please, you don—”
I swing the door open and it smashes into the wall. I stomp into the night.
So much for second chances.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring.
Rolling over, I pat around the top of the headboard and find my extra pillow. Plopping it atop my face, I burrow into its fabric.
I didn’t go to bed until after two o’clock, my mind still swimming between the fight with Addie at the boxing gym and the many—unanswered—messages I’ve sent her in the last two days.
Ring, ring.
I flop on my back, cringing at the light streaming through the window. Pressing my fingers to my throbbing temples, I sit up and fish around on the night table until I find my phone.
“He-hello?”
“Catie?”
“Mm, Grayson?” I shift beneath the sheets and rub the sleep from my eyes.
“Didn’t mean to wake you. My bad.”
“No, no, it’s fine. What is it?” Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I slide into my slippers and pad across the room to the robe hook. “Is everything okay with Lyssa?”
Grayson’s husky laughter echoes through the phone. “She’s good. I dropped her off at school. Evelyn’s bringing her home this afternoon.”
“Perfect.” Stuffing my arms through the sleeves, I pull the robe around my nightshirt and sink onto the bed. “Thanks for the heart attack.”
“Sorry.”
I rest my forehead in my free hand. A fight is the last thing I need. “Why are you calling me?”
There’s some shuffling on the other end. He takes a deep breath. “I, uh, wanted to check in. See if you were okay. We haven’t talked since. . .”
“Lyssa moved out.”
“Yeah.” A pause.
I contemplate hanging up, but he speaks before I can.
“Look, I had no idea things would turn out like this.”
I flop back against the covers. “I don’t blame you.” Much.
“Still,” he adds. “I wish I could do something.”
He does? “You do?” I sit up again, cradling the phone against my shoulder. “Don’t you like having Lyssa with you?”
“Of course!” Grayson exclaims. “She’s my daughter and I love her more than anything.”
“But?”
“And,” he corrects. “I care about you too, Catie. We may not work the way we used to, but that doesn’t mean I like hurting you.”
My cheeks warm as I rub the mussed sheets between my fingers. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Grayson’s voice softens and I picture him flashing a single-dimpled smile. Lyssa’s smile. “How are you?”
“Good, I guess.” I lean back. “Got a callback for Wicked.”
“Really? Great! When did they get back to you?”
“Addie’s the one who told me, but Frank confirmed it last night. Addie’s the assistant director there now.”
“Addie?” Grayson echoes and I wince. “As in, MACMA Addie? Are you two talking again?”
I twirl a strand of hair around my finger. “Kind of?”
“Uh-huh. What happened?”
I give him the short version, including our fight. By the time I’m done, tears slide down my cheeks, and my nose is clogged up. “Anyway,” I sniffle. “I’m pretty sure she hates me now. She hasn’t returned any of my calls.”
“Keep trying,
okay? She’ll come around.”
I switch the receiver to my other ear. “You think?” My voice cracks,.
“Mm-hmm, I do.”
I run the back of my wrist over my cheeks, letting a watery smile slip onto my lips. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
My alarm beeps. I pull the phone away from my ear, eyes wide.
9:32 a.m.
“Oh, shoot!” I vault off of the bed and scurry toward the bathroom. “Grayson, I gotta go, I’m due at the theater in an hour.”
“The callback’s today?”
“Yeah. Short notice, I know.”
“No shit.” He whistles. “Okay. Break a leg, Catie.”
I throw off my robe and step onto the tile. “I’ll try.”
“You will.”
As the blow-dryer whooshes through my hair, I can’t help thinking of Addie. She’ll be there today. Grayson’s words ring in my head. Keep trying. She’ll come around.
And so, as I’m caking on the last of my makeup, I punch in her number, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the vanity.
Please pick up, please pick up, please pic—
“Hello.”
“Addie?” Thank goodness. “Listen, I’m so—”
“You’ve reached Adaline Davidson, assistant director of Bright Light Theater. Leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
I ball my fists. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?
The machine beeps and I fight to dislodge the lump in my throat. “Hey, Lyn, um, it’s me, Catie. I, uh, wanted to, uh,” Why is this so hard to say?
“Listen, Lyssa isn’t my girlfriend, she’s my, my friend.” Nice going, real brave. But it’s out there now, and I can’t take it back. My only option is to plunge ahead and hope against hope Addie understands. Someday. “Long story short, we split rent on the apartment. She’s straight as an arrow and has a boyfriend. So, there you have it.” Another cry rips from my throat as a piercing beep reverberates off the walls. “Please.”
Duet Rubato Page 6
