When We Met

by A. L. Jackson

  He paused and I tried to keep my lips in a neat straight line. He didn’t need me reacting to his news right now. He needed support and I would try to offer it.

  “I would have finished my theater degree this year, but now it’s delayed.” He shrugged. “I moved back home to make sure my brother was keeping up his high school grades while Mom secured an AA sponsor and attended daily meetings.”

  “Gosh, Blake, I’m sorry that I . . . that you . . .”

  He held up his hand, effectively cutting me off. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to say anything.”

  He trudged to the back room without uttering another word. I wasn’t sure if it was in an effort to get away from me or to discontinue the conversation. I couldn’t help feeling bummed that he had gone through that with his family. How brave he had been to take all of that on.

  When he reemerged with a broom and dustpan to clean the sawdust off the floor, he didn’t look my way again.

  He flipped to a station on his iPod, and the low sound of classic rock filled up the space. I headed in back to change into my casual clothes and then got busy staining wood.

  After another thirty minutes of working in silence, his voice startled me. “What do you think?”

  He’d already put together one of the A-frame shelves and it was leaning against the far wall.

  I walked over to it and slid my fingers along one of the lower shelves. “It looks great.”

  “Cool,” he said. “Then I’ll start working on the middle piece until your stain dries.”

  When I looked back a few minutes later, Blake was sitting on the same box that’d been supporting his lumber, trying to fit angled pieces together. My hands were stained and messy and I bent down to change brushes, in order to garner a smoother finish.

  “Truth or dare?” His voice rang out above the din of “Back in Black” by AC/DC.

  I lowered my hands so I could catch a better glimpse of his eyes. He looked calm and perfectly relaxed, a contrast to an hour before.

  “Truth,” I said rather easily now. He knew it would be my answer anyway. But one day soon I planned to surprise him. When I got up enough nerve.

  “Do you ever go up to the Cedar Mountain Theater to see those old movies that you’re so fond of?” he asked in a soft voice.

  I was surprised that he even knew of the place. Not many of my friends were familiar with it. The theater was tucked away in an old corner of the town. It’d been there for years and had somehow survived, even though it only showcased the classics. Every now and again, it featured art deco films and probably drew a larger crowd.

  “I used to go all the time,” I said. “By myself, of course. Not many people I know like those movies.”

  He hummed a little of the tune piping through his device. “What do you like about them?”

  No one had ever asked me that question. But I knew my answer straightaway. “I like how they’re set up. The lighting, the mood, the music. It’s all staged perfectly.”

  I took a step toward him without even realizing it. “Plus there’s just something about those old-time romances. The special looks, the anticipation of a simple touch. I think it’s way more of a turn-on than the sex scenes in modern films.”

  He quirked a seductive eyebrow at me like it was a question or a proposition—or just that he was being adorably playful—and I liked that side of him. I felt a rash of heat break out over my cheeks and neck.

  I cleared my throat. “Your construction buddies could learn a thing or two from those movies.”

  His laughter echoed around the space—pure and open and real. And I loved hearing the sound of it. It made me want to summon that noise from him as often as possible. Especially in light of his somber news.

  “Do you like musicals or plays?” he asked, curbing his entertainment.

  “Not really a fan of live theater.” I shrugged. “I like my stuff staged, remember?”

  “There’s plenty staged in live theater. Obviously,” he said, motioning with his hands and reminding me in his own away that he used to build sets.

  “Sure, but I don’t know,” I said, standing back and trying to decide if the lumber I was working on needed an additional coat of stain. “Live theater kind of makes me nervous.”

  “How?” His eyebrows scrunched together as he reached for the hammer and nails.

  “Too many things can go wrong,” I said, my voice suddenly dry. Somebody shut me up before I gave away just how unbelievably anal-retentive I truly was. Too late. “The actors can forget their lines. The backdrop can . . . fall apart.”

  I even sounded neurotic to my own ears.

  He grinned knowingly. As if he had me figured out. And I probably already told him too much. From this point on, I’d just have to have faith that he wouldn’t make fun of me.

  But he had told me some personal things as well. So maybe it was about mutual trust.

  After he hammered a nail into the wood, he said, “But theater is where all the magic happens.”

  I replaced the lid on the can of stain and reached for a rag to wipe my hands. “What kind of magic?”

  “When things are spontaneous—that sensation of something happening that’s so unexpected you feel it dead center in your chest—your heart is pumping hard, your stomach starts buzzing.”

  He made it sound so enticing. Still I wasn’t buying it. But the way his lips moved over the words gave me this warm and strange twinge in my chest. He looked so alive and animated. I almost wanted to experience that, too. Almost.

  “Sounds dreadful,” I said, and he laughed hard in that unreserved way that made me feel light-headed.

  “You should try it sometime,” he said, reining in his amusement. “Being spontaneous, that is.”

  “Maybe,” I said, circling the wood to catch the light for flaws.

  He stared hard at me, finger brushing his chin, puzzling away at something. “Wouldn’t you consider your outfits spur-of-the-moment?”

  “No way,” I said. “I plan what I’m going to wear the night before.”

  “Of course you do,” he said with a twitch to his lip.

  God, how pathetic was I? So basically I’d just made myself sound like some tragic spinster girl who sat at home watching old movies and deciding with great effort what clothing to lay out for myself for the next day.

  I was about to tell him I was done for the night so I could go home and lick my wounds.

  But then he got this solemn look in his eyes. “You’re kind of like a canvas that needs to be studied.” In order to prove this point, his eyes scaled painstakingly slowly from the top of my head all the way down to my toes, catching every last nerve ending on fire.

  “Your lips and eyes and how you style your hair—even down to those sexy heels you wear.”

  My lips trembled as he stepped closer.

  “You’re like a work of art.”

  Normally I’d think he was making fun of me, but his gaze seared straight through me as he moved nearer still. I could feel my breaths flying out in fluttery whispers and I tried to tamp them down.

  His fingers reached for a stray piece of hair that had come loose from my vintage barrette and he gently moved it behind my ear. Then he leaned forward and whispered, “Truth or dare?”

  And I didn’t know what it had been—my mood, our closeness, how we seemed to bridge the gap between us by sharing personal information, or the beginnings of my undeniable attraction to him—but I stared him dead in the eye and said, “Dare.”

  He looked momentarily dumfounded before relief washed over him, relaxing his features. As if I’d said the one thing he’d been dying to hear.

  And then as though maybe I would change my mind, he gripped my arms and said, “I dare you to go see a theater performance with me.”

  “Um . . . sure,” I said, relieved it was something that needed to be planned, tickets to be purchased. My head was not screwed on straight in that moment. “When?”

  “Right now.”

&nbs
p; chapter six

  Chloe

  It’d been a long time since I let a guy lead me anywhere. But there we stood in front of a tiny lopsided playhouse that looked like it might collapse in a heap at any moment.

  “I think you’ll love it,” Blake said, clutching my elbow and steering me to the ticket window.

  I looked around the dreary and deserted streets and wondered just who in their right minds would want to come to this theater. “What is this place?”

  “It’s a different kind of live theater,” he said almost in awe. “It’s amazing. You’ll see.”

  He led me through doorway into a very dark room, and next thing I knew, I was being jostled by this crowd of people milling around and looking toward the ceiling. No seats to be had, it was standing room only, and I felt very out of my element. Nervous about what I was about to experience. “Can’t you at least give me a heads-up?”

  “There’s no way to describe it.” His eyes were glowing with excitement. “You just have to experience it.”

  But as soon as the first trapeze artist came floating down from the ceiling quoting Shakespeare, I was utterly mesmerized. For the next hour these thespians-artists continued to impress me with their capabilities of swinging, tumbling, and hanging upside down all while reciting their lines. My heartbeat was erratic, my cheeks were flushed. It was like nothing I’d ever experienced before, and truth be told, I loved every minute of it.

  Blake moved us into the far corner against a wall. He stood behind me, as if in protective mode. I felt safe with him, but also completely turned on. I could feel the heat of his body and I welcomed every nudge or bump—whether by accident or on purpose, I didn’t know.

  Regardless, I wanted more of it. As he explained what was happening above us, his hot breath fanned against my neck and then in my ear, and I longed for his lips to drift across my skin.

  It’d been ages since I’d had this kind of feeling about a boy. Every time his fingertips came in contact with my body, my skin broke out in a fresh trail of goose bumps.

  At the end of the performance, he gave me a heads-up that the artists were about to spray water into the audience and then his hands formed a shield to protect my head. But in a daring move that came from some other girl trapped inside me, I slipped from beneath his shelter. Not because I wanted to get away from him, but because I had this undeniable urge to be free, bold, alive.

  I held out my arms and turned my face to the ceiling as water splashed down upon me. It was shocking and liberating and it helped douse the flame burning me alive from the inside. When I looked over my shoulder, Blake was grinning, his eyes wide with astonishment.

  We spilled out of the theater in a sea of people, laughing and joking and wet. Well, at least I was wet. Blake only had a few beads of water in his hair. For the first time in forever, I realized I hadn’t even looked over my shoulder to see if I recognized anybody from campus or from my mother’s circle of connections. Regardless, nobody I hung out with would go to such a place off the beaten path.

  “Wasn’t so bad, was it?” Blake asked, almost tentatively.

  I grinned. “It was pretty great.”

  Suddenly I wanted to know more about him. Much more. “Do you miss it?”

  His steps faltered. “What?”

  “The stage,” I said, feeling bold again. “I could see it in your eyes—the way they lit up.”

  “I do miss it, but I don’t stress about it,” he said in a low voice. “Because I know I’ll be back . . . someday.”

  I liked his optimism. He didn’t hang on too tightly to one emotion or idea, it seemed. Given his family situation, he probably needed to be ready for the unexpected. I could use a similar lesson. My life felt too scripted—too suffocating—and though there had been a time that I’d reveled in that security, lately I felt too molded in place. Too pinned to plans. Too damned much under my mother’s thumb.

  The only thing I could look forward to was breaking away next year. Even the idea of that scared the hell out of me. Would I really go through with it?

  Maybe next year, there would be room for a boy like Blake, when I’d be venturing out on my own in a new city and trying to make a life for myself. I had Blake to thank for showing me what I might have to look forward to—but I knew I needed to wait until the time was right. Because now? The time didn’t seem right, for either of us.

  A kind of melancholy set up camp, heavy in my chest, but I ignored it.

  “Is set design the kind of career you’ve always seen for yourself?” I asked.

  “I think so,” he said, turning the corner to where his car was parked. “Maybe on a Broadway set or in a smaller production around here.”

  I couldn’t imagine Blake leaving his family to seek out Broadway any time soon. Maybe we’d keep in touch after our project was over with. I’d like that.

  We lapsed into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own head. I looked at my phone and saw two missed calls from my mother and was transported back to reality too soon.

  “Thanks for a great night,” I said after he drove me to my car, which was still parked in front of Threads. “Next time it’s my choice—you get to come see a classic movie with me.”

  Heat crawled up my neck. I couldn’t believe I’d voiced that hope out loud. Without practicing how it would sound first.

  “Deal,” he said without any hesitation.

  • • •

  And a couple of nights later that was exactly what we did. We saw the ten o’clock show at the Cedar Mountain Theater and ate buttery popcorn while I explained how much I loved all the vintage clothing in those productions. He didn’t even raise an eyebrow at me.

  Every time his thigh brushed against mine, I felt the urge to turn and practice one of those old-fashioned kisses that I was so fond of in these movies.

  In fact, during the kissing scene, I held my breath as my imagination took over. In my side view I noticed how Blake’s gazed skimmed over my face and then landed on our hands, which were so close together I could feel the electricity between our skin.

  But it was so ridiculous to have those fantasies when our lives were so different—so scripted by our families, in completely different ways.

  I’d even seen one of my mother’s society ladies near the concession stand before the movie. I immediately pulled out the notebook I carried everywhere, just in case, and fabricated the idea of a class project. I told her the assignment involved the study of costumes and that we were meeting more of our classmates near the entrance, the exact place where Blake had set up residence.

  He pretended to study the door in order to spot our friends arriving and didn’t even question me about it afterward. It was as if we’d come to an understanding that our time together wasn’t real; it was just the tucked-away moments we shared while working on this project and there was no use wasting time discussing it any further.

  chapter seven

  Blake

  By the following week our space already looked fairly put together. All of the lumber had been stained and the shelving units created. The only two tasks that remained were the staging and decorating. I’d finished building days ago and I didn’t need to help with anything else, but all I wanted to do was steal more moments with Chloe in the pop-up shop.

  Even though our time together had an expiration date, this project felt as much mine as hers and I wanted to see it through. Plus it kept my mind off what was bothering me at home.

  My mother was beginning to act strange—like she was hiding stuff from me. I’d been through this too many times to count and knew all the signs of someone heading down that dark road again. All I could do was make sure my brother’s life wasn’t disrupted. Thankfully he had a full schedule of school and sports activities to keep him busy. But he wasn’t stupid—he knew the score as well as I did.

  I was pretty sure Chloe figured out that I didn’t need to hang around anymore, either, but she never said a word. Every day that I showed up, she looked grateful. And hap
py to see me. And that kept me coming.

  “Can you hoist the tape over the top of this pipe? I can’t reach,” Chloe said.

  “Bet you’re missing those heels,” I said, grabbing the roll of filament from her grasp.

  “Bet you are, too,” she countered, arching a playful eyebrow.

  We’d been doing this a lot more lately—flirting with each other. It made me nearly desperate for the opportunity to touch her.

  What that meant exactly, I wasn’t sure. We were great in our confined space together. I was fairly certain that she didn’t let anyone else know what we were up to, besides my aunt Jaclyn—and especially not her overbearing mother. Nor that we had hung out a couple of times. That bothered me at first—really bothered me. But now I got it. She had been kept on a short leash and pretty sheltered.

  After hanging a few of the silver movie reels on opposite walls, I said, “Truth or dare?”

  She seemed so at ease tonight, it actually surprised me when she said, “Truth.”

  Darn. I had hoped I could convince her to go somewhere with me on a dare. I’d have to try a different approach.

  “Hmm . . . if I asked you to come see my friend’s live band at Club Utopia . . . would you say yes?”

  She immediately began twirling her hair around her fingers and I almost regretted trying to persuade her into going out with me at all.

  It felt like an entire minute had passed by before she finally agreed. “Yes.”

  I appreciated that she was remaining open to ideas and I really liked seeing that fire in her eyes—that small flicker that was awakened when she took a chance and tried something that was outside her comfort zone.

  As we made our way to the door, she swept her hands down her clothes as if to smooth them out and said, “Is this okay—what I’m wearing?”

  She had on a vintage Coca-Cola T-shirt from my aunt’s shop, tight jeans, and her pink Converse sneakers. I reined in my dirty thoughts about how amazing her breasts looked beneath that thin cotton material and how the denim stretched over her womanly hips.