by Harper James
“Are you that worried I’ll botch it?” I ask, and I mean it— with each passing moment, she seems to get more and more wary, until I feel like I need to start telling her to focus.
“No! Of course not. I’m just nervous.”
“Really nervous,” I say, and she scowls at me. I’m most thrown by the fact that she doesn’t look nervous-scared, but rather, nervous-excited, like she’s waiting for a birthday party.
“Anna Milhomme,” a woman calls out, following my name up with the names of four other girls who will be auditioning in the same group as me. Trishelle squeezes my hand, then bounds into the theater so she can watch from the house.
I follow the woman— she’s one of the tenure theater professors, which I know because I’ve basically memorized the department’s website— along a hallway and into the backstage area. It’s otherworldly back here; the concrete block walls are painted black and strips of light blast from between the curtains that divide up the wings. The other girls auditioning with me already have their heads up, their shoulders back; when we’re marched out on stage in a single line, they beam, glossy lips catching the light.
A voice from the house—I can’t see due to the stage lights— calls out. “Alright, let’s go left to right— say your name, the number of the piece you’ll be reading, and then we’ll go back through for you to perform it. Those of you reading a piece that has partner dialogue, we’ll read that for you. Got it?”
We all nod. Each girl steps forward, gives her name, and then says she’ll be reading the hostess scene. Literally— every single other girl on stage with me will be reading the hostess scene. And I’m going to have to read it last, since I’m on the far right.
I force a smile and step forward when it’s my turn. “I’m Anna Milhomme, and I’ll be reading…” I stall, lick my lips. I prepared most for the hostess scene, but the idea of reading it after the other four girls makes me more than a little wary. The fact that time is ticking by as I dwell on all this makes me even warier. I blink, force a smile. “I’ll be reading scene three.”
No one reacts to this news, earth-shattering as it feels to me. I wonder what Trishelle is doing out in the audience— probably losing her mind. The five of us take a seat on stage, save for the girl who’s going first. She steps forward and begins her scene. I can see the girls to my left fighting the urge to mouth the words along with her. I’m fighting that urge as well, and only win my shutting my eyes and thinking through scene three. It’s the romantic scene— I’d be crazy to try the comedic one. I suspect that in a perfect world, I’d be able to drum up some tears for the emotional high bits, but this isn’t a perfect world, and I’m not actually an actress, so whatever.
The second girl goes, then the third. They finish their scenes, thank the panel, and then return to their seats. No one claps, though I know that’s because it’s an audition, not because any of them did poorly— even with my eyes shut, I can hear their flawless Atlantic accents, the clack of their kitten heels as they walk across stage, inventing blocking, miming serving tea. I’m relieved, at least, to not be preforming the same scene as them— I’d look particularly bad in comparison.
“And lastly we have Anna Milhomme,” the disembodied voice somewhere in the house says. “Scene three. Whenever you’re ready, Miss Milhomme.”
“Alright, yes, thanks, okay,” I say, like my brain just chucked down a handful of “affirming words” dice. I try my best not to linger on that though, take a breath, and—
“One moment, please,” the disembodied voice says, and I nearly fall forward as I put the brakes on the scene. I hear mumbling out by the panel, shuffling, movement, but I can’t do much of anything beyond stand stock still and smile, waiting for the great and powerful Oz to give me permission to continue.
“Sorry about that, Miss Milhomme. Go on,” the voice says swiftly.
I nod, take a breath again, and begin.
“I guess what I’m trying to say,” I start, tapping in to my own trepidation, my own uncertainty, and using it for the character, “is that I’m leaving him. I’m leaving all of them— I’m leaving them because even though I thought they mattered, they don’t. You’re the one who really matters to me, and I should have known that from the start.” I take a breath, as I know I started rushing. “We can leave right now if you want, Jeremy. But let’s leave. Let’s leave together.”
I pause, trying to keep the character’s look of hopeful fear locked on my face while the panel reads Jeremy’s lines. A man clears his throat, then reads the response. “You can’t just walk away from all of it, Melissa. That’s not how love works.”
I open my mouth, prepared to give the next line, but then I freeze. That voice, it was deep and familiar and steady and—
Focus, I say, and move forward, shaking my head in response to my fictional lover. “That’s exactly how love works. That’s how I love you. That’s how we love each other.”
“Love doesn’t force you to isolate yourself. I never said we had to leave, Melissa. I just said you had to be with me— really be with me, instead of being with the distractions.”
I swallow, turn around and face the back of the stage, pacing toward it. It looks— I hope— like I’m especially in character, but really I’m just buying myself time to wipe the look of shock off my face. That voice— it sounds like Tyson. It sounds exactly like Tyson. When I spin back around I squint, trying to see the panel, but it doesn’t work. Am I imagining things?
The line, the line, say the next line. “We can’t be isolated when we’re together. That’s not how it works. And we don’t have to leave, then— I don’t care! Stay, leave, I just need to do it with you, whatever it is. I love you. I’ve loved you from the start. And I keep saying it, and you aren’t saying it back, and I’m beginning to think that I just offered to walk out on my life for nothing at all, and Jeremy—“ I stop, choking on the words, because there are tears in my eyes. They’re not for dramatic effect— they’re real, because that voice has sent a lifetime’s worth of memories flooding back into me.
“Do you need the line?” the voice asks. It’s gentle. It’s kind. But it’s also steady, and calm, and hard, and it’s him. I know it’s him. I close my eyes and shake my head.
“…To walk out on my life for nothing at all, and Jeremy, stop looking at me like that! What are you staring at? What do you want?” I finish, my fingers shaking. I hear movement from the house, then footsteps, but I don’t know where to look— until a shadow swings his legs over the edge of the stage, then rises. Tall, broad shouldered, confident, walking toward me without the slightest hint of doubt. I hear a murmur of confusion ripple though the girls behind me. Tyson is silhouetted until he’s only a few feet from me, at which point his eyes suddenly become visible, locked on mine.
“I want to kiss you, Melissa,” he says, finishing the scene. “That’s all I ever want to do.”
That’s it— the scene is over— but we’re staring at one another, and I feel the tears on my cheeks bounce away when my lips curl into a smile. Tyson returns it, and steps forward, taking my hand and pulling me tight to him in front of everyone. He presses his face against the side of my head and whispers, so that only I can hear, “I want to kiss you, Anna. That’s all I ever want to do.”
“People are watching,” I answer shakily.
“I know. I should never have cared that people were watching,” he says, and then pulls back, tips my chin up, and kisses me. The girls behind me snicker, Trishelle whoops from the audience, and I have no idea if on stage kissing is allowed during the audition process, but all I care about is the way Tyson’s arms are squeezing me tighter, lifting my feet off the floor, protecting me, holding me, having me.
“Hey! You forgot these!” a familiar voice— Trishelle— hisses from the front of the stage. I can barely see her, but suddenly a bouquet of flowers comes skidding across the stage toward me. Tyson stoops to pick them up, then hands them to me.
“Wait, what?” I ask, taking th
em, more confused than ever.
“Trishelle told me I should surprise you today,” he says, smiling. “I just came to bring you the flowers. When you switched scenes at the last moment…well…I know a good thing when I see it.”
“Trishelle! That’s why she was so on edge! Clever,” I say, shaking my head. “I owe her.”
“We owe her,” Tyson says, kissing my temple. “I love you, Anna.”
I flush, nodding my head. “I love you too.”
And he kisses me again, and again, until I know that it’s always been true.
Epilogue
“I’m just glad you let us choose our own dresses,” Trishelle says to me, smoothing down the front of her lavender bridesmaids dress. I gave them— Trishelle, two of my cousins, and Tyson’s sisters-in-law, Ashlynn and Astrid, are all wearing lavender dresses, but they’re all slightly different. The idea of forcing my friends into outfits I chose isn’t really my thing, so I just gave them a color and told them to buy whatever dress they want. They all look gorgeous, and the slight variations in the lavender fabrics means when they stand together they look less like a girl band and more like a bouquet of flowers.
“Speak for yourself. I went through like twenty dresses before I found one that fit right,” Ashlynn— Sebastian’s wife— says. “Fitting anything over this is a nightmare.” She gestures to her belly. She’s actually only a few months pregnant, but has already reached the stage where total strangers feel comfortable commenting that she’s “about to pop”. Three people at the wedding reception have said it already. I’m pretty sure that the fourth person who says it is actually going to get popped— with the back of her hand.
Despite getting engaged the same day as my college graduation, Tyson and I’s wedding was a long while coming. First were the logistics; Tyson didn’t go pro as a player, but as a businessman and recruiting consultant.
It meant we had a generous budget, but also meant we had to schedule everything around football season— especially since Sebastian and Carson’s pro contracts were renewed. I’d never in a million years have thought football would have such a profound impact on my life, but one glance around the room proves it true— the place is packed with teammates, hulking guys whose suits were surely custom made, and the groom’s cake is in the shape a football field, complete with marzipan players ready for the snap. It’s ridiculous. I love it.
The second reason the wedding was so long coming? Tyson’s parents. Dennis Slate is in jail, and from the looks of it, will be for a long while. Tyson’s mother was furious with all three of her sons for “abandoning” their dad, and refused to speak to any of them for over a year.
Tyson was the one that finally broke the ice, driving all three of them to her house and reminding her that they were still her sons, and they weren’t going to abandon her— no matter how angry she was with them. Mrs. Slate still looked worried and tiny, like she doesn’t know how to exist in a world without her tall, strong husband by her side, but she’s here, and she’s smiling, and she even helped us with a little of the planning.
It’s not perfect— but then, nothing is.
“I thought you were throwing the bouquet next,” Tyson says, stepping up to the cloister of bridesmaids around me.
“She is. We’re just trying to convince her to hand it to me straight away,” Trishelle says. Tyson rolls his eyes at her good-naturedly.
“Are you really not doing the garter?” Carson says, walking up behind his brother. He looks genuinely offended, and also like he thinks he might be able to convince us to put the garter toss back in right here, right now.
“Just because I like to kiss my wife in public doesn’t meant I want to undress her in public. Especially not in front of my family,” Tyson says, shoving his brother playfully. The word hums in my hears— wife. I’m his wife. He’s my husband. We made it. Carson and Tyson pretend to scuffle for a moment; Carson eventually gets Tyson in a headlock.
“This is why you don’t mess with your older brother, Ty,” Carson says.
“That’s it. I’m telling the team to trade you,” Tyson says from the headlock. Carson laughs and releases him, and I grin, then look over to Trishelle.
“Hey— you’re right. It oughta go straight to you,” I tell her, and she squeals in delight as I hand the bouquet to her. I then step forward to adjust Tyson’s tie, even though it barely needs it— I just want an excuse to touch him.
“How’s your night going, Anna Slate?” he asks, gazing down at me.
I look up, then stand on my tip toes to kiss him. “I’d give it an eight.”
“Only an eight?” Tyson asks, looking surprised. “Is this because we didn’t get those swans your mom wanted? I just don’t understand why we need swans waddling around the entryway. Swans are mean ass birds.”
I laugh loudly, and Tyson’s face lights up at the sound, like my laugh is oxygen in his lungs. “No,” I say, composing myself. “Only an eight because it’s not over yet. Tonight…tonight, after the wedding, that’s your chance to take it to a ten.”
Tyson growls deep in his throat, then kisses me deeply. “Believe me, I intend to. Tonight you’re all mine, Anna.”
I kiss him back and bite my lip, already looking forward to whatever he has in store. “I’ve been yours since I met you, Tyson Slate.”
THE END
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And now, continue reading for the steamy excerpt from Paige North’s Hard Stick!
Excerpt: Hard Stick by Paige North
1
Crud.
This is definitely not how I pictured my first night in Boston would go.
I’ve been planning it so carefully since I applied to transfer over a year ago. I did intensive research to find the perfect apartment close to Cambridge College’s main building, which houses the psych classrooms. I budgeted for even the tiniest eventualities, calculating exactly how much the cab fare would be from Logan International Airport, taking absolutely every possibility into account.
Except the possibility of losing the key to my new apartment.
I crouch on the landing outside the door and start pulling things out of my backpack. Trident gum, yep. Wallet, yep. Phone, yep. Piles of tissues my mom insists I must have on my person at all time? Yep.
But no cruddy key.
I reach into the pockets of my jean shorts, but nothing. I peer in every nook and hidden cranny belonging to my jacket and suitcase. Empty.
I swear, I had it, when I was getting ready to step off the plane. I’d gazed out at the big city, clutched it in my sweaty little death-grip, thinking, Okay, Savannah. You’re a worldly Boston girl, now. This is where you grow up and stop being little Miss Innocent from Podunk, Nowhere.
Then I promptly . . . what? What the heck did I do with it? I cringe, thinking that maybe I’d tossed it away with my wrapper and balled-up cocktail napkin when the flight attendant came around with the trash bag.
Shoot. I bet that’s what I did.
Worldly Boston Girls probably have enough sense to hold on to their keys.
I jiggle the door handle of the apartment, but it stays put. Then I knock. No answer, obviously, because my roommate, Jen the Swimmer from Connecticut (that’s all I’ve learned about her during our three phone conversations), isn’t arriving until tomorrow. I lean over the railing and try to peer inside the window, but the narrow blinds are closed tight.
Shooty shoot shoot.
A bunch of people pass me on the street, but no one even looks at me, much less asks to help. Funny, as much as I wanted to get the heck out of Podunk, I have to admit Podunkians were at least a lot nicer. These people seem like they wouldn’t so much as stop and glance at me if I were on fire.
Pulling my blonde hair up into a messy
bun, I finally go for my cell. But who can I call? Not Brandon. He would tell me to get my naïve butt back to Ohio, stat. Not my parents. As proud as they are that I’m the first Shaw to go to college, they didn’t understand why their precious daughter had to go to a big, bad city to do it. Plus, they’re all eight-hundred miles away. Who else? The only person I know in this city is Professor Morgan, and what would I say? Hi, it’s your new research assistant, Savannah Shaw. The one whose resume wowed you with how organized and responsible she was? Well, I’ve already screwed up and surely there will be many more mistakes forthcoming . . .
I shove the phone back in my pocket and stare forlornly at the heap of brand-new luggage (my parents’ present to me) on the dirty sidewalk. The steaming August day is dwindling into a humid night, the sun starting to slip behind the brownstones across the street. I need to get myself to bed so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for my first day at work tomorrow.
I am not going to sleep out here. Mom would blow a gasket.
I kick the door so hard with my flip-flopped foot that I probably fracture my big toe. Pain screams up my leg, but the door doesn’t even respond. So I start pummel it, with all my might, with both fists. “Darn you, door! Just open!”
Nope, nothing. Exasperated, I give it one last shove, then start to slump against it when a voice from on the sidewalk says, “Surprised that didn’t work for you.”
I raise my eyes to a man and my heart clenches in my chest. I’m sure I’ve never seen anyone quite like him back in Ohio, because I’d remember. Brilliant, crystal-blue eyes stare back at me, half-shielded from the dying light of the sun by a low Sox cap, screwed down tight over his forehead. He’s wearing dark jeans and a long-sleeved Bobcats t-shirt despite the heat, but it doesn’t matter because everything is stretched so tight over his muscles that you can’t help but picture what’s underneath.