I’m a little too busy looking at his face, but by the time I do, he’s running around the rope and stanchion (which I don’t think you’re allowed to do) and coming toward me.
“Marty!”
“You’re not my cousin,” I say. I’ve got to assume he knows this, but forming words is hard for … well, a few reasons right now. But he greets me with such instant familiarity that I ask, “Have we met?”
Which is the most ridiculous thing to say to this perfect creature. I’d have remembered us meeting. Trust me.
“Ha, no. We haven’t met, and you’re right—I’m not your cousin Shane. But I’m a friend of his!”
He’s got a great face, a perfect-yet-too-flawed-to-be-on-the-cover-of-GQ face with a faded scar above his right eye, patchy stubble, and one dimple that just won’t quit. Under the fluorescent lights, I see the slightest bit of pink brushing his otherwise light tan cheeks.
It’s like he just looks at me and I know I’m having my sexual awakening. (Not really; that crown goes to Ryan Reynolds in The Proposal. I had an early start.) But I can actually see his pecs through his sweater, and that’s a lot? I pull down my T-shirt. It’s a little short, and I’ve got zero abs there. I consider grabbing my hoodie to further cover up my flabby stomach, but it’s a little warm in here. And … I’m staring and not saying anything. Shit.
“Sorry. Um, zoning out. I didn’t get an ounce of sleep on that red-eye.”
I actually slept okay, but the spontaneous lie that leaves my mouth sounds better than “A combination of jetlag and infatuation has made me fall madly, immediately in love with you, random dude, because you smiled at me once. Yes, we can all see the red flags from here.”
I don’t even know his name.
“I’m Marty. Who are … and, um, sorry, why are you here?” I stretch out my hand to meet his. Mine’s sweaty, which shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, and his is dry and smooth.
“Right, a real introduction. Hi, Marty Pierce,” he says by way of introduction, then points at the sign he’s holding. “I’m Pierce, oddly enough. And a certain world-renowned stage production phoned Shane this morning about an audition. So he sent me instead.”
Silence creeps between us as I process what he said. My cousin finally got an audition? A real audition? A pang of jealousy hits me, and I curse myself for it. Shane’s been balancing a near-full-time job at a local bookshop with applications and rehearsals since he graduated in May.
But it’s what we decided to do together. We even joked about ending up in the same orchestra. The unease of doing this alone hits me, which fits in well with the unease I have about being so selfish about this.
“Les Mis,” he continues. “If that wasn’t clear.”
I nod, remembering the extensive application process it took to get him there. My chest starts to untangle when I think about how excited he must have been to finally get a call. The call.
“I hope that’s okay?” Pierce strikes me as someone who doesn’t enjoy silence.
“Yeah, of course. That’s amazing! I hope he gets it.”
“He deserves it,” Pierce says with a laugh. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I’m extremely jealous. I was in orchestra with him in secondary, and now I go to Knightsbridge Academy of Music just down the street from his place.”
“Oh, you go to the academy?” Meeting another musician calms me down a bit. It’s like we’ve already got this shared experience, even if we’ve never been in the same room. “What do you play?”
“Trumpet.” He looks away as he says it, then changes the topic. “You ready to go? Shane planned on hiring a minicab, but I was hoping we could take the tube? The subway, that is. And I could show you the academy—for when you describe the place to your parents. They still think you’re attending, right?”
“Oh. We’re going to take the train?”
That wasn’t in the plan.
I’m carrying a lot of shit, and I’m going to get left behind.
If I get lost, I will not be able to find my way without a working cell.
I want to appear to be chill and breezy, so I can’t not be okay with this.
We didn’t even take the tube the last time we were here. I knew I’d have to do it at some point, but not now. Not here.
I shrug, trying not to let the panic creep into my muscles.