A. Jackson - When We Met

“That’s incredibly cool that you’re helping your family,” I said lamely.

He looked into my eyes as if searching for something—maybe pity—but I showed him none. All I felt at this point was admiration. Had I taken the time to get to know him earlier, I would’ve realized that he was kind of special.

“My truth is that I had to drop my classes to help with my mom’s mounting medical bills. Insurance only paid for thirty days of rehab and she needed to continue outpatient treatment.”

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.”

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?