Beneath The Skin (A College Obsession Romance) (82 page)

I met her parents for the first time. Well, second time for her dad, but really, a chance meeting in a restroom pales in comparison to my getting to meet him officially at Dessie’s New York City home. The lights were drawn across the room like a fucking dream, and the tree in the living room spanned to the ceiling. It was
enormous
. I must’ve stood there for a full minute staring up at its awesome height. Dessie made some joke, asking with her hands if I was figuring out in my head how I’d light the tree differently.

It was in a warm, fire-lit gazebo on Christmas Eve that we had exchanged presents. She gifted me with a hot designer leather jacket that fit so perfectly, I’d swear it was handmade for me. Well, actually it kind of was. Dessie was sneaky about it. Swearing it was to practice for some costumes thing that Victoria was doing, she took all my measurements and, unbeknownst to me, sent them to a contact of her sister’s in New York—some up-and-coming fashion designer who spent eleven years in France after graduating from NYU—detailing precisely how she wanted this jacket to fit. And she got the style just right; I look like the perfect mix of up-to-no-good and sophisticated-as-fuck.

My gift to her was a charm bracelet I got for a steal at a pawn shop. It had the exact balance of beauty, fragility, and strength that I felt fit Dessie so perfectly. I’d adorned it with three charms: a musical note to represent her beautiful voice, a little light bulb to represent my visual voice, and a linked “C” and “D” that … well, they speak for themselves. I left room for more charms to be added on special occasions.

When I kissed her that New Year’s Eve, I’d never felt more complete. I was frigid as fuck and couldn’t feel my dick, but I watched that ball drop, I had Dessie in my arms, and I was the happiest man alive.

And then she dropped the L word on me.

For some reason, I didn’t return it. I felt it. I had it. I still have it, but couldn’t get that word past my frozen lips.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
The moment was
perfect
and I let it slip away.

Now, Dessie will be leaving to go back home when this semester’s over. And that’s just in six weeks. Six weeks I know will fly right the fuck by. Then, she’ll have an amazing summer in New York. She told me her sister’s latest “gorgeous boyfriend” also happens to be the owner of a chain of popular piano bars, and he was looking for a regular act to rotate through them over the summer. Of course, Dessie was Cece’s first—and perhaps only—recommendation.

What do I have to look forward to this summer? Cleaning pools. Landscaping work. Construction too, if I can work something out with Pete like I did last year. Anything to build up the funds for my fourth and final year. Normally, that sounds like bliss to me.

But the thought of staying here without Dessie … I feel so guilty, to be so fucking happy for her, yet torn apart inside.

I grip my good-show gift so tightly in my pocket, it hurts.

Brant busts through the glass doors, pulling me from my thoughts, and the first thing I notice is a red hand-shaped mark across his cheek. I squint at him, making the universal sign for “what the fuck, dude?” which doesn’t take a sign-language-inclined person to understand. He tells me that, just now, his girl from last week ran into his girl from
this
week, a slap or two ensued from one or both girls upon his sputtering face, and now he may or may not have an extra ticket to the show.

I shake my head and laugh, pulling Brant in for a hug and saying, “You’re one fucking mess, that’s for sure.” With a slap to his chest, I add, “I taught you how to talk to girls. Maybe I should have taught you how to keep it in your pants sometimes, too. Moderation and shit.”

He smirks at me, points to his red-as-a-tomato cheek, and says, “
With
this
pretty face?”

Just before the audience is given the five-minute get-your-asses-to-your-seats warning, Dmitri pops in and snatches Brant’s extra ticket. Together, they disappear into the theater, chatting away.

Oh, fuck. The five-minute warning.

My good-show gift.

She can’t start her show without my fucking gift.

Before I realize what I’m doing, I shove through the double doors leading down the back hallways to the dressing room. My feet carry me faster than I can keep up with them, stumbling twice as I make my way. My heart’s thrashing against the bone bars of my ribcage like an angry prisoner determined to break free.

My eyes blink when I reach the dressing room. Where is she?

I spot the backside of Victoria dressed in her costume for the show. I rush up to her and spin her around, her startled eyes meeting mine.

“Where’s Dessie?” I ask at once.

She mouths back: “
Onstage already
.”

Fuck. They must’ve already called places.

“Thanks,” I say, then smile tightly. “You look great. Break a leg.”

The next instant finds me at the stage door. I pull it open, ignoring the waving hands of someone behind me who may or may not be the stage manager as I fly into the wing, my eyes searching for my woman. I hunt through the darkness, pushing forth. Eyes and faces turn, the actors in the wings who are waiting for the show to start.

I want to cherish every moment I have with her. I ache at the idea that this is our last show together before the semester ends. My insides burn at the mere thought that when summer comes, Dessie goes, and I’ll have to spend three fucking months without her.

Every moment matters.

This is the opening of our show together—her as the voice to this show, and me as the bringer of light to her dark stage.

And I need to speak my piece. And I need to speak it now.

And she needs my good-show gift.

To badly misquote Emily-freakin’-Webb from
Our Town
, don’t us stupid living people know how precious each moment of our lives is? Even a lazy moment in my apartment, lounging on the couch with Dessie in my arms while we watch some dumb thing on TV? Even another everyday lunch we share in the UC cafeteria? Even a walk to class that we’ve walked a billion times before? Did I truly appreciate each of those seemingly insignificant moments before they slipped by?

Even now, tripping through the darkness backstage searching for my Desdemona. Even now as the final minutes tick away …

The final seconds …

I stand behind the curtain—
breathe in, breathe out—
as I fiddle with my bare wrist. My charm bracelet. I can’t fucking find it.

That beautiful bracelet he got me for Christmas.

I wear it for good luck every show—much to my costumers’ chagrin. Then yesterday before I left for rehearsal, I couldn’t find it.

I am so furious with myself.

But I have to focus right now. There’s an audience out there, a show to do, and a cast I can’t let down.

When I think about it, Claudio Vergas did a number or two on me. So did the absent Damien Rigby. And the little training-camp-getaway that was Italy, they planted a few seeds that I have come to appreciate. Every mistake I’ve made has strengthened me. Every crushing defeat and red-faced humiliation has served as a necessary stepping stone to reach this place, right here, in front of the curtain.

I don’t regret a single thing. Maybe I’ll even write Claudio a letter to thank him. I’ll send the letter with a package containing a brand new mug to replace the one he threw at my head.

The audience hums with anticipation. Their excitement feeds me, energy racing up and down my body as I wait for the curtain to rise.

“Dessie!”

I spin, my whole backstage universe knocked to the side. I blink through the semidarkness. “Clayton? What—What are you—?”

His hands grasp mine. “I’m so sorry, Dessie. I didn’t give you your good-show gift.”

I gawp, freeing my hands from his. “Are you serious?” I sign and say to him frantically, lit only by the indistinct blue wash of light onstage. “Clayton, the show’s about to begin!”

“They can’t start without me, now can they?” He chuckles, then extends his palm. “Give me your wrist.”

After a brief moment of hesitation, I sigh and surrender my bare wrist to him. He pulls something from his pocket, then gently attaches it to my wrist.

My charm bracelet!
But there’s something added to it. I lift my wrist to inspect the new charm. It’s a hand symbol. A fist presented with only the thumb, pinkie, and index fingers extended. It’s the sign for—

“I love you, Dessie,” he whispers.

I bring my eyes up to his, touched. “Clayton.”

“I couldn’t stand letting you go back to New York without telling you that I love you. I’m totally fucking in love with you. Maybe you already knew. I want to stop being a coward and just … fucking
say
it. And I want you to wear it. I want you to wear my love and … and think of me when … when you’re in those piano bars and you’re singing your beautiful fuckin’ heart out.”

I grab his hands, putting a halt to his frantic signing. He meets my eyes, his own wet with inspiration, with sadness, with several emotions.

Without words, I sign to him:
I wanted to tell you tonight after the show, but if you insist on doing this, well, Clayton, I guess we’re doing this right now.

He stares at me, taken aback. The intensity of his eyes sharpens as he awaits my hands’ next movements.

I tell him:
I know we talked about moving in together in the fall, but I don’t want to spend the summer without you either. My father wants to offer you an internship at his theater in New York.

Clayton’s eyes shimmer against the dim blue lighting, wide as the eyes of flashlights.

I continue:
You’d work alongside some seriously cool professionals up there. And yes, it’s a paid internship. It’s an amazing opportunity and it’s there for you … if you want it.

Clayton’s lips have parted as he stares at my hands in disbelief. I watch the warring thoughts race across his face in a matter of seconds. He doesn’t know what to think. I wonder if maybe I should’ve saved this piece of information for later like I’d planned.

He whispers, “I’m … I’m not a charity case for … for your—”

“No.” I pull his attention to my hands, then sign:
Clayton, this is not a handout. My father saw your work. He thinks you’re talented and really likes you. You remind him a lot of himself when he was young and had big ideas.

The stage manager hisses from the side of the stage that they’re ready to start the show. Words squawk at her through her headset, the static carrying to me.

Naturally, I ignore them. I have one more thing to say to my man.
And
—my hands carry on, bringing his bewildered, wide-eyed attention back to me—
for the record
…

I present my fist to him with the thumb, pinkie, and index finger extended. It’s the combination of an “I”, an “L”, and a “Y”—
I love you.

The next second, he rushes into me for a kiss. My lips crush into his hungry ones as his hands slip around my waist, pulling me against him with all his strength.

I’m pretty sure I hear some sighs of delight by my fellow castmates, who clearly have been watching and witnessing this whole exchange.

Let’s never mind that they have no idea what the fuck I was saying with my hands. That’s between me and this gorgeous man that I love.

When Clayton finally lets me go, he whispers to me, “Show time.”

“Light me up, love,” I return to him with a wink.

He departs through the wing. I face the curtains once again, but with a renewed sense of purpose. I can’t wipe the smile off my face as I grip my wrist, my fingers touching the new charm that rests there.

I don’t know what waits for us in our future. All I know is, Clayton Watts will be with me every step of the way, and I can’t fucking wait to experience every little exciting, precious moment of it. I can certainly tell our summer’s going to be a whirlwind of pursuing our passions.