Read My Lips (A College Obsession Romance) (31 page)

When the curtains close, I feel weightless.

I breathe the deepest sigh of relief.

Eric’s hand fumbles for mine as I grip it tight for the curtain call, taking my bow with the rest of the cast. Applause rushes over me in waves, filling my ears as the tears fill my eyes.

Not to sound all conceited or anything, but I’m really proud of myself. I’m, like,
really
damn proud of myself.

The curtains drop again, and Eric reels around and gives me the biggest, bone-crunching squeeze, then he squeals and says, “Oh, what a killer opening night! Dessie, that was just the
best!
”

“You were great,” I tell him.

“You know, the key to acting drunk …” he starts as we head back to the dressing rooms.

“Yes! Is to
not
act drunk! And you know what? I took that advice, so my secret was, I tried to suck really bad,” I explain to him, “in hopes that I would fail at sucking and, thus, do a decent job of Emily.”

He stops outside the women’s dressing room. “I think you did a more-than-decent job. Great leg-breaking, Dessie.” He gives me a little peck on the cheek, then giggles. “I can’t wait to see Dmitri after! Oh,” he says suddenly, his smile breaking. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, no,” I assure him. “Please. They’re roommates. It doesn’t—”

“I know, but still, y’know.” He bites his lip, shuffling his feet.

“Are you two a thing?” I prompt him with a nudge to his side. “You and Dmitri?”

Eric shrugs. “Not really. I think we make better friends. He’s sort of an oddball. I guess I kinda am too, but I don’t know. If he met a girl or another guy, I think I’d be more happy for him than jealous, if you get what I mean.”

I rub his shoulder encouragingly. “I do. You’re a good person, Eric. Oh, by the way, Vicki and I are totally talking again.”

“I heard! Don’t let her catch you calling her that or else it’s all over again,” he teases me.

“Sure thing,
Other Eric
.” I wink at him, then rush back into the dressing room to avoid him smacking me.

After washing all the makeup off my face, I slip out of Emily’s skin and jump into my post-show outfit: a sleek, black sleeveless dress cut just above the knee. I pair it with some cute flats (because after doing a whole play,
fuck heels
), then run a brush through my hair to tame it at least a little bit before I confront my family—and whatever insanity is likely to accompany it.

The walk down the halls from the dressing room to the lobby is longer than usual, as if the halls were made of elastic and stretched themselves to twice their usual length. I find a tangle of nerves in my stomach, as if I were still anticipating tonight’s performance.

Maybe the
real
show hasn’t begun yet.

When the doors to the lobby open, a torrent of noise crashes into me long before any faces do. I gently ease my way through the crowd, hoping to be making my way toward my parents, wherever the hell they are in this madness—if they’re even out here. For all I know, they were escorted out a side door or advised to stay in the auditorium until the worst of the crowd dispersed.

Then a sea of heads part and I see my parents.

My mother looks fabulous as usual, her hair perfectly curled and bound up tight to her skull, which shows off her glinting earrings and inhumanly long, slender neck. She wears a deep-plunging blue dress adorned in sparkly gems that gain density near the floor. At her side is my father, who was sensible enough to wear a humble sweater vest with a button shirt gently poking out of the neck. His sandy-blond hair is parted neatly, which is a welcome departure from the usual mess he keeps it in. He notices me first and lets a big grin take his face before he opens his arms.

“Dessie,” he sings through the noise of the crowd.

I hug him, squeezing so tight it hurts. “Thanks for coming, Dad.”

“Wouldn’t have dared miss it, sweetie,” his voice empties into my ear, strained from how tightly we’re hugging.

My mother’s locked into a conversation with Doctor Thwaite, her voice as loud and sparkly as her dress. She has a hand lightly affixed to her chest as the other waves in the air in time to her endless speech.

On the other side of the Doc, I belatedly notice my sister. She’s blindingly beautiful in her glittery skintight dress, which looks like it was cut directly from a block of diamond.

“Cece?”

Her smile is tight as a vise when she bends into me for the world’s stiffest hug.

“Well done,” she moans into my ear in that perfect English dialect. The way she says it, it’s like she’s commending a toddler for scribbling a circle with orange curlicues around it and calling it a lion.

“Thanks, Cece,” I say anyway. “I didn’t realize you all were coming.”

“Of course. And,” she adds with a lift of her eyebrows, her dialect still unbroken, “I do expect you to get your tush on a plane and see me when
my
show opens.”

Pleasantries and congratulations and thanks are shared over and over as members of the crowd slowly make their way around, whether by kindly asking my mother for an autograph or by complimenting my performance. With each thanks, my heart swells bigger and bigger.

“It is quite loud here, isn’t it?” my mother notes to me before she even offers her own congratulations. “Do you think we could move into one of the back hallways where it’s a touch quieter?”

Of course I oblige, because that’s what anyone does when Winona Lebeau asks for something. Doctor Thwaite bids them a farewell and a safe flight home before the four of us slip into the hallway that leads back to the dressing rooms, classrooms, and offices.

“Dessie,” my mother finally says, bending to give me a little kiss on either of my cheeks. “You sweet thing. Have you conquered your little pond yet? It’s such a delight to see you on that stage.”

She is so artful at coupling a biting, backhanded compliment with an actual one. “I didn’t find this pond to be all that little.”

“It’s a decent place to grow into the shark you need to be for when you come home and try your hand at more professional endeavors,” my mother clarifies helpfully, tapping on her phone. “Oh, Geoffrey, Lucille won’t be able to make the appointment tomorrow.”

Cece sighs at our mother—even her
sighs
are English. “Quit trying to force poor Desdemona into doing something she doesn’t want to do. There’s room for all sorts of actors in this world. Some like the bite and the fight of the north. Some like the calm and the palms of the south.” She smirks cheekily at me. “I came up with that one on my own.”

I bite my lip, unsure whether this is a fight I want to pick or not.

Then my dad says something unexpected. “I think what your mom and sister are trying to tell you, sweetheart, is that you did a very fine job tonight, and you should be damn proud of yourself. And,” he adds, throwing an arm around me and yanking me into him for a side-hug, like I’m the son he never had and just won the ballgame, “I appreciate you, Dessie. I’m alive and I want to appreciate every little moment while I’m able to.” He kisses the top of my head. “Job well done.”

I survey the expressions of my mother and sister. For this brief moment, my mother’s still gripping her phone, but her eyes are on me, and my sister’s wearing that annoyingly tight and uncomfortable smile, but she also seems to look upon me with a sweetness that’s so rare, I thought she outgrew it at age ten.

“Thanks,” I tell them. “All of you. It means so much, really, truly. Oh, Mom,” I blurt suddenly. “You got a program, right?”

She pops open her purse and fishes it out. “This thing?”

Yes, that folded piece of nothing-paper
. My mom’s so used to the professionally printed playbills that she likely hasn’t seen a folded paper program since 1996. “Can you do me a favor?” I ask her. “Sign your name on it, then write, ‘To Victoria,’ and put something inspiring. It’s for my hall mate.”

She smirks knowingly, then takes out a pen from her purse and scribbles dramatically on the paper. When she hands it to me, the front reads:
To Victoria, something inspiring. A friend of Dessie’s is a friend of mine. Winona Lebeau
.

I smile, clutching that program close. My mother’s sense of humor is still alive after all.

“I really wish we had more time, you sweet thing,” murmurs my mother, “but the car and driver are waiting outside for us to catch the red eye back to New York. Your sister and I are heading to London Monday and have so many things to get done this weekend before we set off, but we couldn’t
bear
to miss your opening night.”

“I know,” I mutter miserably. Funny, I was dreading them coming, and now I’m dreading them going.

“We will see you soon for winter break,” my father murmurs quietly to me, “and I do promise, I won’t meddle. No special treatments. If it’s your wish to stay here at Klangburg, you have my support.”

“Thanks,” I say back, unable to help the feeling that something is missing from this whole pleasant experience.

“Geoffrey, we’ll miss our flight.”

“Oh, honey,” he sighs with mock annoyance. “Can’t we waste a few more dear minutes with our daughter?” He brings me in for another tight hug, then says, “And do give my props to the lighting designer.”

I smirk into my dad’s chest. “He took off back to New York with his tail tucked, I’m afraid.”

“The
other
lighting designer,” he amends.

My forehead screws up in confusion.
Clayton?
But before I’m able to ask the question, he pulls away and my mother and sister are given room to float forth for their stiff farewell hugs and birdlike kisses. Then, not two moments later, I’m standing outside the glass windows and waving goodbye as they disappear into the night like three peculiar ghosts, my heart heavy and my eyes suddenly deciding they want to spill all that emotion I was supposed to have onstage.

A pretty chime from my pocket startles me, disrupting the calm of the night breeze. I look down at the screen.

SAM

sorry i didn’t see you

after the show.

we waited around for a bit

but you were with your family.

thank you for the tickets.

tomas is cool, i guess.

we are at the dorm.

please knock if you come back.

i think he might kiss me.

i dunno.

I giggle, staring at the text. I’m so happy for Sam that I could cry.

I’m a second from putting my phone away when suddenly it starts to ring. I stare at it defiantly. Someone’s calling me? Who the hell uses phones anymore to actually
call
someone? I bring it into view and find my dad’s headshot staring back at me.

I bring it to my ear. “Did you forget something?”

“Your mother was in such a hurry to leave, I did forget something. It was something I wanted to tell you.”

I hear my mother scoff at him in the background. “I wasn’t in a hurry,
Geoffrey
, but if you’re just so desperate to miss our flight …”