Page 20 of Broken Romeo
To anyone else, that may have seemed like a standard curt reply from a prickly director. But I know Holden. I know his ticks. I know his tells. And I know when someone’s gotten under his skin.
I’m not sure what has happened between him and Nolan, but there’s a story there. And I’m determined to unearth whatever bad blood is between them.
When Holden finally speaks again, he’s regained some of his composure. “For the next two weeks, rehearsals will begin at nine a.m. sharp, except for Sunday when we begin after lunch at one p.m. After our regular rehearsal ends, you’ll have a thirty-minute break, and then you and I will begin the deep character training in the evenings. Yes?”
I nod. Happily. The more hours we work, the more I get paid. Then, even if after these two weeks he doesn’t cast me, maybe, just maybe, I’ll have enough to buy me more time with Ms. Greene.
With a lithe jump, he hops down off the stage.
“One more thing,” he says, and I hate the measured tone of his voice. I’m beginning to recognize it more and more as I spend time with him. “It’s probably best that no one knows we used to date. Wouldn’t want them thinking that’s why you got this part.”
His words sting, but I don’t let him see that. “I wasn’t planning on telling anyone.”
He’s already turned his back on me and is sweeping down the center aisle toward the back door.
It takes every ounce of effort not to walk out on him. It’s not like I expect him to shout it from the rooftop that we used to date, but him wanting to keep us a secret punches a bruise I didn’t even realize I had.
I glare at the cover of his journal, still clutched in my white-knuckled grip.
My anger extinguishes the fear and pain that had been lingering like a whisper at the edges of my mind all rehearsal.
I don’t plan on telling anyone about Holden’s and my relationship…
But I’m no one’s dirty secret.
And I’ll be damned if Holden expects me to lie for him…
Again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Holden
Five Years Ago…
I was two credits short of graduating.
Two fucking credits.
Dad’s shout echoed through the phone. “How could you let this happen?”
“I’m handling it,” I ground out through clenched teeth as I stuffed fallen books from the backseat of my car into my backpack. I paused, my hand hovering over my journal—a cheap composition book I’d bought from CVS. I wasn’t typically a journal-keeping guy, but over the summer, my therapist was insistent that I try it.
Do I bring this stupid journal to class with me? What if someone sees it?
With a cigarette dangling from my lips, I sighed and shoved the journal deep into my bag. Maybe I’d be able to get my daily bullshit entry done in a boring part of class.
Key fob in hand, I locked my car in the student lot, then hurried down the sidewalk while zipping up my backpack.
“Handling it?” Dad asked. “Handling it like I thought you were handling your schedule last year? This is your senior year. Your final year to play football. You’re supposed to start applying to law school for Christ’s sake, Holden!”
I inhaled one final drag from my cigarette before tossing it in the ashcan and climbing the cement steps to Turner Hall. This right here was why I’d avoided this call until I’d worked out all the details.
“What the fuck happened?” Dad shouted when I didn’t answer him right away.
My mom’s muffled voice drifted in from the background. “Honey, please.”
I had no doubt she was laying on our leather couch with a wet washcloth across her eyes and a martini in hand.