Page 32 of Dream On

I’m not looking forward to today’s run-through. It’s the first intimate scene between Satine and Christian in the Elephant Room, where I mistake him for the Duke of Monroth, who is played by Jameson. The bit is filled with playful and comedic moments, but my mood is more aligned with agitated and glum.Granted, it will be a testament to my acting abilities—pretending to be smitten over the boy who trampled all over my heart last Friday like a herd of angry elephants.

Fitting, I suppose.

“I’m excited to watch this scene,” Misty says, pulling open the door for us as she smacks her gum between her teeth. “Lex should perform it naked. Kind of an avant-garde portrayal, you know?”

Jameson grumbles. “I don’t understand the appeal.”

“Lies.”

“The guy has no facial expressions or personality. How is that attractive?”

“Your standards are way too high.”

Their bantering is background noise as the stage looms before me. Lex is already inside, sitting against the far wall with his crumpled script and veiled scars. He doesn’t look up when we shuffle inside, even though the door booms shut and everyone else turns to watch us enter. Mr. Hamlin sends me a noncommittal wave as he moves around the stage floor in his neon-red suspenders. He’s already worn red, so I guess that means he’s starting over.

I lift my chin with faux confidence and strut down the aisle, tossing a quick goodbye over my shoulder to Misty as Jameson and I head to the front.

“Welcome,” Mr. Hamlin calls out to us, moving with his usual brand of chaotic pacing. “Join us.”

Lex stands, his back grazing the wall as he rises like it’s too much effort without something solid to support him.

I force a smile and climb the steps, my feet echoing through the sweeping room.

“Over here, Stevie.” Mr. Hamlin motions me into position, then points to the space across from me and snaps his fingers. “Lexington, right here.”

As much as I want to avoid eye contact, I need to maintain character, need to spin my anxiety into art, my pain into precision. This show is big, and it’s bigger than Lexington Hall and my bruised ego. My gaze flicks to Lex as he takes his place in front of me. He looks away.

“Hmm.” Our director massages his chin, drinking in our strange dynamic. “This energy won’t do. Maybe we should—”

Lex interrupts. “I’m ready to start.”

Mr. Hamlin studies Lex’s green-and-violet bruise, his butterfly bandage, his twitchy hands and unsettled eyes. “All right then,” he finally relents. “Take it from the top. Christian is led to the Elephant Room under the guise of the duke.” He takes a step back and gives us the stage.

My heartbeats fumble for a steady rhythm. Clearing my throat, I shoot off some lines, but they fall out stunted, lacking vibrancy.

“Again,” Mr. Hamlin says.

I try again. My pitch heightens, and my arms wave with added gusto, but it’s not enough. The words sound hollow. I notice Mr. Hamlin begins to step forward in my peripheral vision, and I’m about to start over, but Lex intervenes, moving into his follow-up lines.

His mood changes. Transforms. I see the light flicker back on as he closes in on me, slipping into character. “I’m not who you think I am,” he states, vulnerability lacing his words. There’s an underlying trace of something else too. A subtle desperation.

My character questions his identity with a gasp; he’s deceived the star courtesan.

Lex steps toe-to-toe with me. “I’m not the duke. I’m Christian,” he says, explaining that he’s a writer, here to tell me about his songs and poetry. I feign outrage. Then he repeats his previous line for some reason: “I’m not who you think I am.”

I blink at him, waiting for him to proceed into the next bit of dialogue, anxious for my cue, because it’s so much easier to be standing here in front of him with his gaze boring into me, with his bruises and cuts, when we’re pretending to be different people.

Inhaling a breath, Lex continues. “I came here to tell you…I’m sorry.”

“How charm—” It takes a beat for me to realize that was not the correct line. He’s supposed to profess his love to me, not apologize. Lex breaks character, but he doesn’t break eye contact as he stares at me with a thousand weights reflected in his eyes.

I peer over at Mr. Hamlin, his brows knitted with confusion as he watches us from afar. He says nothing, allowing us to finish the disjointed scene as he scratches at his silver-peppered beard.

“You’re…sorry,” I murmur on a soft breath, my gaze skating back to Lex.

“Yes.” Lex takes another step forward, steepling his hands together. “I’m sorry. You’re more than just a courtesan.”

Double meaning lurks within his tone.