Page 48 of Never Been Matched
She looks up and blinks, like she’s coming out of a daze. “Hey.”
My shoulders relax for the first time since the sun went down.
She’s fine.
Her hair is pulled back from her face in a messy bun, blond tendrils floating around her face. Her jeans have a dirt smudge on the thigh, her gray hoodie looks like it’s seen better days, but she’s still the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Thought you could use a ride so you aren’t walking in the dark. It’s below freezing out there.”
“Thank you.” She looks back down at the photos. “I lost track of time.”
I crouch next to her, picking up a Polaroid of Beverly, no more than fifty, with a younger version of Peggy. They’re standing on a red carpet in shimmery black and blue sequined gowns with their arms around each other, faces wreathed in smiles.
“This is amazing.”
“Look at this one.” She hands me another photo, a larger group one. This one must have been Halloween. There’s a Frankenstein, a mummy, Elvira, Beetlejuice, a Ghostbuster . . . must have been the ’80s.
“This is great.”
“I loved this room as a kid. Beverly would give me the key after my chores every day.” She lifts the gold skeleton key from the floor. “Getting the key felt like a gift, every time, like going through the closet to Narnia.”
Above our heads, fairy lights are strung across the ceiling and woven between exposed beams, casting a golden haze over the room.
It’s a little cooler here than the rest of the theater. Rows of metal shelving line the walls, each stacked with film canisters in varying sizes, their labels handwritten in fading ink. Some are neatly organized. Others are scattered and tilted, like someone started a system but only got halfway done.
There isn’t much furniture, just a small couch pushed over to the side.
“There’s a hidden passageway in here. It goes from here to the projection room, and then out to the theater, did you know?”
“I didn’t know.”
I’m not surprised there is also a secret passageway. The whole theater is part archive, part treasure trove, and part magic. Kind of like Beverly.
Vivien follows my gaze upward, her head tilting back. “Beverly always believed any space where you spent significant time should feel magical. She used to tell me you should only keep things that bring you joy. Decorate your life with them. Surround yourself with them.” A smile tugs at her lips. “She’d say, ‘What else is there to do with your one big, beautiful life?’ ”
I settle down on the ground next to her. “She was definitely full of life. Loud about it too. The first time I met her, I was maybe ten? My parents brought me by the theater for something, and she decided I looked too serious.”
She considers me. “I bet you dressed like a tiny Mr. Rogers.”
I huff out a quiet laugh. “You’ve been enjoying my sweater vests?”
“Enjoy is a strong word,” she teases.
“Next thing I know, she’s dragging me up onto the stage and making me do improv with her in front of a half-full audience.”
Vivien laughs. “What did you do?”
I grimace. “It was a nightmare. I completely froze. Couldn’t think of a single word. But she just asked me questions, worked around me, with me, until I found my voice and could play along. Afterward, she told me I needed to loosen up. Said life was too short to stand on the sidelines all the time.”
Vivien’s smile softens. “She was right.”
“She usually was. Then she got me to sign up for a jazz class. After a lot of convincing.”
She chuckles. “She taught me how to tap. It didn’t take much convincing.”
“Really?”
“I loved Calamity Jane so much, I can probably still remember all the words to ‘Just Blew in from the Windy City.’ ”
