Page 65 of Never Been Matched
I make my way up the aisle, heading to the bathroom for a moment of peace before getting back to work. The lobby fills quickly, people lingering to talk, to laugh, to grab last-minute photos before heading out into the cold.
I get pulled into a dozen conversations, mostly compliments, some questions, and everyone wanting to know what the plan is for the next show.
The next show.
The thought is both thrilling and terrifying. By the time the crowd thins, my feet ache, and my voice is hoarse.
Daphne is corralling volunteers. Jack disappears to the theater to help with the cleanup.
Through the chaos, I catch a glimpse of Spencer near the door, shrugging into his coat, Audrey bundled up beside him.
Daphne is dropping me off when we’re done, so they shouldn’t wait for me. Lord knows how long it will be.
They step out into the night together, the door swinging shut behind them.
My chest tightens, but I shrug it off.
It means nothing. They aren’t into each other. They’re going back to the same place, the same place I’ll be going when I’m done here.
I turn my attention back to empty cups, stray popcorn, and discarded props.
There’s still work to do.
It’s not until I’m locking the theater doors that it hits me. I never said goodbye to Graham or saw him leave.
It’s late by the time I return, almost one in the morning.
When I push open the door, a lamp glows in the front room.
Spencer is stretched out on the sofa, one arm draped along the back, a file open in his lap. He looks up, something in his expression easing when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” There’s a responding tug in my chest. I pull my jacket tighter around my flimsy dress. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
“I know.” He closes the file and sets it aside, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. “I had to drive three people home. I’m not sure how they got so hammered.”
I sigh. “Peggy.”
“She had one small flask.”
“She had three.”
“Oh.”
We share a look, and then we both laugh. It’s like we’ve done this before, sat around at the end of a long day, trading stories, laughing over the same people.
I shift in my heels.
He pushes to his feet. “Please, sit. Or . . . do you want the letter now, or did you want to wait until tomorrow?”
“I’ll take it now.”
Because there’s no way I’m sleeping without knowing what fresh hell Beverly has planned for me next.
He disappears into the back room. A few seconds later, he’s back, envelope in hand.
He hands it to me.
Our fingers brush.
