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Read My Lips(60)

By:Daryl Banner


Maybe I have a soured secret or two of my own that I’m not sure I want to expose Clayton to just yet.

I set my sandwich down, type something into my phone, then give a little wave, drawing his attention back to see the contents of my screen:



I don’t know why Kellen’s here.

On Monday I found out that

Victoria knows who I am

and now

I’m afraid between the two of them,

everyone will find out

:( :(



He frowns at the message, then pulls out his own phone and, after cramming the last bite of his first fish fillet, types:



U’re cute when u’re pissed.



To that, I glare at him.

He chuckles, full-mouthed, then puts a reassuring hand on top of mine and gives it a rub. The very next second, he seems to think that the gesture was too much and quickly retracts his hand, swallowing hard before starting on his second sandwich.

The gesture wasn’t too much. It granted a much-needed warmth to the coldness I’ve felt since leaving the theater.

But it doesn’t quite ease my uncertainty about our hot-and-cold weekend. I type, then lift my screen:



Are you going to explain

Sunday’s silence

or what?



His sandwich lowers to the table, a surrender, and his face hardens. He swallows his bite, meets my eyes, then says a couple words too quietly.

“Louder,” I urge him.

He leans partway over the table, propped up by his elbows, his arms bulging as he does. “I was a coward,” he murmurs. His lips this much closer to me, I could just lean in as much as he is and kiss him right now. “Been a while since I’ve been with a girl.”

“Me too,” I mouth.

His face wrinkles. “You’ve been with a girl?”

I slap his arm, pushing him away with a laugh. He doesn’t budge, the stone statue that he is.

“That’s kinda hot,” he teases me.

“So we’ve both been alone for a while,” I mutter.

He nods resolutely.

“And we’re both … kinda scared … of each other?” I suggest, speaking slowly.

He shrugs, then nods at that, too.

His shoulders are so big and he looks so delicious in that tight-fitting shirt, the fabric pulling across his chest distractingly. His eyes are alight with interest and his lips … his lips are right fucking there.

Then he says, “You two dated, didn’t you.”

It isn’t quite a question, more of an accusation. I press my lips together, unsure if he’s actually asking, or just trying to playfully get a rise out of me again. I smack his arm again, harder than before, and earn a little Clayton-brand smirk of amusement.

Then I decide, of all things, to torture him. I type into my phone, then shove it right in his face. He has to back away a bit to read it:



No.

But he did kiss me.

I think he wanted to get

closer to my dad through me.

I felt used.

He also had a hot girlfriend

in the cast

that I didn’t know about.

I don’t think very highly of him.



Clayton’s chest puffs up after reading that, his jaw tightening. An odd look of validation crosses his face. “Thought something was off about him,” he says.

I smirk. “Yeah? Smelled all the lies and deceit he was drenched in?”

Clayton takes a sip of his drink, then says, “Truth is, I resent him being …” He swallows, rubs his ear, then finishes, “I resent the fucker being here. I wanted to design the lights for the main stage show. He took that job from me.”

A shiver of worry reenters my mind as I listen to him. It was first born the moment I recognized Kellen at the theater, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what bothered me so much until just now. My father mentored Kellen like a little lighting-god protégé. Did my father have anything to do with Kellen showing up out of nowhere to design lights for the show?

And is that connected with “the string” my father pulled in getting me into this Theatre program?

Am I the reason Clayton’s opportunity was stolen?

Just like I’m the reason Victoria’s chance at a lead was swiped out from under her ready, able hands?

Is there anything my arrival here hasn’t ruined?

“Dessie?”

I look up, realizing that I’d gone silent. I don’t know if he said anything else, so lost in my own dark hurricane of anxiety that I wasn’t paying attention.

“Sorry,” I mutter, shaking away my worries. Only time will answer my questions—time and an overdue phone call to my dad. “I resent him, too.”

A question seems to glimmer in Clayton’s eyes, but he doesn’t ask it, drawing his sandwich back up to his lips to take another mouthful as I watch, a mixture of longing and doubt swimming inside me as I wonder if Clayton’s pieced it together himself. Does he already suspect I have anything to do with Kellen’s arrival?