I stare at the empty couch against the wall, wondering what it’d be like to find him here after a show, waiting to soothe the near panic that’s been simmering lately after the adrenaline rush wears off. Just one smile. That’s all it would take. One glimpse of that dimple in his cheek and the light in his eyes, and I’d be able to breathe again.
But he’s not here. I’m alone. Stranded on my gilded island that’s been steadily shrinking for weeks.
I grip the back of a chair in front of the wall of mirrors, trying to catch my breath. There’s no hope of that with the sticky reflection of a mannequin staring at me, so I quickly turn to lean my back against the stool instead. Crap, the other wall is mirrors too, and I clench my eyes shut, fighting the urge to smash them with my water bottle.
I have to get myself together. My mom is probably already on her way here to the dressing room, and I’m in no state to handle her right now. I’m lucky she wasn’t the one waiting on the couch.
It’s just a mirror. What is wrong with you? You’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times. They love you. Everyone loves you.
But they don’t. They don’t even know me. Where’s Hadley with my phone? I need my phone!
Breathe. You’re okay.
I count in my head, quickly at first, then intentionally slowing the pace to time each inhale and exhale. My therapist’s voice filters into my head. I visualize her calm expression as she explains anxiety and the many weapons at my disposal to battle it. I am in control.
I am in control.
I am in control.
Hadley’s signature knock brings a wave of relief, and I let it settle over me. Still balanced against the chair with my eyes closed, I force in more steady breaths.
“Gen? You okay? What is it?”
“Fine.” I release a long exhale to match the inhale.
I am in control.
“Here, drink this.” She hands me a custom tea blend designed to soothe my vocal cords and frayed nerves. I’m drinking it more often now, lately multiple cups when one is no longer enough to calm the storm. This isn’t my first bout with anxiety after a performance, and it’s been getting harder and harder to stave off the panic that always seems to buzz just below my breaking point. But I can’t break. I won’t. I am in control.
When I finally brave a look at Hadley, I don’t like the concern on her face. It means I’m not doing a good job with my mask anymore. She always reads me better than anyone, but usually it’s because I want to show her more than the others, not because I can’t hide it. A rush of panic surges through me at the terrifying thought that maybe I’m not in control. I swallow a gulp of tea to block it out.
“Do you have my phone?” I ask.
She pulls it from her pocket and hands it over.
“Thanks.”
“Your mom called. She ran into Loren Hollinger from Fleur Noir Magazine and will be late. This is the one Sam was—seriously, Gen, what’s going on?”
“Nothing!” I force a laugh and even wave my hand. “Tell her not to worry about meeting me back here. I’m going to shower at home tonight. One of the perks of a local show!” My joke is weak and doesn’t provide the distraction I was hoping for. I’ve totally lost the ability to fool Hadley. What about Oliver? Another person I can’t seem to fool. Speaking of, I stare down at the screen, filled with notifications, but none from him. Maybe I’m even disappointed by that. It would be crazy to call him, right? Of course. We just met. Then again…
“You’re not a popstar, Genevieve. You’re my friend.” Friends call each other. How did he know how badly I needed to hear that? So simple, and yet spoken with such honesty and a depth of understanding that it lodged deep in my heart. Am I really his friend? In that moment, I wanted that more than anything. Camille sounds amazing. What would it be like to live in such unconditional love? Love that lasts beyond a two-hour performance or terms of a contract.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and irritation melts into warmth at Oliver’s name.
How was your show? Looking forward to seeing you Wednesday.
“Man, he’s really got you hooked,” Hadley says, drawing me from my haze.
I glance up with a tight smile. “Who? What do you mean?”
She rolls her eyes, but shoots over a teasing grin. “Oliver. Obviously. He just messaged you, didn’t he? Your entire demeanor changed. Like a cloud lifted or something.” She returns to packing my belongings, and I relax a little when I sense this isn’t a critique. If anything, she seems pleased.
I breathe a sigh and stare down at my screen.
It went fine. Wish you’d been waiting for me in my dressing room. Am I really your friend? What does that even mean? I want to be a good one, but I’m not sure how. How often do friends message each other? Do they call? I really want to hear your voice right now. See your smile.
Instead I type, It went fine. I’ll let you know as soon as I finish the shoot on Wed.
“Can you give me less showgirl and more vixen?” Riela Corbin lowers her camera and studies me with an intensity that concerns me. A good photographer can find streaks of your soul and Riela is one of the best. Usually, I don’t mind working with her. She’s very talented and more patient than a lot I’ve dealt with. Today, though, I’m the impatient one.
“Gen, please. I’m not looking for pinup girl, but I need more than bored understudy.”
I crack a smile and pull in a deep breath. “Sorry. Late night.” It’s not a lie. With another back-to-back show—this time in Chicago—I didn’t get home until three last night. I wasn’t asleep until four and had to be up at ten to get ready for the shoot. We’ve had four performances in the last week, and we’re not even officially touring right now—that’s what this afternoon’s meeting with Turner and White Flame is about.
“Give us a minute?” Hadley asks Riela.
Riela nods, signaling her assistants for a quick conference as well.
“What’s going on with you, Gen? Real talk.” Her sincere expression invites real talk, but a brightly lit studio surrounded by strangers definitely does not.
“Sorry. Like I said, I’m tired.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s more than that. You’ve been, I don’t know, dark lately.”
“Dark?” It’s a good description, actually. She can’t know that. She already knows too much.
“Yeah, like, distant and melancholy. And the mirror thing?” She whispers the last part in an even lower voice, probably to avoid any reprise of the earlier drama where I went all diva and made them remove every mirror from the set. I didn’t even like the one reflector that looked too “mirror-y” but let them keep it after a heated debate. “It’s not normal, Genevieve.”
I flinch at the grating word as it scratches through my head. Normal. No, I’m not normal. Because what is normal? My normal isn’t normal. What she means is, you’re not being the person you’re supposed to be. I’m not playing my part well, and it’s easy to read the rest of the message on her face. You better figure this out before the meeting with White Flame. They won’t have any patience for the new you.
She’s not wrong, and I suck in a deep breath to muster the most sultry, vixen-like expression I can muster.