Chapter Five

Annabel

The whirr of the costume shop’s sewing machine sticks with me for hours after I go home from the theater. If I go home from the theater’s shop. I didn’t go home last night. Last night, I slept on a prop couch covered in crushed velvet and woke up this morning with a snort. With those costumes in my face, it wasn’t a stretch to believe I’d gone back in time to some ultrasaturated version of Italy.

The musical is a reimagining, turns out. Marilee filled me in on the basic sketch of it yesterday afternoon while we sorted through miles and miles of fabric.

“Why don’t you start from scratch?” I’d asked her. Back in Arizona, my mother’s favorite part of making anything had been choosing the material. Not that the material had to be new. It was the choosing.

Marilee had raised her eyebrows. “And waste all this? This is thousands and thousands of dollars in our hands.” She’d thrust the dress she was holding toward my face. It was silk, a blue that makes the light refract like water. “No. For a reimagining, I’ll use some of my work over again.”

I’d taken the job not knowing what the show even was. “A reimagining . . .” I’d prompted.

“Of Romeo and Juliet,” Marilee had said, pulling a pair of reading glasses from her blouse pocket and putting them on. “It’s called The Lovers.” She’d waved a hand in the air. “Some boutique thing.”

I didn’t know what that meant, but curiosity is one thing. Too many questions, and you’ll get fired before the sweet spot has a chance to even materialize. I don’t want that.

Especially not now that the mystery man has piqued my attention.

So he owns the hotel, right? I’ve been lurking around this place for a week straight, taking on every scrap of work available for Marilee—and holy shit is there a lot of work—and taking every opportunity to run into him again.

That’s the truth. I’ve been trying to run into him again.

He could have been a trick of the light. A ghost, maybe. An over-the-top sexy ghost who saved me from a certain death, but a ghost nonetheless, because I haven’t seen him.

I splash water on my face in the cast bathroom. Even this has been stripped and plastered, painted to within an inch of its life. It’s nothing like the bathrooms in the theater my mom used to work at in Chicago, everything worn at the edges from hundreds of hands sliding over the railings. There are no amenities here, though, like toothpaste.

I should get some toothpaste.

I go back to the couch and dig through my purse for my phone.

Seven a.m.

Marilee and I haven’t discussed a schedule. Not an exact schedule, but she’s not here yet. I can afford a trip back to my warren.

It’s three stops away in the morning sunlight.

I think of him the entire time.

I’ve never met a man who smelled so good or had a body like that. It didn’t even matter that he was wearing a suit. I could tell.

Do not get hung up on him, I tell myself sternly as I get off the subway and climb the steps to street-level. Don’t get hung up on the job, either. I’m head over heels with the work. It’ll hurt when it ends. Maybe it doesn’t have to. No. They always do. This is temporary.

It’s another block to my apartment. On the way I force myself to notice everything. Revel in awareness, my mother used to say. She reveled herself into enough awareness for the both of us, I think, but even so. The guy with the flower cart on the corner has a new batch. The ones in the little bucket right in front are dewy and pink. I run my fingers across them as I walk by. Who can resist? The bakery has a new display out front. My stomach growls at the sight of it. Is there anything in the fridge at my place? I’m not even sure.

The front door sticks, so I shove at it using most of my weight. My roommate, Cynthia, is on the other side, squinting toward the postage stamp of a foyer when I finally get inside.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Good morning to you, too, my sweet roommate,” I sing.

“Oh God, Annabel. You’re too happy for this hour of the morning.” Cynthia’s dressed for work—she’s a bank teller at a branch five blocks down—but she loathes the morning.

“I’m not. I got a new job.”

She rolls her eyes. “Do you ever stick with anything?”

“I stick with you.” I open the fridge. Score—one of those bottled protein shakes from the bodega is still in here, and it’s not expired. “I’ve got to shower and get back.”

“I’ll be gone,” she calls after me.

“See you tomorrow, sweets.”

“Will I?” Cynthia laugh, then slurps at her coffee.

“I guess you never know.”

“Hey, wait.” Cynthia follows me to the edge of the narrow hallway leading to the bathroom. “They’re coming tomorrow to look at the ceiling. You’ll be working during the day, right?” Every so often a shower of plaster rains down onto our coffee table, a premium specimen from an international outlet known as IKEA. Cynthia spends a lot of time fretting about it.

“All day, every day.” She shakes her head and goes back into the kitchen, an early morning smile on her face.

Twenty minutes later I’m fresh and clean and ready to dig through more crates of costumes. What will I do when this gig ends? This occupies me through both train stops. It doesn’t matter. The sunshine on my shoulders is warm, I’m not in that office anymore, and I got out of another job right on the perfect side of the sweet spot.

I plug in my headphones and walk the last block to the Pearl, a new hit by Imagine Dragons turned up loud and ringing in my ears. It’s almost turned into a one-woman concert by the time I reach the front entrance.

“Make me a believer,” I’m lip-synching with all my might. Yes. Yes. Today is going to be a good day. Today I’m not going to look for Mystery Man at all. Today I’m going to—

I hit the last lyrics hard and yank out my headphones, heading for the steps of the Pearl.

“That was quite the performance.”

The voice comes from next to my elbow. I shriek at the closeness of it and spin to find myself facing him, blushing furiously. “Oh my God,” I say, gasping. “It’s you.”