But now, standing at the very back of the theater, looking at Palmer sitting at her stage manager’s table, her bright hair glowing in the dimness of the room, I was starting to get nervous about my plan. I ran my thumb over the condensation on my cup as I walked down the aisle to the row where her table was set up, telling myself not to be ridiculous. This was Palmer. I shouldn’t be nervous about talking to Palmer. But that didn’t change the fact that I was.
I hesitated at the end of her row, shifting my weight from foot to foot, waiting for her to notice I was there. But her eyes were fixed on the stage, where Tom was being yelled at by the actress playing Camp Director Arnold. I walked down the row, hesitating for a second before taking a seat next to her and placing her drink in front of her. “Hi,” I whispered.
“Ready follow spot forty-seven,” Palmer said, but under her breath, like she was saying it to herself. “Forty-seven, go.” She looked over at me, then turned to face the stage again.
“Palmer,” I said, leaning forward so that I would be in her line of vision. “Come on.”
“Ready sound forty-eight,” she said, half under her breath, her eyes moving between the stage and the marked-up script in front of her, making tiny check marks with a pencil. “Forty-eight, go.”
“Hold!” The bearded director stood up and started making his way to the stage, shaking his head as Tom and the actress moved downstage to talk to him.
Palmer looked over at me, then sighed and put her pencil down. “I can’t really talk,” she said. “I’m practicing calling the show.” She looked at the drink in front of her, and it was like I could practically sense her struggle before she picked it up and took a sip.
I took a sip of my own, to give me some courage, then blurted out, “I’m so sorry, Palmer.”
She looked back at the stage, where the director was now standing next to Tom, gesturing big, while Tom nodded and scribbled notes in his script. “What are you sorry about?” she asked, not looking at me. “That you lied to me about what was happening with Bri and Wyatt? That you asked my boyfriend to keep lying to me?”
“You don’t think I wanted to tell you?”
“But you told Clark,” Palmer said, looking at me evenly.
“I did,” I said quietly, knowing there was no way out of this. “But we have to fix this, P.”
“Yeah,” Palmer said quietly, reaching for her drink but just holding it for a moment and rolling it between her palms. “But I don’t know if we can.”
I sat back in my seat. This was what I’d been worried about, when I’d even allowed myself to go there. But hearing her say it was something else. The fact that she wasn’t seeing the best and looking on the bright side was almost more than I could take.
“What are you saying?” I asked, my voice coming out unsteady. “That we’re all just done? Friendship over?”
She took a long drink and then set her cup back down. “I don’t know.”
“Okay!” the director yelled, walking back down to the auditorium from the stage. “We’re picking it up from Duncan’s line, people. Let’s go!”
“I have to do this,” Palmer said, picking up her pencil again and flipping a few pages back in her script binder.
I nodded and shouldered my bag but didn’t leave yet. I still didn’t know where we stood, and the thought of leaving with things so unsettled was making me feel panicky. “So,” I started, then hesitated. “Are we okay?”
Palmer looked over at me for a moment before looking back at the stage. “I’m not sure,” she finally said.
I nodded, swallowing hard. “Okay,” I said as I stood up. I paused there for just a moment when I realized there was nothing else to say. I walked up the aisle, to the back of the auditorium, looking at the stage one last time, where Tom and the camp director were starting the scene over again, having made their adjustments, trying to get it right this time.
The afternoon dragged on, one of the worst of the summer, time seeming to crawl. I ended up just driving around aimlessly, from Flask’s to the beach to the Orchard, but no place felt right, and I didn’t stay in any of them for more than a few minutes. I couldn’t go home, because Peter was there. I couldn’t hang out with any of my friends. Two of my constants had vanished, and I was getting more agitated with every hour that passed. I didn’t know what my life looked like if we weren’t all still friends. It was a reality I couldn’t even fully grasp. For the last five years, it had been the four of us, what I had always believed to be an unshakable unit. The thought of not having them—the thought of some reality I might have to accept where I didn’t have them—was making me feel like I wanted to scream, cry, and throw up, all at the same time.
These feelings were reaching a boiling point when I pulled into Clark’s driveway to walk Bertie. I was angry and on the verge of tears, always a dangerous combination. A tiny voice in the back of my head was whispering that I should just leave, come back later, that I was spoiling for a fight and in no condition to see anyone, much less Clark. But I ignored it and got out of the car, heading up the walkway and letting myself in the side door.
“Bert,” I called as I stepped inside the house. The dog was standing in the kitchen, giving me his biggest doggy smile. His tail was wagging so hard his butt was shaking back and forth. “Now, Bertie,” I said, in a tone that was intended to let him know I meant business. “I don’t want to do this today.”