Marcus dropped his duffle bag by his feet before leaning against the wall next to me, and he held out his hand with an impatientgive mewave of his fingers. “Not me you have to worry about with that. Now, our sweet Darcy on the other hand…”
I chuckled, lighting the small joint and taking a couple of hits before I passed it to him. “I adore that girl. She’s so…”
“Innocent?”
“Moldable.”
We shared a knowing look.
“I think I’m going to see if she wants to bunk up and be roommates,” I said, watching Marcus inhale and release a cloud of smoke. “She seems like she’d be clean. And responsible.”
“I love this for me. Because I do not have the patience to room with anyone, but always have the desire to hang out at someone’s house like Iama roommate. Looks like I found my victims.”
“Willing as we are,” I added with a smirk.
Darcy, Marcus, and I had all become fast friends through the audition process. Where Marcus and I grew close, especially after a night out with some of the other rookie candidates where we bonded over our uniquely messed-up relationships with our parents, Darcy fit in with us because she didn’t fit in at all.
Where we were cynical, she was all sunshine. Where we were rough around the edges, she was perfectly polished. But what intrigued me most about her was that I smelled the rebellion stirring, her need for somethingmorein life awakening now that she was out on her own for the first time.
And Marcus and I were the perfect ones to give her life experience.
With Marcus, I felt a brotherly bond after talking about our parents. His had been a tired cliché and disowned him when he told them he was gay, and mine were disgustingly successful and wealthy. They were also really, really terrible at hiding their disappointment that I didn’talsoturn out to be some genius or badass entrepreneur who could add to the family empire.
Nothing like a good ol’ trauma bond.
After his first hit, Marcus exhaled long and slow with a heavy, sated sigh of smoke leaving his perfect lips. He zipped up his lavender puffy coat against the crisp spring air.
“What a fucking day.”
“You mean you don’t have marathon hours of dancing and screaming your head off regularly?”
The corner of his mouth curled. “Actually, yes — but usually, the dancing is horizontal and the screaming is a little lessgo teamand a little moreyes, just like that!”
He handed the joint back to me, but not before twirling in place and doing a dramatic curtsy with his innuendo.
“I’m really glad you made it,” I said, taking a small pull. My head already felt a bit swimmy, my sore muscles tingling.
“You only say that becauseyoumade it, too. You know damn well you would have been cursing me with a Voodoo doll if I’d made it and you hadn’t.”
“Only a few pricks! And just the body — I’d spare that beautiful face of yours.”
“Itismy money maker,” he said, running his hand over his jaw with a longing sigh. He took one more hit of the joint, then picked up his bag and heaved the strap over his shoulder. “Don’t get caught out here. I’d hate to have to suffer through this season without the one person more likely to get the pursed-lip warning glare from Claire.”
I pinched his butt as he skipped away, to which he responded by blowing me a kiss over his shoulder. Then, it was just me and the distant sound of traffic.
I closed my eyes, letting my head rest against the wall behind me as I held the joint to my lips for another drag. I didn’t smoke very often — not unless I just wanted a cozy, lazy night on the couch with a bunch of snacks and a good nature documentary to blow my mind — but this was cause for celebration.
I’d made the team.
A smile split my face even as I thought it. Hundreds of women and men tried out — all of them younger than me, many of them arguably more fit than me — and I’d fuckingmade it.
It was the sweetest validation.
Iwasa good dancer. I did still have it, whether my thirtieth birthday was looming or not.
For a split second, I thought about calling Mom and Dad. Of course, I didn’t — partly because it was almost one in the morning in New York, and partly because I wasn’t sure I could handle it if their response was a Huxley Pause.
The Huxley Pause was their signature reaction when it came to me. This long, drawn-out, heavy with hesitation thing that almost always happened when I had something to tell them that was exciting to me, but not so much to them.