In other words, if the Broadway industry is made of puppets, Georgie is definitely one of the people holding the strings.
“Oh, good,” says Georgie. “You can read a clock.”
“Do you—want us here earlier?” says Oliver carefully.
“I believe nine A.M. is what we discussed.”
“I, uh—I brought coffee—”
I’m wincing even before Georgie cuts Oliver off.
“If I want coffee, I’ll ask for coffee.” There’s no meanness in Georgie’s voice, not a hint of a threat. But the bluntness of it is jarring just the same. “This is an internship. I have no intention of taking advantage of either of you. So from here on out, you’ll do only the tasks I assign, during the hours you’re meant to be here. Am I clear?”
“Of course. Right,” says Oliver, in this dazed voice like he was just murdered and now he’s a ghost, standing over his own body. “I’ll just, uh … wait here for five minutes.”
Georgie doesn’t answer, unless the click of her office door shutting counts. I tread out quietly, grabbing my bag up from the chair, doing a very poor job of hiding my smirk.
“Don’t,” he warns me.
I slide the bag back on my shoulder, shaking my hair out from under the strap. “Wasn’t gonna,” I say, eyeing the coffee in his hand. “But since you’re just tossing that anyway…”
“In what universe do you think I’d possibly give you this coffee?”
“Waste not, want not. And you’re an English Breakfast–guzzling snob, and I know you won’t,” I say, plucking it from his hands. He lets it go so easily that I can’t help but be wary, until I get a look at his face. “Oh, don’t be so surprised. You’ve been inflicting your presence on me for three years.”
He shoves his hands in his back pockets, one eye on Georgie’s door, the other on me. “Didn’t think you noticed things past your reflection.”
“I got rearview mirrors, baby,” I say, taking a pull. It’s still hot. “Mmm. Pike Place roast.”
“Enjoy your wet beans.”
“Leave it to you to make coffee unsexy.”
We both settle uncertainly in the lobby, watching Georgie’s door, checking our phones. There’s a text from my dad: Knock ’em dead! I told him about the internship last night. I may have left out some key details, like that I was technically competing for it, and I’m planning to use the money to fund the first semester of Madison against his will, and that I’m high-key stalking a woman who might have abandoned me at birth, but he’s in the loop on the rest.
Not necessarily because I wanted to tell him. Mostly because I was afraid if I didn’t fill up the silence with something, we’d veer too close to the shit show of what I said to him before he left—which, incidentally, I have not apologized for.
And I am sorry. I am. But I don’t know what extent of sorry, and I have a feeling I won’t until I have at least one shred of context on what happened. And unless I figure it out for myself, the only other person who can give me context is him.
At least he said we could wait to let Madison know if I’m coming. His answer is still technically no, but it’s not not yes. In a sense. Which is more than I had yesterday.
The door to Georgie’s office swings open so fast that Oliver flinches.
“These are your Check Lists,” she says. They’re handwritten on pages that are attached to clipboards. “You’re expected to complete each of the tasks on them by five P.M. sharp. Some you will do on your own, and some are important enough that they will be shared tasks—those are highlighted. When you arrive in the morning, your lists will be on Steph’s desk. Don’t lose them. I don’t keep electronic files.”
We take them from her cautiously. Mine has about ten tasks on it: Pick up Eataly catering order for 11 A.M. meeting. Pick up Baron Levait’s dog from Fun Fur All Daycare and bring him to Broadhurst. Highlighted: Assemble new bar cart for waiting room.
Oh, great. One of us is going to die today with IKEA instructions shoved down their throat.
“I want you to return to have Steph check things off your list and confirm they were done between each task,” she continues. “That way I ensure you have singular focus on the task at hand. Field any questions you have to Steph.”
I nod, but I’m already doing the only kind of mental math I’m equipped to do, which is figuring out which subway and bus lines are going to get me to all these places the fastest without too many transfers. It’ll be tight, but it’s doable. Where there’s a will, New York usually has a way.
“Well?” Georgie’s eyes cut to the elevator sharper than a knife. “Go.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After Oliver takes a picture of his list, he stashes it so deep in his backpack that you’d think I was threatening to pull it out with a fishing rod. I tap the elevator button to go down, and only when it pings and opens does he acknowledge me.
“So,” he says. “Now are you ready to call it quits?”
For the splittest of seconds he’s looking at me with the same intensity he was looking at his Check List, and it feels like stepping out into a spotlight. There’s this heat in his eyes that I’ve never noticed before, embers in the dark of his pupils. The warmth settles somewhere in my chest, and I have to huff out with an indignant breath.
“Over a little list?” I ask, folding mine in half and sliding it neatly into my shoulder bag. “What makes you think that?”
“Your track record of being allergic to any kind of work.” Before I can protest, he points right at me and says, “Last time we had to strike a set, you hid for like, three hours.”
I take a step so close to him that he has to retract the finger. “I wasn’t hiding, I was organizing the costume rack.”
Oliver leans back on the elevator wall, staring at the doors like they can’t possibly open fast enough. “Seems like more of those costumes ended up on Instagram than they did in the storage racks.”
I flip my hair back, just barely avoiding his face. “I can’t help that I’m the perfect muse.”
In my defense, I’m not actually this insufferable in real life. Our costume designer did end up using me as a human mannequin, but only to start mapping out ideas for a production of Bye Bye Birdie she was helping out with at a rec center over the summer. Which is to say, I’m an extremely vain individual, but not so much about my own looks.
It’s just that Oliver is a specific level of annoying, and I can’t help that my own levels of annoying are constantly rising up to meet his.
He’s too distracted by the lists to take the bait this time, though. The elevator doors open up and he wastes no time leaving me behind. “Well, even if you’ve got it in you, you’re screwed,” he says on his way out the door.
“And why’s that?”
Even in his deep and unmistakable irritation with me, he can’t help holding the door open. I glide out of it with a brief nod of thanks.
“Because, Your Majesty,” says Oliver, pausing for a moment so he can unlock his bike and jam his helmet onto his head. “Unlike you, I know parts of this city that aren’t just Broadway theaters and the inside of a Sprinkles cupcake shop.”