“Cal is a good guy,” she said, her expression becoming serious.
“I know,” I said.
“Don’t hurt him,” she said.
I put my hand to my chest as if she’d hurt me.
“I would never do that,” I said.
“Not intentionally,” she said. “But I don’t think you realize the power you have. Especially over him.”
Except I did.
I knew that Cal looked at me when he thought I wouldn’t notice. I knew he spent more time with me than was really acceptable. I knew he hadn’t dated anyone for months now.
It was fun being admired. It felt nice. Especially being admired by someone like Cal.
“I’ll be careful,” I said.
“Careful about what?” Cal asked.
He’d practically snuck up on us.
“Nothing,” both Harriet and I said.
I had no idea how long he’d been standing there—the weed seemed to make everything fuzzy and loopy, including space and time.
“Let’s watch another movie!” I said. “Grease 2?”
Cal went back to his chair and Harriet and I piled onto the bed. The joint was relit and we passed it around as the opening number started.
“One of the rare instances where a sequel is better than the original,” I said.
Cal coughed. “Are you joking?” he asked. “You can’t be saying that this movie is better than Grease.”
“Oh, but I am,” I said. “It’s way better.”
“No way,” he said. “Travolta. Olivia. Stockard Channing! Who can beat that?”
“The music is better,” I said. “ ‘Cool Rider’? ‘Score Tonight’? ‘Reproduction’?”
“I’m concerned you’ve lost your mind,” Cal said. “Harriet?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I agree with Kathleen. And now that we’re talking about sequels, I think we can all agree that Sister Act 2 is better than the first.”
Cal threw up his hands. “You’ve both lost it. I don’t know if I can sit here and listen to this blasphemy.”
It felt good. The three of us arguing over movies and musicals. The perfect birthday.
But I couldn’t get Harriet’s warning out of my head. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt anyone. Cal was my friend.
I just needed to stop sneaking looks at him and spending so much time alone with him. Whatever I felt was probably just an ego boost—having a guy like Cal admire me—and Harriet was right, I had to be careful.
How hard could it be?
CHAPTER 22
“How’s the fit?”
I stretched my arms out and up, testing the shoulders of my costume.
“Good,” I said to Morgan, the wardrobe mistress. “It’s a little loose back here, but the rest of it is perfect.” Which was a feat in itself considering my breasts usually needed special treatment to fit into most clothes.
But they’d had my measurements, and the dress hugged but didn’t constrict my curves.
“And the wig?” she asked, making notes on her clipboard.
“Itches like hell,” I said.
“That’s how you know it’s working,” she said.
We exchanged smiles.
“You look great,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful costume,” I said.
It was for Peggy’s final number. Except for the opening and finale, the cast spent most of the show in blue uniform coveralls, our hair pulled back in that iconic Rosie the Riveter bandanna. This was a va-va-voom moment for my character—where her sexuality was on display and everyone’s fears around it bubbled to the surface.
Peggy was dangerous and wild, and she scared the other women with what she was willing to do in order to get what she wanted. Until they realized exactly what she did want. Because Peggy wasn’t the husband-stealing man-eater that she was suspected to be. She was a Jewish woman pretending not to be Jewish, going out every night with different men in order to secure money to get her family out of Nazi-occupied Europe.
She was mercenary and relentless, all of that wrapped up in a faux fur coat and formfitting dress, with perfect blond curls and legs for days.
I could relate. Somewhat.
It had been a long time since I’d been blond—even if the bright white of the wig was closer to Marilyn, it still felt like looking at my younger self.
“Hello, Ms. Rose.”
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
“What do you think?” Morgan asked Cal.
I did the requisite spin, the dress’s skirt flaring out around me. I knew that combined with my dance shoes, it made my legs look incredible.
Sure enough, Cal got a good gander at them.
“Looks great,” Cal said. “Fantastic work, Morgan.”
She beamed with pride.
“Are they ready for me?” I asked.
“Yep,” Cal said.
Not only was this the first fitting for our costumes, but it was the first opportunity to see them under the lights.
As I followed Cal to the stage, I noticed that he had dark circles under his eyes. A second glance revealed that overall he looked pretty damned exhausted.
“You okay?” I asked.
He glanced over at me.
“I’m fine,” he said.
We’d been painfully polite to each other since arriving in Rhode Island. Lots of “good mornings” and “how are you doing?” and “isn’t that nice?” and “hope you have a lovely evening.” The most banal of small talk was also the safest. It kept us from wringing each other’s necks. Or trying to bite them.
He did have an incredible neck. Very bitable.
“You look terrible,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I haven’t been sleeping well. Glad to see it shows.”
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No,” he said, and then quickly amended himself. “Nothing that you need to worry about.”
We were in the wings, but I grabbed him before he could walk onstage.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
He looked down at where my arm was grasping his. I released him.