I let that flood me, even as Charlie says, “Time will tell where this all ends anyway.”
I drop my foot. “You know, Charlie, you have a fucking talent of making me feel like I’m at Tribal Council in Survivor about to get voted off the island.”
“Hmm,” he muses. “Are you projecting? Possibly you feel like you’re not strong enough to be the sole survivor—”
“I’m not weak,” I cut in. “And you’re a dick.”
“I am,” Charlie flashes a smile. “That’s the difference between you and me. I’m highly aware of my flaws.”
“The ones you just let fester like ugly cysts that need ruptured?”
Charlie blinks. “Beckett might be right about your grit.”
Beckett smiles softly at me, and after I exhale, I notice the mess of crushed Coca-Cola cans on Beckett’s vanity. That’s odd.
“What’s with all the coke cans?” I ask, drawing Charlie’s attention to the disaster too.
Beckett is usually very precise about his things. Plus, if our Uncle Stokes (the CEO of Fizzle) saw the coke products, he’d think Beckett has become the Judas of the family. Uncle Stokes is hardcore about marketing strategies for Fizzle.
Us promoting Coke Zero is not in that plan.
Beckett glances at the vanity, then rolls his eyes. “Leo.” Annoyance coats that name. “He’s been using my dressing room while his is being repaired for water damage. The asshole does this”—he motions a graceful hand to the coke cans—“on purpose.”
I stand to grab the trash bin, but Charlie is swifter. Snagging the bin, he swipes the cans into the trash before I can, and I try not to stab a look into him.
But as Beckett’s best friend, that was my friendship duty.
I plop back on the stool. “Does Leo know you have OCD?” I ask since it’s not public knowledge.
“No,” Beckett fixes his hair again with more frustration. “And I prefer it stays that way.”
“It will,” Charlie assures.
“Maybe Leo is jealous of you.”
“You think?” Charlie says like I’m an idiot.
If I had a projectile, I’d throw it at him. Actually. I take off my sneaker and chuck. He dodges like I’m a child.
“Can you spell immature?”
“F-U-C-K.”
Beckett laughs, then says to me, “He’s definitely jealous of me, Sul. He wants what I have.”
“Which is?”
“Looks, charm, talent,” he says while lowering to the floor in a split and stretching forward. “He’s pissed I took his role.”
Beckett filled in for Leo Valavanis one night, and the company preferred his performance of Romeo over Leo’s.
They switched spots.
Now Leo is his understudy. At least until the end of November. Then they go into production for the Nutcracker.
Beckett looks up from his stretch. “Leo hasn’t come to terms with the fact that he doesn’t measure up to me.”
My lips lift. “Confidence or cockiness?” We’d ask the question all the time when one of us verged on the latter.
He matches my smile. “Both. And I missed this.”
“Me too.” It’s been a long time since I’ve been backstage at one of his performances.
“Me three,” Charlie says mockingly.
I take off my other shoe.
He flinches, and that’s good enough for me.
Beckett laughs more, and we all chat for a little bit before Beckett zones in on the phone I toss between my hands.
“Just do it, Sul.” He reaches for his foot on the ground. “You’re not going to find a better time.”
“After you’re gone. I don’t want to waste my time with you.”
“It’s not a waste to me.” He nods me on in encouragement. “I don’t like seeing you at war with the people you love.”
Charlie makes a gagging noise.
I fling back, “How do you spell immature?”
“I-M-M-A-T-U-R-E,” he says in point-one seconds, ending with a flat smile.
Keeping up with Charlie is pounding my head, and I find myself on automatic. Dialing a number, like I know who always gives me comfort and love.
I end the call fast. Before the second ring.
What are you doing, Sulli?
I push myself to do something more.
Bracing the phone in front of my face, I FaceTime my mom.
She answers on the first ring. “Sulli?” Her face breaks with hope and pain just seeing me, and I almost come undone. My vibrant, gorgeous mom is youth and sweetness and reckless inhibition, and memories crash against me of being so little and her being so young holding me as I cried over pickles.
Fucking pickles.
I hated all of them. Dill. Bread and butter. So fucking dumb. But Mom brushed her nose with mine and then tickled me until my tears morphed to laughs. And all my angsty, pickle-loathing feelings left me.
How good she always made me feel.
How happy I can be just seeing her, and I hate icing her out more than I’ve ever hated a single fucking pickle.
I wipe my runny nose. Wishing we were in the same room, but that’s my fault. I could’ve come over and let her hug me. “I’m sorry it’s taken me a while to fucking call back.”