Out on the Serve (Out in College 7)

“You were supposed to dig for that baby,” he grumbled as he stomped to retrieve it.

“Yeah, but I’m not sacrificing my body for sand burn if I’m sitting in a theater all day,” I huffed.

“Hmph. I can’t believe you don’t put mayo on BLTs. Makes no sense. What do you use instead?”

“I haven’t had a BLT in a while, but I guess I’d use Dijon and avocado and—” I yelped when he beaned me in the ass with the volleyball. “What the hell?”

“You cannot deface a classic and make it into a woke, hippie sandwich some douchey bistro sells for fifteen bucks a shot and not expect retribution. I don’t think you’re BLT-worthy, Mr. Dijon and Avocado,” he singsonged.

I chuckled as I pulled my baseball cap off and raked my hand through my hair, listening with half an ear as Elliot embarked on a random tangent about not trusting avocados. It was just Elliot being Elliot. He loved avocados. He had a goofy habit of making debates about silly subjects, like which X-Men mutant power was the coolest or the importance of a memorable acronym. Like I said, the guy could talk about anything.

His nonstop exuberance should have worn me out. I liked my quiet. But even episodic silence wasn’t really in Elliot’s wheelhouse. Surprisingly, it didn’t bother me at all. In fact, I looked forward to our daily lighthearted sparring sessions. I just had to remind myself that they weren’t a form of foreplay. We were, and always would be…just friends.

“Earth to Braden.” Sophie leaned on my armrest, jostling my script of Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors to get my attention. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“I’m thinking about food,” I lied as I checked my watch.

“Mmm. I’m hungry.”

“Phoenix and I talked about grabbing some dinner later. Want to join us?”

“I would, but Jacques is keeping some of the cast late. Including Nix. I think you’ll be on your own.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “That’s okay. I’m used to it.”

“Don’t you and Elliot hang out?” she asked in a faux-casual tone.

“Sure.”

“He’s fun, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is.” Thank God it was dark in here. No doubt I was blushing. If Sophie noticed, she’d ask a million questions I couldn’t answer. Time for a random subject change. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Laundry, Netflix, chill…the usual.” Sophie pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and propped her foot on the chair in front of us. “Leave the script for now. Tell me something fun before Jacques sends you to Starbucks again.”

I gave a half laugh, but she wasn’t kidding. “Chief coffee-getter” had become my main job title. The baristas knew my name and started on my order the second I walked in the door. I optimistically hoped the “assistant to the director” might be a more exciting gig than it turned out to be. I ran errands, read lines with actors, filled in for the nonspeaking guardsman who’d been out with the flu, and…I spent a lot of time at Starbucks.

I was still bummed that I didn’t get an actual role. But there was no point in being bitter about it. As they say, the show must go on. In the plus column, this was a short-term gig, I loved community theater, and I was friends with a few of the actors, like Sophie and Phoenix. In the negative…the director was a jerk.

Jacques Mills-Cavanaugh was a short, fastidious man in his midfifties with visions of grandeur. He was the kind of guy who thought making up snarky nicknames and saying “please and thank you” in one sentence was proof of his own quirkiness, as if that somehow gave him extra artsy street cred.

All for the glory of being part of one last Shakespeare play before I officially retired from showbiz, I mused with a sigh.

“Something fun? Um…well, I don’t have much to report. This is my main source of excitement,” I joked, spreading my arms to encompass the tiny theater-slash-rec room.

Sophie shot a look my way that I couldn’t read without a road map. “Mine too, but I’ve decided I need to broaden my scope a bit. And since you’re in the same boat…we’ll do it together.”

Uh-oh. “Do what?”

“Well…remember the night you came over, and we each made a pact to date someone new?”

I shook my head. “No, I helped you ‘swipe left’ and ‘swipe right,’ but I never agreed to anything myself and—”

“You said you wouldn’t be opposed to going on a blind-ish date with someone.”

“Blind-ish. What does that even mean?”

Sophie fiddled with the hem on her skirt and gave me a flirty grin. “It means you sort of know the person, but not really.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m not telling you, because you’ll cancel.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “So, I’ll make it easy for you. I’m not going.”

“C’mon, Bray! It’s a date. It’s fun. I’ll send you coordinates, date, and time. All you have to do is show up and be your sunny self,” she replied brightly. “And I’ll be on the other side of the restaurant.”