I follow Joey’s lead and make it about the kids. “The students have really taken all kinds of visual and performance art into account. This is going to be a fantastic showcase of what they can do.”
Moreau nods and turns to Briley, who walks the chancellor around the space, pointing out dedicated areas for certain displays. I take a step to follow them, but Joey puts her hand on my arm. I couldn’t walk away from that touch if I tried.
“Let the kids do it,” she whispers. I am beginning to understand that this is one of her best talents. My style is a little more old-school. Way more interested in maintaining control of, well, everything. But Joey understands the principle of giving a project or an assignment a few borders or edges and then letting the students fill it in as they see fit.
It works for her.
It works for them.
I’m not ready to cede control to a room full of teenagers, but I want to watch Joey do it. Often. As often as possible.
She keeps her hand pressed to my forearm, and I hold still next to her.
She looks up at me. “I don’t think I said congratulations about the audition. So, congratulations. And if it’s not weird, I’m proud of you.”
If it’s not weird? I feel like I could float to the ceiling of the old chapel right this minute.
“Thanks,” I manage. I slide my hand around hers and give her fingers a squeeze. All my restraint is in play at this moment because, if I’m honest, I want nothing more than to take her in my arms and kiss her senseless. But Dr. Moreau is here with us in the old chapel.
So, I could lose my job.
Who needs a job?
A small, sensible part of my brain reminds me that I enjoy this job, not to mention food and heat.
So, I let go of Joey’s hand and content myself with standing in the middle of the old chapel grinning like a fool.