The Spotlight

Chapter 39

I've been standing outside for twenty-three minutes.

The morning air has a bitter edge, autumn rapidly giving way to winter. I tug my cardigan tighter around my body, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I check my phone for the fifth time in as many minutes.

9:47 AM. Gary's usually here by 9:30.

Every car that turns onto the street makes my heart leap into my throat, only to sink back down when it passes the contestant house. I rehearse what I'll say when he arrives, the words I've been practicing since dawn:

It wasn't what it looked like. David kissed me. I didn't kiss him back. I'm still...

Still what? Still in love with you? Still heartbroken? Still hoping there's a way to fix what broke between us in California?

A sleek black Range Rover finally turns into the driveway, and my stomach twists itself into a pretzel. This is it. I smooth down my hair, take a deep breath, and try to look casual—like I just happened to be getting fresh air rather than staging an ambush.

The car stops. Gary emerges from the driver's side, sunglasses hiding his eyes, expression unreadable.

I take a few steps towards him, my hand reaching out to touch his upper arm. "Gary, can I talk to you before you go inside?" My fingers barely graze his sleeve before he pulls away.

"Not right now," he says harshly, his voice colder than the morning air. He barely looks at me as he barrels past, heading for the front door of the house.

I grab his arm more firmly this time, almost pleading. "Please, Gary."

He finally looks up, meeting my eyes. The warmth that used to be there is gone, replaced by nothing but bitterness. "I said not right now. We're already late getting started. I'll be in the rehearsal room."

My grip falters, and he pulls away, leaving me standing on the front porch. I take a deep breath, counting to thirty in my head, trying to steady myself. Then I follow him inside.

In the rehearsal room, Gary is rigid, barely acknowledging me as he sits at the piano, scribbling notes on a sheet of paper. The tension in the room is palpable, thick enough to choke on.

"I guess we should get started," I say, my voice sounding small in the vast space.

"Yep," he replies, not looking up from his work.

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. I can feel the weight of everything unsaid between us, pressing down like a physical force.

"So, what's the theme for semi-finals?" I finally ask, desperate for anything to break this awful quiet.

Gary's fingers still against the keys, his shoulders tensing slightly. "Last week was love and this week is heartbreak," he says, the word falling between us like broken glass.

"Fitting," I mutter before I can stop myself.

His head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "Should be easy for you. Plenty of fresh material."

The barely contained venom in his voice ignites something sharp inside me. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, eyes flashing.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance despite my racing heart. "Just that you seem to be an expert at sudden... reconnections."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. "This isn't about me."

"Isn't it, though?" I cross my arms, armor against the ache spreading through my chest. "Because it feels like you're the one with the problem here."

"My problem," he says slowly, deliberately, "is that you're not focused. Your last performance was technically good but emotionally hollow."