on her face.
It didn’t seem to matter that they really didn’t get along; being that close stirred something inside her, made her feel a spark. And by the look in his eyes, she bet he felt it, too.
But she couldn’t even begin to think about that right now. Instead, she pushed away from him and began dusting herself off. She moved toward the stairs and tentatively climbed to the top, moving slowly on her tender ankle.
Cal followed closely behind her, and the little boy was still waiting on stage when she made it to the top. He reached out a small hand to Dallas, but she only shook her head.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Go on back to class, uhm...” She didn’t know the child’s name yet.
“Tristan,” he smiled sweetly. “Tristan Brooks is my name.”
“Well, go back to choir, Tristan. Now.”
“Ms. Dubois,” he said, “Why don’t you like us?”
Dallas stopped fixing herself and stood in the silence. Cal looked at her with his eyebrows raised, apparently as interested in her answer as Tristan. She swallowed hard and cleared her throat, but before she could answer, the little boy ran off, disappearing into the darkness off stage. She gave herself a final dust-off, then smiled a forced grin at Cal and limped off to the ladies’ room.
In the bathroom, she sat down on an antique couch by the makeup mirrors and took off her boots. Her right ankle looked bruised and a tad swollen. She stood on it with all her weight. It hurt, but she decided it was just twisted. It felt good to be barefoot on the cold tile floor.
Then a knock.
“Hey, Dallas. The kids are coming back.” It was Cal. Was he worried about her?
“Okay, I’ll be right there,”
“Can you walk?” he asked through the door.
“I most certainly can.” She couldn’t help her tone—it came out snippy before she could even think about it. “Uh, thanks, though,” she added.
“Sure.” She could hear him walk away.
Her palms were still sweaty. Her heart was still jumping. If there would never be anything between them, she was going to have to learn to tone down her reactions to him along with everything else. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t shake that image of his face so close to hers.
8
Dallas arrived back at her place that evening and turned on the fireplace. It was a gas fireplace, so all you had to do was click on a switch and the flame appeared like magic. She had set up her little Christmas tree, the same one she had used for the past several years, in the corner next to the front window where the little twinkling lights could be seen from the street—though nothing would compete with the glaring monstrosity that was her neighbor’s decorations. She changed into some comfortable clothes, poured herself a glass of wine and flicked on the TV. Then she sank into the couch with a bag of frozen peas from the freezer on her swollen ankle.
Wilhelmina snuggled up next to her fuzzy socks, eventually creeping up to Dallas’s lap. The two of them sat together watching her favorite Christmas channel—Hallmark movies. You couldn’t beat those at Christmastime.
Alone in her house, Dallas let her walls come down. With her precious cat asleep on her lap, she felt safe and at peace from the frantic life she lived outside. She could take a break from the façade she constructed in front of the public. Here, she didn’t have to be tough or abrasive, cold or stoic. In the safe confines of her home, she was soft and romantic and longed for closeness. But she didn’t trust anyone with that side of her anymore. Not anyone but Wilhelmina. She sat comfortably, dozing early.
It was barely 7:30 p.m. when she heard a knock on the door, followed by giggling. What would a bunch of kids want with her? She moved Wilhelmina to the side, pushed the blanket off and hobbled awkwardly to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted by a chorus of young voices.
“You’re a mean one, Mrs. Grinch...” the kids sang.
Well, isn’t this sweet, she thought, wondering when caroling had become so cruel.
The kids continued to sing their own version of the famous Grinch song, personalizing it just for Dallas. She was not amused. Some of the faces she recognized as a few of the older kids from the play, and she was a little shocked that they’d be brave enough to play this kind of prank. Instead of laughing and being in on the joke, she rolled her eyes and slammed the door on them, remembering exactly why she had never been a fan of kids to begin with.
She scooped up Wilhelmina and limped to her bedroom. Her cell phone rang just as she’d sat down, so she reached across her bed and fumbled through her bag to find it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s just me,” Daniel said on the other line. “We gotta set up early. That Dickens thing is all day, so you want me to swing by and just pick you up?”
“Sure, that’d be great. Thanks.” She was starting to think she might actually like Daniel, that they might be able to get along, after all.
“Well, this way you won’t have to drive your car, and I can just drop you off when it’s over,” he explained.
“Awesome. I really appreciate it. Parking for that thing is gonna be just awful. So, thanks again.”
“No problemo,” he said. “See ya at eight sharp.”
“Okay, good night.”
“Night.”
Dallas smiled as she turned over in her bed. Daniel was slowly becoming a friend. And for once, she decided she was going to allow that. She was glad he hadn’t been around to witness her great escape down the trap door stairs. All she could think of was how mortified she had been today with Cal and Tristan staring down at her.
It bothered her even more because it was Cal. Part of her wanted to appear perfect to him, to prove to him she was something special. Make him see just what he was missing. The same part of her wanted to prove something to her mother, to everyone, to show them that she was something, and weren’t they just sorry that they weren’t in her circle? But the trouble was, she had been pushing everyone away for so long that no one was even in her immediate circle to care. She had locked everyone out.
Quit it, she scolded herself. This was not the time to sulk over what she didn’t have. Instead, she needed to keep her eye on the prize. She needed to get the anchor spot and remain employed. Blaming the wine and lack of dinner for making her feel gloomy, she gingerly got to her feet and stumbled into the kitchen looking for something to eat.
Dallas had another secret that no one knew, and she’d never let anyone know this deep, dark part of herself. It was embarrassing, since so much of her life had been about competition—though not necessarily when it came to the basic skills of living.
Dallas had a huge problem when it came to blissful domesticity. She’d never learned to cook. Anything. She couldn’t bake something from a box. Somehow she even managed to burn noodles. And it didn’t stop there—she couldn’t iron, let alone sew on a button. She was a disaster as a homemaker. Her secret dream was to marry someone rich enough
