The Impaler

Chapter 67

Cindy heard the ding of the text message just as she was drifting off to sleep. She didn’t recognize the number, but read the message anyway.

Cindy: Sorry I didn’t get back 2 u sooner and I’m sorry I didn’t c u @ the show. My uncle came by unexpectedly and I have been very busy.

“That’s it?” Cindy said, the anger beginning to boil again in her stomach. She’d been furious when she returned home to find Edmund still hadn’t answered her e-mails; had toyed with the idea of sending him another note (a nasty one, at that) but thought it better to wait until morning when her head had cleared.

But now? What the fuck was this all about?

Cindy was about to reply when the ding of another message stopped her.

Everything is fine, tho. I’ll call you tomorrow (I got your cell # off the contact sheet for Macbeth).

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,” she heard Macbeth say—and then, out of nowhere she thought of Gone with the Wind; saw herself as Scarlett in the final scene, tears in her eyes, alone on the stairs, violins and swelling music and—

“After all … tomorrow is another day!”

What the fuck?

Then another message.

Hope the show went well n sleep tight. I missed u 2day. E

Cindy realized her heart was beating a mile a minute, and she chastised herself for her silly, sappy relief at ever doubting Edmund Lambert in the first place.

He’ll call me tomorrow.

She felt herself melt down into her mattress—texted back, Sounds good. Miss u 2 ?—and fought off the urge to just call him right then and there. He’d probably understand, but that would not look cool. Beyond stalkerish, she thought. Besides, if he wanted to talk to her, he would’ve called, right? Plus, she needed to sleep; there was no way she could spend the whole night talking to Edmund with a pissed-off George Kiernan and a matinee waiting for her tomorrow.

“Fuck it,” she said, and was about to call him anyway, when another text popped in her inbox.

U need to rest. Go to sleep and c u after the show tomorrow.

Cindy started to text back, After all, tomorrow is another day!—but settled on Sounds good? instead.

She waited for a reply, but when it didn’t come, she saved Edmund Lambert’s number and closed her phone—closed her eyes, too, and drifted off to sleep feeling more like Scarlett O’Hara than ever. It felt wonderful.