Page 29 of Specters & Spotlights

“Perfect. I’ll swing by. We need at least another hour of catching up before I feel like I’ve properly atoned for not staying in touch for the last year.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Look,” he said, shifting for real now. “I know I flaked. I don’t want to be the guy who ghosts and glides and always has a good excuse. You deserved better than radio silence.”

There it was—his version of vulnerability, still dressed in humor.

Elise nodded once, accepting it.

But before Elise could answer, Graham swept in—unannounced, but not exactly unexpected.

Elise flinched—barely, but enough. Her brush paused mid-air.

Graham’s eyes flicked to the motion, sharp and brief. He didn’t say anything.

He moved with the unconscious grace of someone who knew his silhouette would always look good in a mirror. A casual pivot, a subtle check of his hairline, the kind of movement that was less vanity and more ritual. Like a man playing a part he didn’t have to rehearse.

Elise didn’t even pause her work. “It’s perfect,” she said, cool and practiced.

Gorgeous, even. And not her problem.

Graham met her eyes briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Appreciated.”

He lingered slightly, his attention drawn for a flicker too long to Nick’s slouched posture and easy banter. He turned to go, and just as he disappeared around the corner, tossed out a breezy, “See you later, Emily.”

Elise blinked. “It’s Elise.”

Graham reappeared just far enough to look surprised. “Really?”

She nodded, lips pursed.

“Well, that’s embarrassing.” He offered a half-smile, half-apology, and ducked out.

There was a beat of silence. It felt like a dismissal.

Then, from the wig shelf behind her, came Kevin’s dry voice: “Classic Emily energy, though.”

Nick, oblivious to Kevin’s commentary but almost perfectly in sync: “You do give off serious Emily vibes.”

She looked between the two of them, and gave an exasperated groan. “Unbelievable.”

Nick laughed, delighted. “Wait, Kevin said that too? See! It’s fate. We’re on the same wavelength.”

Kevin’s voice was faint and smug. “He’s not wrong.”

Elise buried her face in a pile of wig caps.

The show resumed like a spell being recast. The first notes of the overture swelled from the orchestra pit—strings lifting, woodwinds trilling—and Elise moved easily through the familiar dance of Act One: check, smooth, pin, repeat.

From her corner backstage, the scene played out in sound alone—each line, each cue carried through the ancient speakers mounted above the wigs.

She couldn’t see them, but she didn’t need to.

“At the Ball” glittered in her mind: swirling skirts, courtly bows, the Bennet sisters orbiting Bingley like bright little moons. She could hear the rustle of fabric, the rise of strings, the beat of the choreography so familiar it pulsed in her chest. Darcy would be just off-center now—arms crossed, spine too straight, watching with that unreadable stillness.

Then came the sharp shift in tempo, the telltale notes of “Tolerable.” Elise smiled as Graham launched into the awkward solo, stiff and sputtering, trying and failing to convince the room—and himself—that he wasn’t fascinated by Elizabeth.

The audience laughed on cue, warm and knowing. Elise cracked a smile as well, trying to imagine Graham’s facial expressions while he delivered the song’s punchline: “It’s not that I like her—don’t get that wrong. / I’ve just been staring... for this entire song.”