If We Were Villains: A Novel

When we finished our run (thankfully without further incident), I avoided the dressing rooms. I lurked in the lobby until I thought everyone else would have gone, then made my way back through the theatre. The house lights had all been turned off, and I fumbled between the seats with numb hands, grunting at the armrests that reached out to smack my kneecaps in the dark.

The crossover lights buzzed as I let myself into the men’s dressing room, and I was relieved to find it empty. Mirrors on one wall showed me my own reflection, and a costume rack was pushed against the other, tightly packed with two or three suits for each of a dozen actors. The refuse of the theatre was strewn on every surface—forgotten clothing, combs and hair gel, broken eyeliner pencils.

I began to peel my costume off, for once without bumping elbows with four other boys. Normally I would have enjoyed the luxury of space, but I hadn’t fully recovered from the second-act disaster and I was only vaguely relieved not to have to share the room with Richard. I hung my shirt, jacket, and pants carefully on one hanger, then stowed my shoes underneath the rack. My own clothes had been scattered around the room, likely picked up and discarded during the frenzy following Act V when everyone scrambled to get dressed and go home. I found my jeans crumpled in a corner, my shirt hanging off the mirror. One of my socks was hiding under the counter, but the other never surfaced. I fell heavily into a chair and had just finished pulling my shoes on—damn the sock—when the door creaked open.

“There you are,” Meredith said. “We didn’t know where you went.”

She was still wearing the robe. I risked one glance at her, then concentrated intensely on tying my shoes. “Just needed some room to breathe,” I said. “I’m fine.”

I stood and moved toward the door but she was in the way, leaning on the frame, one leg folded up like a flamingo, knee tucked perfectly in the curve of her instep. There was something introspective and uncertain in her expression, but her face was flushed, like the heat of anger hadn’t quite left her.

“Meredith, do you need something?”

“A distraction, maybe.” She offered half a smile, waiting for me to catch on.

Comprehension hit me with a little jolt like an electric shock, and I leaned back, eased away from her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” She seemed genuinely confused, almost impatient—I had to remind myself she was a natural actress.

“Because this is the sort of game where people get hurt,” I said. “I don’t particularly care about Richard just now, but I don’t want to be one of them.”

She blinked, and the impatience was gone, replaced by something softer, not so self-assured. “I won’t hurt you,” she said. She came cautiously closer, as if she were afraid of startling me. I was paralyzed, watching the silk move like water on her skin. A bruise was already swelling beneath her collarbone, and I couldn’t help but think of Richard’s hands and how much damage they could do.

“I can think of someone who might,” I said.

“I don’t want to think about him.” Her voice had a raw, tender quality, which I didn’t immediately recognize for what it was: shame.

“Right, you want to be distracted.”

“Oliver, it’s not like that.”

“Really? Then what is it like?” It was a desperate question. I didn’t know what it was meant to do—dissuade her or tempt her or challenge her; call her bluff, force her hand, make her show me. Perhaps all at once.

The only thing it didn’t do was dissuade her. She was still looking up at me, but in a way she’d never looked at me before, something reckless gleaming in her sea-glass eyes. “It’s like this.”

I felt her hands on my chest, her palms warm through the thin fabric of my shirt. My heart stuttered at her touch, and I wondered suddenly if she was wearing anything under the robe. Part of me wanted to rip it off and find out, and another part wanted to crack her head against the wall and knock some sense into her. She leaned into me and the press of her body overthrew all my logical objections. My hands moved automatically, without my permission, rising to find the curve of her waist, smoothing the silk against her skin. I could smell her perfume, sweet and lush and tantalizing, the fragrance of some exotic flower. Her fingers, softly insistent on the back of my neck, pulled my face toward hers. My pulse crescendoed in my ears, my imagination rushing treacherously forward.

I turned my head abruptly and the tip of my nose brushed her cheek. If I kissed her, what would follow? I didn’t trust myself to stop.

“Meredith, why are you doing this?” I couldn’t look at her without staring at her mouth.

“I want to.”

All my latent anger came bubbling up like acid.

“You want to,” I said. “Why? Because James won’t touch you, and Alexander doesn’t like girls? Because you want to make Richard furious and I’m the easiest way to do it?” I pushed her back so we were no longer touching. “You know what he’s like when he’s furious. You’re lovely, but you’re not worth that.”

The last words were out of my mouth before I could catch them, before I even realized how awful they were. She stared at me for a moment, motionless. Then she turned and wrenched the door open. “You know, I guess you’re right,” she said. “People do get hurt.”

As the door swung shut behind her, I was transported back to our first day of Gwendolyn’s class, two months before. It was maddening how beautiful she was—but did that make the rest of her any less real? I dragged one hand across my face, feeling sick. “Hell,” I said, quietly. It was all I could manage.

I gathered my things, shouldered my bag, and left the building, furious by then at both of us. When I got back to the Castle, I paused outside her door on my way up to the Tower. One vagrant line of verse wandered through my head. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.

I knew better than to believe it.