Chapter Text
The ID scanner always sticks. Not enough to actually break, just enough to make everyone using it look vaguely incompetent at 7 in the morning. I press my badge against the reader once. Red. Again. Red.
“Come on,” I mutter, shifting my backpack higher on my shoulder. My coffee’s already cooling in my hand, and I’m way too tired for this to become a problem.
Third try. Green.
“Yeah, okay. Great system,” I mumble, shoving through the employee entrance.
30 Rock is already awake. Fast footsteps on polished floors, pages cutting across hallways armed with clipboards, prop team coming through with cue cards. It’s a great wake-up call, especially on mornings like these, where the night before was riddled with awful dreams. I don’t really sleep during show weeks, not properly anyway.
The band gear showed up sometime between my third and fourth cup of coffee, the prop truck blocking the loading dock. Geese. I'd seen the name on the schedule last week, but Thursday mornings have a way of reducing everything to cables and mic placements and whether the drum riser is going to cooperate today.
I'm coiling XLR cables on the main stage when I hear Anya before I see her. She's laughing, too loud, deliberately theatrical, the kind of laugh she deploys like a weapon when she's interested. I follow the sound to the wings, where she's leaning against a road case, holding two coffees.
“…you know I'm just saying, if you need any specific props for the performance, I’m very good at finding things," Anya says. She's not looking at me. She's looking at Sam, who's got his hair pushed back with his sunglasses, leaning in close, grinning in a way that suggests this is definitely not their first conversation.
"Oh trust me I know you’re good at finding things…” Sam repeats, stepping even closer. I see him lean in and whisper something to her, presumably scandalous based on her reaction.
"Oh shut up." Anya giggles, handing over one of the coffees. Sam's fingers brush hers and linger there a second too long. His ears go pink. I've known Anya since her first week in props, and I know that look. She's already mentally writing the wedding vows, but Sam's the one doing the heavy lifting, angling his body toward her, finding excuses to touch her arm when he laughs.
I should keep walking. I should check the drum mics. I should do literally anything other than stand here holding a tangled knot of cables, watching my best friend flirt with someone like some kind of creep. I am so lonely.
But then I see her.
She's tuning her guitar on the edge of the stage, sitting on an amp with her legs crossed at the ankle, wearing a faded green sweater that's unraveling at the cuff. She's not watching Anya and Sam. She's watching the strings, frowning slightly, biting her lower lip. The stage lights aren't even on yet. It’s just the work lights overhead, harsh and fluorescent, but she looks like she's glowing anyway.
I've seen her three times before this. Once at load-in on Thursday, once in the hallway yesterday, once getting coffee from the cart outside. We've never spoken. She has a habit of ducking her head when she makes eye contact, and I have a habit of finding sudden fascination with my shoes.
She looks up. Our eyes catch. She ducks her head. I look at my cables. In my desperate attempt to look nonchalant, I completely miss her getting up to walk over.
"Hey," she says.
I look up. She's talking to me. She's talking to me.
"Hey," I manage. My voice sounds like I've been gargling gravel. "You're um, you're Emily, right? Geese?"
"Yeah." She tucks her hair behind her ear. It immediately falls forward again. "You're audio, right? I saw you at the board yesterday."
"Yeah. I'm uh yeah. The board. That's me." I speak English. I’ve spoken English my whole life, can I continue to do so in front of this beautiful woman? "How’s the rig working for you? The DI boxes, I mean. If you need anything swapped out"
"Oh they're great," she says quickly, then pauses like she's surprised herself by answering so fast. "I mean. Yeah. They're fine. Thanks."
Behind her, Sam says something low that I don't catch, and Anya laughs, a real laugh, not the polite kind. Sam leans in and whispers something else, and Anya actually blushes. Emily glances over her shoulder, then back at me. She smiles, small and crooked. "Your friend's popular."
"Yeah that’s Anya for you. I can’t say that I’ve ever seen her be this intense though." I swallow. "She’s definitely putting in the effort."
"Sam’s really sweet," Emily says, then seems to realize what she just said. "I mean, they seem good together. As a dynamic. Not that I'm assuming anything about uh… them."
"No, no," I say. "You're right. He's definitely flirting."
We both look over. Sam is now showing Anya something on his phone, his shoulder pressed against hers, his thumb brushing her wrist as he scrolls.
"He's brave," Emily says quietly.
"What?"
"Being that obvious." She looks down at her guitar pick, turning it over in her fingers. "I couldn't do that."
I think about Sam angling his whole body toward Anya like she's the only person in the building. I think about Emily sitting alone on her amp, and me standing two feet away pretending to care about cables.
"Yeah," I say. "Me neither."
Emily looks up at me. Her eyes are very brown. "So I guess we have that in common."
"I guess we do."
Behind us, Anya gasps at something Sam said, and the sound echoes off the empty seats. Emily and I both flinch, then look at each other, and something passes between us. A look shared by two people who would rather be anywhere but the center of attention, and who have somehow ended up here anyway.
"I have to soundcheck," she says, standing up, slinging her guitar strap over her shoulder.
"I have to, um, cables," I say, holding up my tangled mess like evidence.
"See you," she says. "Later. Maybe?"
"Yeah," I say. "See you."
She walks toward the drums, ducking her head again, her sweater cuff flapping with every step. I stand there with my cables. Anya appears at my elbow, Sam trailing behind her like a puppy, looking quite pleased with himself.
"Ooh look at this,” she says, nudging me, a smirk overtaking her face.
"Shut up," I say, but I'm smiling.
The smirk on Anya's face could power half the soundboard. "You have to tell me everything. Right now. Starting with her name."
"Emily." The name feels strange in my mouth, like I'm not supposed to say it out loud yet. "She plays guitar."
"I know who she is, dumbass. I've been watching her load gear since this morning." Anya elbows me, then seems to remember Sam is standing there. "Sorry. Work friend stuff."
"Don't apologize," Sam says, grinning. He's got this loose, easy posture that makes me feel even more tightly wound than usual. "Emily's great. She's," he pauses, searching for the word "...nervous. About crowds. About people. She's been stressed about this all week."
"She seemed okay," I say, which is a lie. She seemed like she might vibrate out of her skin if someone made a sudden noise. I want to rattle her bones. I want to freak her out. I want to calm her down.
Sam shrugs. "She's better one-on-one. Always has been." He looks at me with something like assessment. "She asked about you, you know. Yesterday. Wanted to know if the 'cute audio person with the coffee' was working today."
My face gets hot. "She did?"
"Something about your jacket," Sam says, and now he's definitely laughing at me. "The denim one. With the patches."
I look down at myself. I'm wearing the denim jacket. The one with the Fugazi patch on the sleeve I've had since college, the one with the threadbare elbows I can't bring myself to retire.
"She liked your jacket," Anya sing-songs.
"Shut up," I say again, but weaker this time.