Metal pans the city bus, in strips, lining the sides and crushable stops and starts. The ceiling is the same light metal in curved panels. And the seats, blue, the same shaded metal beside the flat cushioned fixtures.

I release a sigh of something between frayed anxiety, frustration, and impatient calculation. Hugging my basket to my chest, Dax mimics me. His eyes still dart to the rungs above and the occasional opening of the glass door. And I follow suit, trailing his sightline and gauging his expression every few seconds. Perhaps I'm waiting for a breakdown, one similar to the emotional show he had hosted every month on the dot before. The fact, a science of the past, one I knew like the back of my hand.

Dax stands, hoisting his basket to his side. He gestures a stout woman to his former seat. In turn, again, I follow, positioning my basket to my left. Dropping the basket at his feet, I copy as if my brain is controlled by a string attached to Dax, a mirror effect.

A stray thought lingers, probing my more sensitive side with a kick.

I should have found him. I could have found him if I tried hard enough.

No, there is no one to blame, my high school trek of angst vouches that the experience isn't worth it. Forgive and forget. More like, forgive and get a different life. The only way to forget lies in the realm of removal. And I guess, I did that two weeks ago, but that wasn't the point of my move to Los Angeles. I didn't move for him. I moved for my career, to get away from my suffocating helicopter parent and that suffocating town.

No one to blame.

Factually, I could blame myself as I had the first three years in his absence, an idiotic thought process I'm more than elated to rid myself of. Or I could blame Dax wholely as I have for the past five years, a solid comfort that I could take as real. Except, this piece of information would now hold as much as a single wire paperclip on a three-inch stack of documents. An impossible feat.

No one to blame.

"Look at that!" Dax knocks my shoulder. His mouth draws tight as if he's having bowel disruptions, but the glow in his eyes tells me otherwise. "I can't believe how sharp the linework is."

Dax prizes his eyes on a concrete building flying past. Concrete chipped at odd angles and paint splayed on the surface, annoyance sprouts in my head, but I quickly push the messy thought away. Instead, I zero in on the fine details of the wall disbandment, attempting to claw a different meaning from the blue, pink, and black piece. The abstract graffiti looks something like a roller coaster or maybe an optical allusion, a mixture of colors there to fuzz my brain and mess with my sense of reality.

I nod. "Alright."

"Yeah, yeah." Dax mimics me, nodding vigorously. "I really like how the artist told a story with that piece. Really cool."

What story? A mess? A conglomeration of colors splattered on a public surface. A defacement, an abomination, certainly not "cool".

Yet, my lips tick into a smile, and my brain relays a single thought regarding his cuteness. Cute of all things.

"Have fun with that." I don't think I meant the phrase to echo with degrading dropback, but he doesn't seem to catch my sarcasm anyway.

"I will. I might sketch it from memory later. Always fun to see what obscurity my mind shifts up."

His look of shy enthusiasm sends my brain back to the past.

He used to sketch everything. Every building downtown had at least one sketch penciled in thumbnails within a sparse space in the specialty watercolor notebook he got on sale. He had at least seventy different pages of just trees drawn still from the hikes I used to enjoy. Then the animals we caught glimpses of, the moments of silence where he would disrupt the quiet with the almost silent draw of his number two pencil.

Rabbits were his favorite. He loved drawing them, but I knew he liked painting the animal in watercolor more.

Maybe he still does, but the paint splattered on the underside of his hands and behind his ears shoves against that thought. Watercolor can't stick or get under your nails like that. Not that I would know anything about the feel. I know the sight.

"You still dance?" Dax asks.

I blink, furrowing my brows. Yes, of course. What else would the costume be for? My jaw ticks in realization. The costume isn't that revealing. Actually, it's modest compared to some of the shit I've seen.

Instead of an answer, I question, "Do you think I'm unhinged?"

"Well, no." His eyes dart to my costume, discolored almost beyond recognition. "You have a like bodysuit? So, maybe. But that didn't answer–" Dax cuts himself off, continuing a second later wide-eyed with a simple, "Oh."

"Your question answered?"

"That's what you're freelancing," he mumbles to himself. "Yeah, yeah. Got it." A blush creeps to his cheeks. "I wouldn't think you would do that, Olly—Dawn. Not that, that's bad or anything–"

"Issac, shut it."

Dax blinks rapidly, as if disoriented. Shaking his head back and forth, he focuses his vision on me after scrunching his face and letting his jaw tick. A silent conversation. He used to have those, entire conversations with himself.

His voice comes in a whine. "You're still so mean." A second later, his mouth stretches open, and his eyes scream with glee. "Did Miss Bronagh just call me 'Issac', Nilo? I think she did." He nods again, now grinning in an unfamiliar way. In a very creepy way, might I add, considering a blinding grim from Dax is unfamiliar.

I mentally facepalm. The middle name slip up. The mention of an imaginary friend. Very great ways to get Dax to go away in an opposite kind of sarcastic way.

I swear, he's giving me whiplash.

He needs to leave.

No, I need to leave.

No, I need to stop looking at him.

Yes, what a solution to ignore his newfound smile. The solution should be easy. He should leave me alone after my stop. I turn to the bus window, gauging a mere three minutes I have to endure the torture of our closeness.

"Not a fan of Nilo, Dawn?" His mood is one I remember well, there was always a weird Daw who ranted about art, another who was too shy to say a word, another who couldn't sit still, another who I was even scared of at times, and another, the one here now, who was too goofy for his own good.

This one, the goofy one, hurt my head the most, and I find it still does.

"Perhaps not." I shift right.

The open and close of the door make my brain hyper-aware of the nearness of my new apartment. If we were back in Nicholasville there wouldn't be stops in traffic. We would have already been there, maybe we could have arrived faster by walking there in this quite lovely city of legends. Then again, there isn't any public transit in (insert town name).

"Good, good times there." His face merges to an unsmiling sculpture on the verge of a frown, a transformation just as confusing and dizzying as my audition with Marlin Breen. The dance company sure knows how to trip people up.

I had brought my curriculum vitae, headshot, and game that Tuesday. That should have been enough. But no, they wanted something more. More than a practiced audition piece or a show of courage. They wanted an audition poising with a diverse set of expertise, almost a sort of mashup performance. Acrobatics, modern dance, hip hop, all in one.

"You hate me, don't you."

My fingers curl into a loose fist at my side. I train my eyes to the back of the driver's head. For, I know his eyes will pierce through my soul if I look, hurt me more.

"No," I say after a moment's pause. Swirls of a deeper feeling pull at my mind, deciding to drag my head into the rubble. I shake the prying irritation. "Why do you ask?"

His shadow disappears, leftward a few paces. "You keep sighing. You used to do that when you were angry. You're mad at me." He shuffles ahead of me, kicking his basket aside. Sideways, he blinks, meeting my eyes with his blue. "That's okay. And it's okay if we never see each other again. I just need you to know that I never forgot about you."

My chest pinches. Words with no bounds threaten to spill from my lips. Uncomfortable words that guarantee me late-night regrets. "Nice to know, Marten." Unintentionally, my phrase has a hard edge, so sharp that Dax takes a step back. "I'm not mad at you."

With a screech, the city bus comes to a halt. It's time. I sigh, treading out behind a girl with an earbud stuck in her right ear. My pace increases once my feet touch the pavement. Dax, a shadow, follows with his basket in hand and no words rolling off his lips. Ignoring his, admittedly odd, presence comes easily. He is only a shadow, not really here, not really following physically.

Shadows can't hurt.

Cool metal sets in my grasp, once at the entrance of the beige concrete complex, again at the stairwell, and a third time at my apartment, the key nearly dropping to the worn carpet.

My eyes are only for the narrow walk ahead, hardwood flooring sets the scene. The smell, discount cleaner I picked up out of Los Angeles city limits. And the wood's color, a hue of gray that sets the room in darkness. Not to mention, the walls are painted in a greyish brown pallet. Probably an attempt to cover up a pour paint job.

I pass the off-white threshold.

"Then who are you mad at?" Dax calls, not daring to step in after me.

"Why are you following me?" I say in answer, letting the door hang open. A blocked kind of invitation.

His basket drops with a thump. A hint of confidence materializes in his stance. Like Nilo, the imaginary friend Dax dreamed up, this Dax seems confident, sure of himself. "You didn't answer my question. I do have a few guesses."

"You didn't answer mine," I pause. My eyes remain ahead, his voice the only indication of his state. Calm. Determined. Confident.

Dax and confident don't belong in the same sentence.

At least when we were younger. He only showcased a shred of confidence in an odd mood, usually during a confrontation with Parker McGram, the one and only kid I've punched. Kid, not preteen or teenager. We were nine. I gave him a solid uppercut. He was too much of an idiot to leave us alone. And so, if my count is correct, I punched the fool no less than thirty times, out of the realm of school bounds, of course. Likewise, Dax has passed through at least thirty spells of confidence.

"Well, I live here too. Top floor."

"You're also cheap, then."

"I'll take what I can get."

A ring slices the current course. With no glance at Dax, I disappear along the small rivet that connects the main walkway of the kitchenette. My feet plant ahead of the sink. It's an unknown caller.

With no care as to what Dax does or doesn't do, I pick up. Focus here, the phone. Perhaps the action is one of trust, and I wouldn't bother deflecting the statement. I still feel for him.

My best friend. My first love.

I'm pissed. I'm sad. I'm elated. I think. Either way, my stomach churns.

"Hello, is this Dawn Bronagh speaking?"

"This is she," I reply, one hand on the device, another taking my clothes from my basket.

Somehow, I'm calm. Even trailing my hand over the ruined costume doesn't throw me into a state of rage.

"Great. I'm Lauren, one of the choreographers on set for Marlin Breen. I believe I introduced myself before. Correct?"

I slide a pile of tees rightward. "Yes, I believe so. A week ago, You're an assistant to Ariel."

"Correct." Silence clips its claws on the other line. "I called on behalf of the team. We have a situation and need you here ASAP." For a moment the line is silent, making me wonder if Lauren hung up.

Another second passes.

Silence.

"Are you still there, Lauren?" I question.

"Nacy is injured."

My hands freeze. The long-sleeved crew cut in my grasp no longer becomes relevant. "How badly?"

Lauren breathes–quite heavily–through the receiver as if she's finished with a particularly difficult string of acrobatics. "Twisted her ankle while in a private training session from what I've heard. I haven't personally made contact with her."

"My involvement?" Lauren doesn't answer immediately, and I let my fingers spring back into action at the revelation of her confusion. "As in, why do I need to arrive earlier? With your previous statement, I can assume the event isn't canceled."

"Correct." She seems to hold her breath. "We need you to take her role. We can fill the empty space with a few adjustments, but her position is non-negotiable. Ariel recommended you, said you would get the flow quickly."

Ariel. She didn't. I suck in a breath. For the first time, I've been recommended. My heart pumps faster. No, she absolutely recommended me. My ears don't deceive me. "I've got it covered," I reply, "What time do you need me?"

"The sooner, the better." An open and close of a door sounds through the line. "The event is starting two hours earlier as well. Six is the hour. It's all blasted management."

"Don't worry, I'll figure it out, Lauren." My stomach drops as if my foot has hit the ground at the wrong angle, a sprain or break on the way. "I'll arrive shortly." With that, my thumb finds the red button, not waiting for a solid reply.

My costume.

Bleached. Ruined. A disgrace on my part. I'm sure no one would appreciate me showing up in that graffitied costume. A work of art, destroyed.

My forehead collides with an adjacent wall, and I long sigh escapes me.

This is a wasted opportunity. How can I pick up the costume, a building in the opposite direction of my final destination, and then manage to get to Santa Monica early?

"Damn it!" I curse. Series of thumps bounce off the wall, my kicks just soft enough to keep the wall flat. Once, twice, thrice...

"Stop that." A hand jerks me from my path of destruction. "How can I help you, Dawn?"

A strained cackle breaks free. "How can you help? How can you help?" A crooked smile surfaces after. More profanities roll off my lips.

What are plans? What is success? What is this new failure?

I can't pick up the show's pieces without the costume. I can't pick up the costume without missing the show.

I crow with laughter.

"You sound like a howler monkey or something."

"I know!" My ruckus noise heightens.

People are idiots. I'm an idiot. Everything amounts to idiocy. Idiocy is failure. It's a failure to complete a task after knowing the process, the material. It's failure to complete a task right the first time. Failure is a dangerous thing, a slip-up that may remain in my mind forever, but not in the mind of others. It's a construct meant to haunt all overthinkers.

"Oliver."

My given name sounds odd rolling off his tongue so harshly, but I perk my ear in attention nonetheless. It's a habit. Oliver, a name I went by for so long. Dawn, a name I changed to only weeks ago. Oliver, a boy's name, one that fit the persona I didn't want to embody. A tomboy. Dawn, a girl's name, one that fit the persona I wanted. A girly, girl.

Somehow now, I don't find I clip either rank.

"Your phone sucks with privacy. I heard your conversation from outside the door it was so loud." Dax paces back, trailing outside my apartment's threshold. "And at the laundromat."

"Still quite the listener." Another laugh follows my statement, this time, less manic.

"Yeah, yeah. I guess I am." His shadow fades entirely, now under the glare of fluorescent hallway fixtures. "I can help you, I think. Two masterminds are better than one?" His mouth quirks upward.

"Really?"

"Yes, yes. What are friends for, Dawn?"

Dax, still quite the same person deep down in his core.

*sighs in relief*

I finished writing Eight Count the previous night... that took long enough.

I hope you all are enjoying thus far!

What do you think about Dax helping her?

Any thoughts on our MC?

What do you think is going to happen next?

Word count: 2,773