by Vi Keeland
But then I stop.
Sit up straight in bed.
Turn on the light.
Look around.
As if I’ve been caught.
But no one’s here, the apartment is quiet, and the only noise is in my head. It sounds like a radio tuned slightly wrong, static mixing with the song I used to know well.
Because something is wrong. Something is wrong with me.
I’ve only ever pictured Patrick. I don’t understand why he’s not coming out to play tonight, and yet I still feel this itch inside my bones to be touched, to be held, to be savored.
I throw off the covers, pace down the hall and check my phone that I left on the coffee table.
But there are no new messages and, honestly, I don’t even know who I’m waiting to hear from.
When I finally fall asleep, everything is still wrong, because I dream of the letters in the locked box by my bed. Letters living, breathing, creepily alive. Letters making demands. Letters being opened on the streets, and I try to grab them, and stuff them back inside, but they’re rippling away in the wind, and I can’t reach them anymore to hide them.
* * *
The next morning, I skip my run. I shower quickly, get dressed and take one of the letters from the wooden box. Then I catch a train to Brooklyn and head for Prospect Park.
I clutch the piece of notebook paper in my right hand, my fingers digging into the faded words, now smudged from all the times I’ve read this one, the first of the handful of letters Aaron sent me after we split. I walk deeper into the park, following the path by memory from having explored every inch of this place while growing up nearby. I spent so many days here with my brothers, riding bikes, climbing trees, playing hide and seek. When I was a teenager, I relearned all the corners of this oasis in Brooklyn that were perfect for stolen kisses, for first tastes of beers, for moonlit make out sessions far away from parental eyes. But I haven’t set foot in Prospect Park since Aaron. Not since the last time I saw him under Terrace Bridge.
Now I have to because I can’t keep holding onto the pieces of the past. I can’t keep carrying all this blame with me. My life is changing, it’s unfurling before me, and if I don’t free myself from the past it’ll keep haunting me. I weave down the path that leads under the bridge, remembering how green and lush the trees were the last time I was here.
Thick emerald bushes and branches hang low and burst with life as the sun casts warm golden rays. My heart pounds loudly against my chest, drowning out the lone squawk of a hardy crow circling overhead, scanning for crumbs on the barren ground.
The cobblestones curve under the rusted green bridge, and my feet nearly stop when I see the bench with its wooden slats. He waited for me at the bench, looking so sad, but so determined, too. Memories flood me, like a dam breaking.
“Please don’t do this to me.”
“It’s the only way.”
“No, we can try again. We can start over. I promise to be everything you want me to be.”
“I have to go. Please let me go.”
But he didn’t. He didn’t really let me go, and so I went from being a happy carefree seventeen-year-old to being completely fucked in the head. I realized I could break someone, and someone could break me. But then, I also clawed my way out. I threw myself into my acting, letting go of myself and all the emotions I hated being crushed with, and that’s when I fell for Patrick, for the opposite of all those cruel memories.
Now, I need to let them go so I can be free. I start with this one note.
My fingers are gripped so tightly around the paper that it feels as if they have to be pried off. But instead, I open my fist, one finger at a time, and it’s as if a piece of me is moving on. Then I stand in front of the garbage can and I tear up his words.
They flutter down into the metal can, unreadable, unknowable.
I don’t know what I have to do for you to love me again…
I wipe my hand against my cheek, and then inhale deeply. “It’s done.”
And I walk away.
Chapter 11
Davis
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
That’s how long my detox from Jill has lasted. No more stairwell encounters. No more meetings alone in my office. Nothing but the necessary interaction at rehearsals, and for the last week the assistant director has been working with the chorus on some of their numbers so I’ve rarely seen her.
Now, we’re blocking one of the dance numbers with Patrick, Alexis and some of the featured actors. I lean against the wall and watch the choreographer guide the actors through the bare-bones motions of what’s shaping up to be a sensuous number as Paolo and Ava dance on stage.
Then Alexis stops in the middle of a step. She raises a hand and waggles her fingers at me, sweetly, or feigned sweetly. Damn, that woman can act. Because I almost believe she’s about to ask some sort of thoughtful, curious question.
“Excuse me, Davis,” she says and is grinning ear to ear, as she gestures to stage right. She’s wearing a flouncy red dress. As she sashays to stage right, I suck in a breath because here it comes—the patented Alexis bit of input. “Wouldn’t it better, don’t you think, if say, we started this number right here—” she stops and gestures dramatically to the spot she’s deemed the proper starting point, then tips her forehead to the back of the room “—instead of back there?”
Right. Now she’s the choreographer too.
“No. We’ll start the number where we always start the number.”
“Of course, Davis,” she continues, still smiling, still syrupy. “But have you considered it might be better if we started it here?”
“No. I haven’t considered it, nor do I plan to. Let’s go through the song.”
I walk to the back and sit down as the actors resume the choreography. After the first few steps, a phone rings, loud and bleating, sounding out the overture from Fate Can Wait.
“Oops.” Alexis clasps her hand over her mouth and bats her eyes. Then she removes her hand. The chorus from that wretched show plays again. “My bad,” she says in an offhand way. “I must have forgotten to turn off my phone.”
She grabs her purse from the floor, roots around in it, and snags her phone. “Oh,” she says in a long, drawn-out voice, then taps a nail against the screen. “I should probably take this call. It may be a bit.”
She scampers out of the rehearsal studio, letting the door fall hard behind her. The room is silent for an awkward moment. I turn to Shannon, the stage manager.
“Can you get Jill please?”
She leaves to find Jill in one of the other studios, and they return shortly. Seeing the way she’s dressed tests my resolve.
“We’re working on the song ‘Paint It Red,’” I tell her, trying to ignore the fact that she looks even more stunning in her dance leggings. The trouble is they leave nothing to the imagination about the shape and curves of her body, her tiny waist, her strong legs that I want to wrap around my hips as I lift her up and push her against the wall. “The lines leading up to the song.”
Her face lights up at the chance to do the scene even in rehearsal, reminding me of how she started to work her way into my head from the day I met her with that sweetness, that bright-eyed excitement. Within seconds she’s at the front of the room with Patrick, who flashes her a grin that instantly twists my stomach. It’s a smile only an actor like him can serve up. The kind of smile movie stars give and it melts panties off women. The kind of smile I can’t stand seeing him give to Jill, so I look away briefly because I don’t want to see her reaction.
I clasp my fingers tightly together as they run through the scene, trying to focus on the performance. Jill doesn’t even need the pages. She has the lines memorized, and she’s hitting the right emotional notes too. She’s so at home playing this character. I’m impressed, but then I’m not surprised. Patrick is his usual self, pulling off the nuance, the narcissism, but also that random b
it of playfulness in Paolo. They segue into the song, one that calls for them to tango briefly before they begin crooning to each other, confessing their burgeoning feelings with music. As they link hands, the worm of jealousy inside me balloons, slithers around my heart and lungs, tightening, threatening to strangle me from the inside out.
I drop my head in my hands. I can’t stand watching her with him, and it’s only one scene. One fucking make-believe scene.
“All done!”
Alexis calls out cheerfully, announcing her reentry into the studio, not even caring that she’s interrupting the number. But for once, she hasn’t pissed me off. For one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her center-of-the-universe ways, and my internal organs thank her because my envy starts to subside.
“Alexis, take it from here,” I say to her and gesture carelessly toward the front of the room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”
Alexis resumes her post and Jill retreats, surprising me by taking a seat next to me. Strange, because she’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and she’s lit up like the sun, shining brightly from her brief moment in front of a very small crowd. She locks eyes with me, and all I want is to ask her to have dinner with me so I can spend time with her away from here. Get to know her. Hear her stories. Learn what makes her tick. “Thank you,” she says, with so much happiness in her expression. “I loved that. Even though it was only for a few minutes.”
I stay impassive. I have to keep it professional with her, even though every single thing about her threatens to ensnare me further, especially that hopefulness, that sheer joy she has in her job. “Like I said before, you’ll likely be needed for this show,” I say.
“I saw the call sheet for the next few weeks. The stage manager has me scheduled with Brayden, the understudy for Patrick,” she says, and when she breathes my lead actor’s name, she glances at the front of the studio where he’s running through the song with Alexis. Jill practically inhales him with her eyes and as she lingers on Patrick, I connect the dots. She has free reign to gaze at him with reckless abandon since he’s on stage. She can stare longingly without it being obvious, and that’s what she’s doing. She’s gazing at him and sighing happily.
As I watch her watching him with such affection in her eyes, a hot stab of jealousy pierces clear through my chest. It hurts worse than I’ve ever experienced. More than I’ve ever felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar emotion because there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me now. Reaching new heights.
He’s the one she’s in love with.
Patrick fucking Carlson.
My lead actor.
I leave the studio without a word and head to the bathroom. I turn on the cold water, and wash my face. I do it again, and again and again, jealousy still burning through me. I grip the edge of the sink, wanting to rip it out from the wall with my hands.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I hardly know her, and I can’t get her out of my system. I don’t want to go down this path again with an actress, I don’t want to take another chance. But yet, the prospect of her with another man feels far worse, and it’s consuming me because I don’t want her to be with Patrick what-so-fucking-ever. I can’t watch that happen under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned substances list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall more deeply into love on my stage, in my show, in front of me.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York are in worse shape than they should be. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he wants. A man who knows one thing incredibly well—his job. Who can devote endless hours to work. Who can move actors around like chess pieces. Who can bring out the best in them. Who’s earned awards for doing just that.
For knowing exactly how to handle actors.
I let go of my hold on the sink, turn off the water, and dry my hands, each move a step in my new strategy. Because I’m not the director for nothing.
I make the fucking rules.
I can change the rules.
I can make the rules work for me.
She’s not mine, but she can’t be his.
I return to the rehearsal room, sit down next to her and take some small bit of victory when she looks away from him and at me.
“You’re not going to rehearse with Brayden,” I tell her.
She looks crestfallen. “Why? I don’t understand.”
“Because I’m going to rehearse you as Ava. You’ll rehearse with me.”
Chapter 12
Jill
During a break in rehearsal the next day, Shelby pulls me into the group dressing room that all the chorus gals share.
“What is it?”
She pats the chair in front of the mirror. “Sit. Time for your hair stylist to work her magic.”
“Braid me, baby,” I joke.
“No. I changed my mind. You need a French twist. Something ridiculously alluring.”
“Does that mean a French braid is too innocent?”
“It means right now I’m in the mood for getting my fingers into a twist,” she says and bumps me with her hip then pushes my shoulders, forcing me to sit down.
“Do your thing then, Miss Broadway Stylist.”
Grabbing a water bottle from the dressing room table, she sprays a bit of mist to smooth out my hair, humming along to the number we worked on earlier today. I watch in the mirror as her fingers weave and thread, twisting and tightening until minutes later, she declares “Ta da.”
She hands me a mirror, and swivels me around. I hold it up and check out the back of my head. A classy, sophisticated twist. Like something a movie star would wear on the red carpet. I hop off the chair, and kneel down in front of her, bowing. “I’m not worthy. I’m not worthy,” I tease.
“Oh, shut up. It was fun. And besides, that gets my desire to style out of my system for the day.”
“You can use me anytime,” I say and we return for another round of dancing and singing and working with the music director, while our director spends the afternoon with the stars. Then, everyone leaves and it’s only Davis and me.
* * *
We are alone in the rehearsal studio.
“Your hair is up.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t have it up earlier today,” he says matter-of-factly, as if he’s merely reporting on his day’s observations. But his observations are about me. Self-consciously, I bring my hand to my neck, nervously brushing away a few loose tendrils. “I can take it down.”
He shakes his head. “Leave it up. It works for Ava.”
“For Ava?”
He nods. “Yes. For Ava,” he says, emphatically, making it clear that this rehearsal is all about Ava. That’s 100 percent fine with me.
He takes a seat at the piano. I’ve never seen him play before. “You play?”
He nods. “I’m not a virtuoso. But I play enough.”
He plays a bit of Für Elise. Perfectly. “Not well, my ass,” I say, because I do far better with Davis when I can tease him, like that first night at Sardi’s. If we’re going to get past our awkwardness, I’ll need to treat him like a buddy, like Reeve. I have plenty of guy friends, and there’s no reason he can’t move into the friend zone. Because when he’s all serious and intense, I feel as if I’m walking on unsteady ground. “I bet you speak French too. And you’re probably a pilot as well.”
He laughs once. “No. I don’t speak French. Nor do I claim a seat in the cockpit when I fly.”
He seems to enjoy saying the word cockpit. Fine, he seems to enjoy saying one syllable in the word cockpit. He watches me from his post on the bench, his dark blue eyes like magnets. He stares hard but with a playful glint, as if he expects me to flinch first. I swallow and look away.
“Nor am I a gourmet cook,” he adds. “In fact, I can’t cook at all. I prefer takeout. I also don’t own a yacht, or know how to work a y
acht, or a schooner, or any type of sailboat.”
He’s playing me now. I know he likes to dress people down, to put actors in their place. Part of me thinks he may be berating me for talking back or sassing. But yet, he’s never treated me badly. Still, I go with my gut and keep up the banter since it’s easier than the alternative. “But do you like opera?”
He shoots me the barest of grins, then coaxes out a quick few notes on the piano. I recognize the music. It’s from Carmen by Bizet.
“Habanera. Love is a rebellious bird,” I say, tossing back the common name for the aria he’s playing. “Though, I’m not an opera fan.”
“I don’t care for opera either. I like Carmen though, and the way she moves. I’d like this song better if it were played like this.”
I lean on the piano and watch his hands move over the keys. He has a scar across his right hand, a long jagged worm from the wrist all the way to his ring finger. Like someone cut him. Or he cut someone. I wonder if he even tells anyone how it happened. If he’d tell me if I asked.
His fingers move quickly on the keys, and he’s turned Carmen’s aria into a rock tune, changing the speed, mixing it up, so it’s got this low, sexy beat that sounds like the song he was playing in his office a month ago.
The song I told him I loved. The song he turned off. Now he’s shifting from Carmen to Muse, and it’s as if he’s playing “Madness” just for me, telling me something, using music instead of words. My cheeks feel hot as he plays, his eyes on me the whole time.
He says nothing as the music fills the room, and it feels like it’s spreading through my body, and I have this strange sensation of being his instrument, as if the notes he’s hitting are being played in me. Neither one of us speaks, there is only music between us, but I know the lyrics behind every note, and when he reaches come on and rescue me, it all becomes too much. “You lied. You said you didn’t play well.”
He shakes his head. “I said I’m not a virtuoso. I didn’t say I didn’t play well. But I don’t want to talk about me anymore, Jill,” he says in a commanding voice. He’s turned from playful to powerful. I straighten my spine in response, standing taller, no longer leaning on the piano. He’s all business. I need to let go of my overwhelming need to lighten every situation.