The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  She smiled and squeezed my hand back. “Yes, I can totally believe it.”

  Between rehearsals, I spent the next few days showing them my favorite haunts around the city, and in a flash it was opening night. That evening, in a tizzy of nerves and panic, my stomach once again reminded me who was in charge, and I vomited my lunch all over the floor of my dressing room. Michael, anticipating my stage fright (perhaps also fearing for his shoes), had a mop standing by.

  Just before the music began, Michael found me. He was as nervous as I was, and we clung to each other for a moment before he headed out to watch from the house.

  “Grace, you’ll be amazing. I know it. I’m so glad you’re in this show,” he whispered. “Knock ’em dead.” He kissed me on the cheek and went out to pace.

  I gathered myself, centered myself, and when I heard my cue, I walked onstage. And I was home once more.

  I floated about three feet above the floor all night. I let myself go, gave myself over completely to the character, and just . . . was. I gave it everything: my excitement over my move back to Los Angeles, the thrill of being a part of this industry again, the pain from my recent breakup with Jack, the confusion of my almost-something with Michael—all of it. Everything about this exact second of my life, and all the experiences that had brought me here, came out onto that stage with me and helped me create a performance I could do again and again and never grow tired of. I’d never stop finding something new. I felt alive, exhilarated, and scared to death, and I loved every second of it.

  I felt the audience and the energy they gave me. They laughed when Mabel laughed, cried when Mabel cried, and we went through it together. That’s the thing about live theater. It’s different every night, and when you’re truly there and truly present, it’s magic. Pure and simple.

  When the curtain came down and the cast assembled for bows, I finally let myself feel it. I’d made it to where I’d wanted to be since I was seven, singing along to My Fair Lady in front of the mirror, a Ken doll as my scene partner. Since I’d auditioned for my first play at eleven, singing “Memories” like every other damn kid in the country. Since I’d won my first leading role when I was fourteen and played Maria in The Sound of Music. Since I’d seen Rent and bawled my eyes out at the thought this was no longer within my grasp.

  So to stand in the spotlight, hear the applause, and know the people I loved were onstage with me and in the audience, and that I was making a living doing something I would gladly do for free?

  I lost it. I cried and laughed simultaneously as Leslie pushed me out front for my very own curtain call.

  And that’s when I saw him. Standing next to Holly and Nick, with a smile as big as I’d ever seen, was my Brit. He clapped harder than anyone else in the audience, with a look of such pride—and all three of them probably had bruised hands, from the way they carried on.

  And if I’m being honest? I fucking killed it!

  I was five different kinds of thrilled. He came! He came for me on my big night. My tears flowed as I smiled huge.

  After the curtain call, I paced nervously in my dressing room. The cast was in and out, offering congratulations. Michael was on cloud nine, and the early feedback from investors in the audience was good. I knew Holly and Nick would be coming backstage, but would Jack be with them? Surely he wouldn’t fly all the way out here and then not come see me. Would he?

  I continued to eat Tums like they were going out of style, and I heard a soft knock on my door.

  “Yeah?” I said through a mouthful of chalky grit and opened the door.

  “These are for you, Grace.” One of the stagehands handed me the biggest bunch of peonies I’d ever seen. Where anyone found peonies in late November was beyond me, but there they were. As I peered through the blooms, I found a snack pack of Chex Mix buried inside, with a Post-it note attached. I laughed out loud as I read the “card.”

  Congratulations, Gracie.

  This celebratory Chex Mix should help settle your tummy.

  If you like, save the melba toasts and bring them to me tomorrow at lunch???

  Jack

  P.S. You were radiant.

  I looked out into the hallway to see if he was there, but all I saw was a flash of Holly as she barreled into me.

  “Oh, girl, you were fierce!” Nick cried, taking the opportunity to look down my robe and nod approvingly at my boobies.

  “Thanks, Nick. I’m glad you enjoyed it. Holly! Hey, Holly?” I tried to dislodge my best friend from her death grip on me.

  Finally, she released me and attempted to clear her throat. “You were great, ya little fruitcake,” she said, her voice gruff and thick.

  “Thanks, dear. Wait a minute. Are you crying? Holly, no . . .” I gasped as she raised her eyes to me.

  “Oh, shut up, asshead. You were amazing, okay? I’m allowed to cry once every ten years. Now piss off,” she warned, smacking me lightly on the cheek. She saw me looking over her shoulder toward the hallway, and she smacked me a little harder.

  “He went back to his hotel, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me he was coming!” I sank into my chair, beginning to remove my makeup. Nick quickly started brushing out my hair, not wanting to miss a word of what was going on. It was amazing how quickly things fell back to normal with us.

  “I didn’t know until the last minute. He asked me last week when your opening was, and then the next thing I knew, he had a ticket waiting at Will Call next to mine tonight. Go figure,” she said, tossing her hair and looking away too quickly.

  “Hmm,” I said, eyeing my face in the mirror. Nick was chuckling behind me.

  “And what, may I ask, is so funny, mister?”

  “Holly was talking about your opening.” He giggled, and I rolled my eyes.

  “So he mentioned something about lunch?” I added, looking at her sideways to see if she would dish the dirt.

  “Yes, I’ve been instructed to provide you with the details of where Mr. Hamilton will be dining tomorrow, precisely at noon, if you should be so inclined,” she answered, her eyes dancing.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d finally be able to talk to my George and ask him if I could be his Gracie again. I’d have to come clean about a lot of things, but it was time. Feeling immensely relieved—and thrilled to have Holly and Nick at my side—I set off for a celebratory dinner with the cast. My two-drink rule was back in full enforcement, and I went to bed that night feeling proud, confident my eyes would be cabbage-free in the morning, and a teeny bit hopeful.

  The next day, a few minutes before noon, I walked into the Four Seasons. I let the concierge know I was a guest of Jack Hamilton, as I’d been instructed to do, and he immediately said, “Ah, yes. Ms. Sheridan? Yes, Mr. Hamilton is expecting you in one of our private dining rooms. Allow me?” he asked, taking my coat and gesturing toward a semi-hidden elevator.

  We went up a few floors, then he took me to an ornate door at the end of a darkly paneled hallway. As he prepared to open the door, I smoothed my skirt. I had nixed several outfits before settling finally on this one: a trim black skirt with a soft pink angora sweater. Fabulous tits (my strong point in this scenario) and black boots completed the look, and the nervous smile on my face hopefully didn’t show everything. I took a breath, and he opened the door.

  Jack sat at a table for two, facing the door. He rose when I came in, and I was struck stupid once again at how beautiful he was. The face, the curls, the eyes were the same, but the smile was sad. I was the cause of that sadness, and shame gripped me once more.

  Suck it up, lady. It’s time to sing for your supper.

  As much as I wanted to run to him and throw my arms around him—and my legs for that matter—protocol and our last encounter precluded this. So I waited for him to make the first move. We both stood, staring, and finally the concierge broke the tension by asking us to let him know when we were ready for lunch. Jack nodded, and we were left alone.

&n
bsp; “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself,” he said, and just hearing his voice brought tears to my eyes.

  “Thank you for the flowers. They were beautiful.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And the Chex Mix—that was a nice touch,” I added.

  He grinned. “I thought so.”

  We were silent for a few seconds, then we both spoke at the same time.

  “The show was great—”

  “Thank you for coming last night—”

  We laughed, and the tension eased a bit. I stepped a little closer to him, and he moved toward me as well. I set my bag down and admired the room. Wood paneling, gilded mirrors—it was beautiful. When I turned back toward him, he was right behind me. Having him so close affected me as it always did, and before I could stop myself, I reached for him.

  We fell into each other’s arms, instantly molding into what was once so familiar, and was now so desperately missed. My skin remembered his. His touch and his scent filled my head. Once again, tears sprang to my eyes as I clutched him to me. I felt his lips graze the top of my head, and I absolutely melted. I lifted my face up, my lips seeking his.

  But then his arms straightened, and I found myself back where I was when I’d first walked in: alone.

  “I can’t do this, Grace. I can’t just see you and hold you and have everything go back to the way it was,” he said, his eyes roaming over me.

  When they finally came back to my eyes I saw such hurt there, and . . . anger?

  “I’ve been trying to decide what I wanted to say to you for weeks now. I was so angry with you, Gracie. I am so angry with you.” He sighed and turned from me, running his hands through his hair.

  “I know. You have every reason to be angry with me, but if I can just—”

  And he snapped.

  “Dammit, Grace. I don’t want to hear it! If I have to listen to you say again that we aren’t right for each other, I’ll seriously lose my shit. Do you have any idea what it was like to hear that from you? Now you’ll sit there, and you’ll listen to what I have to say,” he instructed, pointing to the chair across from his.

  Surprised by his vehemence, I sat and waited for what I surely had coming to me. I owed him that. I owed him more.

  He began to pace, and I was struck again by how hurt he was. I had truly broken his heart.

  “What you did that night . . . was thoughtless and so cruel. And I don’t mean choosing the worst possible night for your little flip-out, I mean ending this relationship without even discussing it with me. What we’ve gone through, what we’ve shared— Jesus, Grace, if that meant so little to you that you couldn’t even try to explain your feelings to me, well, that makes me question everything I thought you felt for me. Maybe you never really loved me.”

  He choked out that last bit, and with that I was out of the chair and in front of him.

  “No! That’s not true, I—”

  He looked at me fiercely. “Grace, seriously. I really need you to shut up right now and let me get this out,” he warned.

  I fell silent again, returned to my chair, and nodded for him to continue.

  “But then I realized that was too easy. That was bullshit. Because I know you, Grace, and I know you loved me. I know you still love me. Whatever you think is too much to get around, or push through, or work past, I know it isn’t—because you love me. And, fuck me, but I love you too,” he said, and abruptly stopped pacing. He looked me square in the eye, his green eyes blazing.

  “So if you think for a second I’m going to let you end this without giving me a legitimate reason, you are truly crazier than I thought. I’m in this thing with you, a willing participant, and you can’t decide for both of us,” he finished, and we stared at each other.

  I watched as his face darkened with tension, waiting for me to argue with him.

  “Can I say something? Please?” I asked, and his eyes grew dark as well. I hated myself for hurting the person in the world I loved more than anyone else. The one who was made for me.

  “I think you damn well better,” he huffed, slouching into the chair across from me.

  I took a deep breath, knowing I needed to come clean on everything.

  “You’re absolutely right that I can’t make decisions like that for both of us. You’re also right that I was cruel. I’m sick over what I put you through. I was and am so proud of you, and I hate to think I ruined your big night. It was childish and reactive and wholly inappropriate,” I said. “And most important, I am very, very sorry.”

  He nodded in agreement, and I continued.

  “I need to try to explain why I said the things I said, why I decided the things I did. Maybe that will help you understand the true level of crazy you’re dealing with here,” I said, and he smiled briefly at the word crazy. I allowed myself one tiny swell of excitement at the thought he might let me be his Crazy again, then I launched in.

  “See, Jack, the thing is, when I came to L.A. the first time, well, things didn’t go exactly according to plan,” I began, and as I told my story, I lived it again. I saw it all happen and went through the emotions of realizing I wasn’t nearly as special and unique as I’d thought I was. I remembered how I came to the difficult decision to leave L.A.

  “Holly nearly throttled me, she was so mad,” I said, feeling the waves of self-loathing all over again. “She called me a quitter and told me she couldn’t believe I was giving up so easily. Part of me knew she was right, but part of me also believed that show business wasn’t the right place for me. So I went home. And I went back to school.”

  I told him all about the work I discovered for myself. How I enjoyed the writing and the educational details I worked on with clients. I told him how that was good enough for a while, but then I started to change.

  “I worked all day and all night, but from home. I could go days without actually seeing anyone, and while the relationships I had with my clients were good, I kept myself very isolated,” I said. “I, well, I put on some weight. And then some more weight, and, well, eventually—you saw my picture. I stopped dating. I didn’t allow myself to meet anyone or take a chance on anything. Holly came home to see me once, and even though she never said anything, I knew she was disappointed in me,” I said, thinking back to the sad look she had when she saw me for the first time in years.

  She’d caught herself and recovered quickly, and we went on to have a wonderful girls’ weekend. But I could still feel the awkward pain of knowing that when she thought I wasn’t looking, she was looking. She was watching, and she was worried. But I made myself forget it. I pushed it down and away and continued on with my life, such as it was.

  “Jack, I was so introverted at that point— All the stuff you say you love about me? The crazy? You wouldn’t even have recognized me back then, and I don’t just mean physically.” I sniffed, the tears beginning to collect and spill over. But I wiped my nose on my sleeve and pushed on.

  “Eventually, I realized leaving L.A. had been harder for me to deal with than I thought. It represented all the things I grew up wanting, but when they didn’t come easy, I quit. Holly was right: I was a quitter. And to ignore that, to push that down, I coped the only way I knew how. I just withdrew. And as the layers of protection added up, I shut down. I don’t know what I would have done or what I would have become, if it wasn’t for one totally random night when my few friends dragged me out.” I sniffed again, feeling my emotions threaten to overwhelm me. But I welcomed them, as it meant I was feeling something again.

  I told him about going to see Rent and how it had reawakened something inside me. How it changed me, altered my course, reminded me of who I was, and revealed who I’d let myself become. As I talked about the power I felt, sitting in that theater, Jack’s face came alive and he nodded. He seemed to know exactly the feeling I was talking about. I explained how that night had become the catalyst for everything in my life to change. In the following weeks and months I started counseling, began working with a train
er, and began to allow myself to dream about the life I’d always wanted again.

  “And even though you might not want to hear this part, at that point, I hadn’t been on a date in years—years! When I started to feel better about myself, and I began to look more like myself, I found I enjoyed being in the company of men again . . . I might have gone a little crazy,” I added with a shy smile.

  He just grinned back, and I felt lighter and lighter as I continued, explaining how I’d battled my way all the way back to L.A. and letting go of the black fear I was still cloaked in—even after all this time.

  I told him our relationship had taken me by surprise, and I was unprepared for how completely he’d captured my heart and loved me, crazy and all. I told him I loved him so intensely it scared the shit out of me.

  “But, Jack, as much as I’ve fixed things on the outside, there’s still a lot of work to do on the inside. That’s still very much a work in progress, and my baggage, sadly, has become your baggage. The meltdown at your premiere? That’s evidence right there. Do you know how hard it is for me to even conceptualize that you want to be with me? With everyone in the world wanting you, you want to be with me.” I shook my head in wonder. “That’s a heady thing for any woman—especially one with such big issues.”

  He started to speak and reached for me, but I took his hands and asked him to bear with me just a bit longer.

  Then I told him the truth about the relationship Michael and I had in college. I told him how Michael and I had been closer since I’d moved to New York, and that this had made me question what was “right” and “appropriate” and “good” for me. I told him how Keili had put me on the baby train, making me question things I thought had been decided years ago. I’d had some major tunnel vision.

  On the morning of the premiere—fueled by nerves and paranoia—I saw myself, in my mind’s eye, with children I didn’t even know I wanted. And rather than discuss it, or let the idea marinate a bit, I immediately dove for the opposite end of the spectrum, where the idea of Jack and me, and the idea of children, could never coexist.