Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “Come in here,” Reed says, taking my hand and pulling me into his bedroom. The apartment smells like a boy; it has the vague odor of dirty hair. He, however, smells like sandalwood soap. I kick off my heels, my bare feet sinking into the suspiciously crunchy wall-to-wall carpeting.

  “You’re short,” he says.

  “What are you going to do about it?” I ask in a husky voice, which sends him into a fit of laughter.

  “I’m going to rest my chin on your head,” he says, pulling me close and doing just that. With his palm on the small of my back he presses me close to him. I shut my eyes and lean into him.

  “I feel dizzy,” I say.

  “Then you’d better sit down.” He leads me to the bed.

  “Or maybe I’d better lie down. Just as a safety precaution.” I stretch out on his pilling navy-blue comforter. I roll onto my side and pat the space next to me. “You’d better lie down, too.”

  “You’re funny,” he says, lying next to me. I move closer and kiss him. His lips are warm. I close my eyes. “And hot.” He unzips my dress and slips his hand down my back. I lift the dress over my head, shivering.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” He looks me in the eye.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m sure.”

  “As long as you know that I’m not really looking for a commitment.”

  “Let’s just go with it and see what happens.”

  “Okay.” He pulls off his shirt, revealing the cut body I’ve only touched over his clothes. He pulls off his jeans, smiling at me. His body is so beautiful, I feel like I’m watching a movie. He hooks his fingers in my underwear and pulls them off. I’m really glad I wore nice ones today.

  Then he produces a condom from a bedside drawer, and it happens. It happens fast and is over even more quickly than it began. He rolls over and within seconds is asleep. I just had sex, I think as I stare at the ceiling. S-E-X. I’ve only ever had sex with Alex. I can’t even wrap my head around it, let alone my feelings.

  At 4 a.m., after several hours of trying to sleep, I find clean socks and a T-shirt in his dresser drawer and venture to the bathroom. The shower curtain has a map of the New York subway, showing that at one point, Reed had an inspired moment—a thought that he was going to decorate his bathroom with something cool—but this spirit was obviously quickly abandoned. The yellowing, once-white towels droop over the top of the shower. I peek inside. The white rack that hangs from the showerhead has left a rusty print of itself on the tiled wall. An old bar of soap has molded itself to the bottom rung. The tub is faintly gray.

  I shut the shower curtain and turn to the medicine cabinet. I open it, hoping to scrounge up some kind of sleeping pill. I scan the contents of the cabinet. There’s a pack of condoms, a tampon (relic of another girl?), and a bottle of antifungal cream, whose package I recognize from my battle with athlete’s foot. There’s a box of Theraflu that expired six months ago and—yes!—generic sleeping aids. I pop two in my mouth, stick my mouth under the tap, and swallow them.

  I take a seat on the closed toilet and check out the bathroom literature. Next to the toilet is a stack of Maxim magazines with a couple of Men’s Health thrown in. Beneath them is porn. I’ve never seen porn before, but the expression that you know it when you see it holds up. It’s so strange. The breasts look like inflated birthday balloons. The hairless vaginas and anuses are fanned out with fingers. It’s almost scientific. I guess I hadn’t thought too much about what porn was or what it looked like, but I thought it would be more romantic or sensual. I thought that maybe the ladies would be eating chocolate naked on animal-skin rugs or standing under a waterfall or wearing nothing but velvet capes and masks. This is so bare and unadorned. I can’t even tell where the women are. Are they on the floor? In a bed? In jail? This is what guys want? They want to look at close-ups of waxed assholes? I hear heavy footsteps approaching and instinctively throw my hand on the doorknob, which twists, with some pressure, against my hand.

  “Occupied,” I say, the porn spread on my lap.

  “Oh, sorry,” a voice grumbles. It’s not Reed. Must be his roommate.

  “One sec,” I say lightly, and carefully put the porn back under the stack of Maxims. I needlessly flush the toilet and turn on the tap as if I’m washing my hands. On second thought, I should absolutely be washing my hands after leafing through those periodicals. After a thorough scrubbing, I open the door for his roommate, a Viking type clad in boxer shorts and a stained white T-shirt. The porn must be his. Reed is a hippie of sorts. Hippies don’t like porn. Right?

  “Hey,” the roommate grumbles.

  “Hey,” I say with a bowed head, pulling the T-shirt over my thighs. I make my way back to Reed’s room. I get in bed next to him, under the unfamiliar quilt. He shifts a little but doesn’t put an arm around me. I’m glad. I’d like him to want to put an arm around me, but not to actually do it.

  It takes time to really feel something for someone, I think, looking at his chiseled, peaceful face. I turn away from him, curled on my side. I close my eyes, hoping that the sleeping pills will kick in.

  I bet at our next rehearsal we’ll kiss backstage, or at least hold hands. Maybe we’ll become a Hollywood power couple, I think. I imagine us drinking coffee and reading Variety, then later helping each other with our lines. We’ll go to parties together—parties like last night. And through the ups and downs of our acting careers, which of course will be mostly ups, we’ll encourage and celebrate each other. As two artists we’ll really understand each other. I’m getting ahead of myself, I know, but still. I turn and face him. He’s snoring quietly, but I’m awake like a traffic light on a dark, desolate street, changing color for no one.

  “Becca, time to wake up.” Reed is shaking me. I try to sit up, but the sleeping pills seem to have added several pounds to my head; it feels like a turkey. I glance at the digital clock. It’s 8:30 a.m. “I’m working brunch today,” he says. “We’ve got to be out of here in, like, five minutes.” So much for chocolate-chip pancakes. He hands me my balled-up dress.

  “You okay?” Reed asks, quietly laughing, as I walk into the door frame.

  “I’m in a bit of a fog,” I mutter, rubbing my head. I find the bathroom and brush my teeth with my finger. I pull my dress on and check my voice mail for messages. Nothing.

  “Hey, do you have an agent?” I ask when I get back to his room. As I watch him get dressed I almost can’t believe how hot he is. He has an actual six-pack.

  “Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t offer any more information. He looks up at me as he puts on his shoes, grinning. “Wait, were you just using me for my connections? Sleeping your way to the top?”

  “Ha-ha,” I say. “Yeah, right!”

  When we step outside his apartment building in Echo Park, it’s raining in sheets. We stand under the tiny awning. I wrap my arms around myself. This would be a good time for Reed to offer me his jacket, but he’s staring into the distance. I take a breath, hoping he’ll say something romantic.

  “Where’s your car?” he asks.

  “We took an Uber last night, remember? Anyway, I don’t drive.”

  “I’d give you a ride home, but if I’m late, my manager’s going to rip me a new one,” he says.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Hey.” He lifts his chin in acknowledgement. “Thanks for last night.”

  My instinct is to say you’re welcome, but that makes me feel like a hooker. Before I have a chance to respond, he turns his back. I watch his agile body dart across the street to his Hyundai with runner’s form.

  I take the bus back to the Chateau. When I get there, I pass by Raj’s door and pray that I don’t see him.

  THE NEXT DAY, I wait for some kind of contact from Reed. Nothing. I don’t get a phone call or a text. I remember Marisol telling me that I wasn’t a damsel in distress and that if I want to talk to a guy, there’s no reason I shouldn’t just text him. But reaching out didn’t exactly go well for me last time. The idea of hav
ing a conversation that has any possible echoes of the one with Alex is enough to send the blood pooling to my feet, forcing me to put my head between my knees.

  I’m nervous to show up at the theater, not only because of Reed, but also because, oh my God, what if Amelia is there? I can’t eat all day. How did this experience go from awesome to terrifying in less than twenty-four hours?

  Reed nods hello when he arrives that night. I nod back. What are we, business associates passing on the street? During the show, he’s polite to me, but he’s not acknowledging what happened. I’m in uncharted waters. The only person I’ve ever slept with is Alex, and we had been together for a year before we did it. The distance Reed is keeping from me makes it hard for me to focus. Young Anna is anxious, too, I remind myself. She’s out of her depths and trying to play it cool. I surrender to the feeling and do my best. But while my scene flies by, I feel like I’m a little out of sync. Still, when I take my bow, I get plenty of applause. After the show, I ask Reed if we can talk.

  “Sure, sport,” he says. Sport? “What’s up?”

  “Um…We had sex last night,” I whisper. We’re standing in a pretty public hallway of the theater. He blushes, like I’m embarrassing him by bringing it up.

  “But I thought you understood,” he says. “I told you I’m not looking for a commitment.” Panic flashes across his face. “You were very clear about consent.”

  “Of course I was. I wanted to do it.”

  “I’m sorry, kid. I don’t understand the problem.”

  Kid? “It wasn’t permission to deny what happened.”

  “Okay,” he says, watching the door behind me. “I’m sorry. I thought I was clear. I was, wasn’t I?”

  “I guess so,” I say, feeling my brow furrow. I really do feel like we’re nothing more than acquaintances.

  “Can we be cool now?” he asks.

  “I guess so,” I say. You’ve seen my naked body! I want to shout. You kissed my ankles! But he’s just looking at me like I’m his mail carrier or something.

  “But listen,” he says, giving me a penetrating stare now that he’s been let off the hook. “You have an amazing energy. You should let go more. It’s good for your acting.”

  “Thanks.” I have to restrain myself from slapping his gorgeous face.

  Anger is my fuel, I think and promise myself that I’ll kick ass in this show every night. Pour your energy into your art!

  Reed winks at me. Ugh. I could punch him. I get dressed quickly but linger to see if anyone is going anywhere tonight. I don’t want to go home. Kingman is outside having a smoke by the stage door.

  “Can I bum one?” I ask, stepping into the cool night air. I don’t know why I’m asking. It just seems like the kind of thing a pissed-off actress should do.

  Kingman looks at me sideways. “You smoke?”

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Then no fucking way,” he says with a smile. “It’s a totally disgusting habit.”

  The front door opens and slams and I gasp at what I think is the silhouette of Juice Man. He’s walking away from us—I swear I could recognize his spritely gait anywhere.

  “Do you by any chance know who that guy is?” I ask. Kingman furrows his brow as I point. “The one about to turn the corner.”

  “I really can’t tell from here,” Kingman says.

  “I see him everywhere,” I say. “It’s the strangest thing.”

  “We did have a bunch of industry comps tonight,” Kingman says. Industry comps are free tickets for people like agents, managers, casting people, and press.

  “That’s so cool,” I say. At first I’m excited, but then I remember that tonight didn’t exactly feel like my best performance.

  “You were fine,” Kingman says, as if he can read my mind. “Don’t sweat it.”

  But I do sweat it, because the very fact that he’s telling me not to indicates that something was off.

  “I felt like I was kind of forcing it,” I say. I realize that this is the longest social conversation we’ve ever had. If he thinks I’m a jerk for asking his wife for an agent, he doesn’t show it. He leans against the railing and inhales his cigarette.

  “Next time just take the shit out of it.”

  “Take the shit out of it,” I repeat, trying to figure out what this means.

  “Just do it. No big show of emotions, no scenery chewing. Just get onstage and go after what you want.”

  “Yeah,” I say, getting it. “Okay.”

  “Don’t worry about yourself, just try to make your scene partners look good. Where are you from anyway?” he asks as he blows a smoke ring.

  “Massachusetts,” I say.

  “Mom and Dad paying the rent?” he asks without judgment.

  “Nope,” I say.

  He lifts his eyebrows and nods his head with what I think is respect. Then he stuffs his cigarette butt into an empty soda can.

  “See ya,” he says, and walks inside. “And can you sweep this landing up? It looks like crap.”

  “Sure,” I say. As I head toward the broom closet, I realize that I’ve just had the most profound conversation about acting that I’ve had since I arrived.

  Afterward, I catch the bus across from the giant car wash on Santa Monica Boulevard. My mind is back on Reed. I didn’t even like that guy that much, I tell myself as I step into the street and crane my neck to look for the bus. Two people who I think are prostitutes are standing on the other side of the street in short skirts and furry boots. This stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard is a famous spot for prostitutes to hang out. They’re laughing and sharing a cigarette, calling each other sugar and honey. I don’t even know Reed, I remind myself. A night with him was just supposed to be fun—no strings attached. So why does it feel like someone else just broke up with me? Was I lying to myself? Did I think it would be more than that, that he could get inside my heart and heal the wound that Alex left? Why do I even care?

  A couple walks by with their hands shoved in each other’s back pockets. The whole point of sleeping with him was to somehow burn off Alex. Did it work? Not really. I sigh as I pull my coat around my body. Except now I can’t stand guys more than ever!

  The bus pulls up at an alarming speed, screeching to a stop in front of me. It’s almost empty, and the driver has a crazed look in his eyes.

  “Come on in,” he says with a weird grin. He’s wearing headphones held together with duct tape. I step inside, take a seat up front, and clutch my purse.

  A FEW DAYS later the Variety review comes out. At 7 a.m. my phone explodes with group texts from the cast. I could look it up online, but I want to see it in print. I don’t bother changing out of my pajamas. I just slip on my sneakers. The streets are quiet and dark. I can see my breath in front of me as I jog to the Mayfair.

  I pick the top paper from the stack and search for the review. I find it and let the rest of the paper fall from my hands. It’s a rave. Most of it is about the play itself (“provocative,” “sharply directed,” “a gem”), with a focus on Pam (“stunning”) and Reed (“raw and brave,” “with James Dean looks”) and the cast as a whole (“a winning ensemble”), but I have one line, one beautiful string of black ink on newsprint, dedicated to me: “The winning gamine Becca Harrington shines as Young Anna.”

  Gamine. I search the definition online: a girl with mischievous charm. It makes me smile. It’s better than the Girl Next Door. I’m physically unable to stop smiling. I buy four copies of Variety.

  I call Mom, right there in the parking lot of the Mayfair.

  She answers on the first ring. “I’m getting ready to head to the airport, sweetie. Tell me, how cold—”

  “Mom, go online and find the review of the play in Variety. Now.”

  “Okay, okay,” she says. “Let me just get to my laptop. In the meantime, what are the temperatures like there at night? Should I bring a jacket?”

  “Yes, yes, bring a jacket—have you found it yet?”

  “I’m looking, I’m loo
king.…Okay, here it is. Company One, right?”

  “Yeah—are you reading it?” I ask.

  “Oh, sweetheart, this is good,” she says as she reads it to herself. “This reviewer liked it. That must make you feel really good.”

  “Keep reading, keep reading,” I say.

  And then I hear her gasp. “‘Winning gamine Becca Harrington shines as Young Anna.’ Oh my God! This is incredible. Variety! Honey, you’re a star!” I pull the phone away from my ear as she screams with delight. “Jesus H. Christ, wait until I tell Grandma. I’m going to get this framed. First I’m going to get it blown up. They do that at Staples, right?”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” I say, tears streaming down my face. It feels so good to have her be proud of me. It feels so, so good.

  “I’m going to see you so soon, and, sweetheart, we are going to celebrate.”

  “I haven’t gotten you a Christmas present yet,” I tell her. Maybe I’ll do one application today. Just one. For her.

  “Nothing could be better than wrapping my arms around you,” Mom says. “My winning gamine!”

  After my morning shift at Rocky’s, I’m thinking I’ll get that application done. But instead, Marisol and I spend the afternoon celebrating. We go for a hike in Griffith Park, and then I take her out for coffee and croissants at the French place in Los Feliz, which has been completely decked out for Christmas. Streetlamps are decorated with wreaths, and fake snow has been sprayed inside store windows. I can’t wait for Mom to get here. I can’t wait for her to see the show tonight. Marisol and I go to the little boutique. Instead of completing an application, I buy Mom the gauzy scarf I saw last week.

  “There’s my star!” Mom says as she climbs out of the cab in front of the Chateau. I run toward her and throw my arms around her neck. I squeeze her neck and don’t let go for at least a minute. The familiar smell of her rose soap catches me off guard, and my throat tightens up. The cabdriver unloads her bags on the steps of the apartment building, and when we’re done hugging, Mom hands him a big tip.