Michelle is insistent, though. She reaches across the table to wrap her hand around mine. “I know you worry about me, but I worry about you too. Just let me, okay? You’re all I have.”
The waiter appears with a plate of bread.
“Thank you,” I say to him.
“But of course, sir.”
He leaves.
I grab a piece of bread and bite into it. When I finish, I point to the bread. “You should have some.” She forgets to eat when she’s sad, and I don’t want her to be sad for me. I’m fine, I’ll always be fine. But even though I like to think I’m the one who looks out for her, as I have since that snowy day our parents died in a car crash when I was only seventeen, the truth is we look out for each other. “I promise I won’t do something as abysmally stupid as fall for an actress again.”
“Good,” she says and takes some bread. “There are plenty of wonderful women in the world who won’t use you to get ahead.”
I want to believe that Jill wouldn’t do that. I want to believe she’s different from Madeline.
As soon as I realize that, I know, too, that I don’t really care if Madeline will be in town. What I do care about—maybe too much for my own good—is the sweet, sexy, vulnerable woman I kissed this morning. But that’s a far bigger problem, and that’s precisely why I’m going to have to resist her with everything I have.
Later that night, I’m too wired, too wound up, and I can’t stay inside. I attack a late-night run with ferocity, joined by Ryder. He’s recently left a relationship that I can only describe as horrid. Now he’s able to take off for an after-ten run along the Hudson River Greenway. No one expects him home anymore.
“How’s the new musical coming along?” he asks as our sneakers slap the pavement.
“Great. I kissed the understudy in the stairwell.”
He snaps his gaze at me. “What the . . .?”
I shoot him an evil grin. “I’ve shocked the Consummate Wingman,” I say, using his moniker. Ryder Lockhart is Manhattan’s very own Hitch. The love doctor—he could smooth any path for any man pursuing a woman.
“You know that’s hardly the role I’m playing these days,” he says.
“I know. But I have faith in your wingman talent,” I say as my breath comes in sharp spurts. My thighs burn as we run, and I welcome it.
“By the way, don’t think you can distract me from the kissed your understudy comment.”
I manage a mirthless laugh. “There’s really not much more to tell.”
“How about the story of how it happened?”
But what’s the point? It won’t happen again.
13
Jill
Now that my beer-soaked skirt and tights are in the hamper, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and pick a long T-shirt to sleep in. I slide under the covers and grab my e-reader. Between the messed-up morning in the stairwell and the buzzkill of Alexis in the bar, I need some reliable company, people who act in predictable ways.
I click on the title Kat gifted me. She hooked me on romance novels, and now I’m a junkie. I lose myself in the story, imagining I’m living the heroine’s life, from the sweet dates to the sultry nights, to the swoony and dirty words the hero whispers in her ear.
Everything is better here.
Safer here.
I let myself linger in that world for a while, escaping into the story, but when someone from the past appears in the heroine’s life, my shoulders tighten.
A memory snags.
Something tugs at the edge of my mind like I left an iron on.
I sit up straight in bed.
Look around, as if someone’s here.
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 a song I used to know well.
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 I’m not waiting to hear from anyone.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream of the letters in the locked box by my bed. Letters living, breathing, creepily alive. Letters making demands.
Letters that I open in the street, that the wind snatches away from me. 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 when I’m done, I 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. The words are faded, smudged from all the times I’ve read this one. It’s the first of the handful of letters Aaron sent me after we split. I walk deeper into the park, following the path by memory. 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 on to the pieces of the past. I can’t keep carrying all this blame with me. My life is 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 branches hanging low and bushes bursting with life as the sun cast warm, golden rays.
Today, my heart pounds, 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 I nearly stop when I see the bench with its wooden slats. He waited for me at the bench, looking so sad but 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 never really let me go—so I went from seventeen and carefree to completely fucked in the head. I realized I could break someone, and someone could break me. But then, I clawed my way out. I threw myself into my acting, letting go of myself and all the emotions that had crushed me.
All that is left are cruel memories. It’s time to let them go so I can be free.
I start with this one note.
My fingers grip the paper so tightly I think I’ll have to pry them 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 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. “I’m just getting started.”
And I walk away.
14
Davis
One week.
Seven days.
One hundred 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. Damn, that woman can act. I almost believe she’s not about to waste everybody’s time.
“Excu
se me, Davis? What if . . .?” She sashays over to stage right in her flouncy red dress, and I brace myself for another Alexis suggestion. “Wouldn’t it be better if, say, we started this number right here”—she stops and gestures dramatically to the spot downstage right that she’s claimed, 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 syrupy. “But have you considered it might be better if we started it here?”
“No. I haven’t, nor do I plan to. Let’s go through the song.”
I walk to the back and take a seat as the actors resume the choreography. No more than a few steps in, a phone rings, loudly beating the overture from Fate Can Wait.
“Oops.” Alexis clasps her hand over her mouth and bats her eyes. The chorus from that wretched show plays again. “My bad,” is her offhand, non-apology. “I must have forgotten to turn off my cell.”
She grabs her purse from the floor, roots around in it, and snags her phone. “Oh, dear.” She taps a nail against the screen. “I should probably take this call. I may be a little while.”
She scampers out of the rehearsal studio, letting the door fall hard behind her. The room is silent for an awkward moment, then 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. Her dance leggings hide none of her shape—the curves of her body, her tiny waist, the strong legs that I want to wrap around my hips as I pin her against the wall. “We’re working on ‘Paint It Red,’” I tell her. “Start with the lines leading up to the song.”
At the chance to do the scene, even in rehearsal, her face lights with the same bright-eyed excitement that worked its way into my head from the day I met her. 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 movie-star grin that makes friends and entices lovers. I look away briefly because I don’t want to see Jill’s reaction.
As they run through the scene, I knit my fingers tight and focus on the performance. Jill 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 not surprised. Patrick is a good match on stage, pulling off the nuance, the narcissism, but also that random bit 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 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, not caring that she’s interrupting the work. But for one bizarre moment, I’m grateful for her center-of-the-universe ways. My internal organs thank her because envy starts to subside.
“Alexis, take it from here.” I gesture carelessly toward the front of the room. “Jill, you can just watch the rest of the number.”
Alexis resumes her place, and Jill surprises me by taking a seat next to me. She’s been avoiding me as much as I’ve been avoiding her. But now she’s inches away and lit up like a sparkler from that brief moment in front of a tiny audience. She glances my way as I’m studying her, and we lock eyes.
“Thank you,” she says with the same bright happiness. It dawns on me that this is why she sat by me—to tell me that. “It was thrilling. I loved it, even if it was only for a few minutes.”
I stay impassive. Every new thing I learn about her ensnares me tighter, especially this hopefulness, the sheer joy she has in her work. “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 Braydon, the understudy for Patrick.” When she breathes his name, she glances at the front of the studio where Patrick is running through the song with Alexis. No—not glances. Gazes. Jill all but inhales him with her eyes. And since he’s on stage, she can watch his every movement without it being obvious. But her expressive face is never quite still—avid, wistful, and affectionate.
A hot streak of jealousy pierces my chest and nearly knocks the wind out of me. It hurts more than I imagined it could or would. I’d felt the angry ache of this all-too-familiar emotion, but there’s a whole new level of envy rising up in me now.
He’s the one she’s in love with.
Patrick fucking Carlson.
My lead actor.
I get up and 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 have no justification to feel this way. Less than none—I’d rejected her. Told her I wouldn’t get involved with her. She’s the sensible one.
I don’t want to risk another relationship with an actress, but the prospect of her with another man feels far worse. It’s unreasonable, but I don’t want her to be with Patrick what-so-fucking-ever. Certainly not right under my nose. Even if she’s on my banned list, I can’t witness the woman I want so badly fall deeper in love on my stage, in my show, in front of my eyes.
I study my reflection in the mirror. The glass is smudged and there’s a crack in the corner. These old rehearsal studios in New York show their age. But I still see who I am. A man who gets what he wants. A man who knows how to do one thing incredibly well, who devotes endless hours to work. One who can move actors around like chess pieces, bring out the best in them. One who’s earned awards for exactly that.
For knowing exactly how to handle actors.
I let go of 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 to 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 Braydon,” 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.”
15
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 hairstylist to work her magic.”
“Braid me, baby,” I say, following her over.
“No. I changed my mind. You need a French twist. Something ridiculously alluring.”
“I didn’t realize a French braid was so innocent.”
“French braids are for the gym and the beach.” She bumps me with her hip then pushes my shoulders so I’ll sit. “Twists are for the sophisticated socialite and the sexy secretary.” Running her fingers through my loose waves, she adds, “Plus, I’m in the mood to get my fingers into a twist.”
I wave to give her carte blanche. “Do your thing then, Miss Broadway Stylist.”
Grabbing a water bottle from the dressing room table, she sprays a bit to smooth out my hair, humming the number we worked on earlier today. I watch in the mirror as she deftly coils and twists, pins and smooths, then says, “Ta da!”
She hands me a mirror and swivels me around so I can check out the style from the back—a classy, sophisticated twist, worthy of a movie star 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, I got my styling fix for the day.”
“You can use me anytime,” I tell her. 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.” It’s a matter-of-fact observation, like a costuming note. But it’s not a costume, it’s my hair, and I bring my hand to my neck, self-consciously brushing away a few loose tendrils. “I can take it down.”
He shakes his head. “Leave it up. It works for Ava.”
“For Ava?”
“Of course.” His message is clear—this was all about Ava, the songs, and the show. Nothing outside those lines.
While I try to think of a clever way to say “fine by me,” Davis sits at the piano, something I’ve never seen him do before. “You play?”
He nods. “I’m not a virtuoso. But I get by.”
His fingers wander through a bit of Für Elise. Perfectly.
“Get by. Please.” I scoff. I do far better with Davis when I tease him, keeping things light, 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. I’m not a pilot, either. Nor, if you’re wondering, 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, a polo pony, or any vintage cars.”
The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4) Page 8
