by Maggie Riley
“What kind of list are you making now?” he asked.
It wasn’t what I expected him to say. “What?”
“I figured you had to be making a list in your head.” He shot me a wicked grin. “Because aren’t lists the things that get you all hot and bothered?”
Looking down, I realized my nipples were rock hard, and extremely visible through my shirt. I tugged my jacket tightly around me.
“Lists don’t make me and hot bothered,” I muttered.
“No?” His voice was low. “So what’s got you riled up this morning? And is it anything I can help you with?”
YES, my body said.
“I’m fine,” my brain and mouth said. “It’s just cold in here.”
“Like it was last night.” Shane had a knowing look on his face. It was annoying but also didn’t take away from how hot he was.
“I’m always cold,” I blurted out, immediately realizing that I had accidentally admitted something else. “Not always. Sometimes. Never.” I dropped my gaze. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Shane chuckled. “It’s a shame you’re so cold all the time. You really should do something about that.”
“I thought I had,” I muttered, and then made the mistake of looking up at him.
His gaze was red hot.
“I could always warm you up,” he murmured, and the elevator jerked to a stop. “All you have to do is ask.”
I could only stare at him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him badly.
“Going back up?” he asked, and I realized we had arrived in the lobby. The arch of his eyebrow indicated he knew exactly what I had been thinking about.
I quickly looked away and hurried out of the elevator without a word. Walking towards the subway, I couldn’t help glancing back to see if Shane was headed in the same direction that I was, and found that he was unlocking the bottom level of the apartment building—his workshop. I wondered for a moment what it looked like in there and what kind of furniture he was making.
I told myself I didn’t care and did my best to push all thoughts of Shane and his great butt and amazing kisses out of my mind. He was just a distraction. A distraction I didn’t need. I caught the L train into the city and settled in for the ride with a podcast while I went over The Iceman Cometh script, which Reagan had sent me last night. I knew the show, but I didn’t know it well, and I definitely didn’t know enough about it to imagine it being done with puppets, but I was hoping I wasn’t going to be consulted on too many creative decisions.
Before heading to the theatre, I stopped at Kinko’s and printed out the script and other essential documents for my production book—a stage manager’s bible. It would contain everything I would need to keep rehearsals and the final show running smoothly. I was meticulous about my production books, which is why I gave myself at least two hours in a coffee shop to put it all together.
Everything was color-coded and neatly organized. In a three-ring notebook, I put the contact sheet for the cast and crew, tucking the copies I would distribute to everyone else into the front pocket of the binder. The rehearsal schedule came after that. It was an aggressive one, but it needed to be, considering we were opening in less than a month. Then I arranged the script so I had a blank page on every left page where I could take detailed notes. After that I added the information I had received from the production manager and the production designer. Finally, I had a folder for receipts and a place to file minutes from upcoming production meetings.
When it was complete, I pressed the notebook to my chest, feeling a sense of calm come over me. Putting together my production book indicated the true start of any new job, and I always felt uneasy until I had one in my hands. Finally this job felt real. And I felt ready to conquer it.
With binder in hand, I headed to the theatre, still an hour earlier than the first scheduled rehearsal. But that’s the way it was supposed to be. Stage managers were the first to arrive and the last to leave. Reagan had been right when she described all of our roles. She was the soul, Joanna was the mind, and I was definitely the muscle. I made everything go. And I was really, really good at it.
Stepping into the empty theatre, I felt a rush of excitement. When touring, you were in a different theatre every couple of days. There wasn’t any chance to feel settled, to get accustomed to the space, to the various quirks of the venue. It was what I had missed from my NYU days, where the entire production was in one place, from first rehearsal to closing night. It became a second home.
I was setting up chairs in a circle for the first read-through when Reagan came into the theatre. Like me, she was dressed all in black—a turtleneck and pair of overalls—her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, her enormous eyes blinking back at me from behind her thick-framed glasses.
She stepped to the center of the room and took a deep inhale, her arms outstretched.
“Ahhh,” she sighed. “The theatre.”
Then she shot me a smile to indicate that she was being purposefully dramatic. I was quickly discovering it was hard not to like Reagan. She might have the same sort of look I expected from directors, but she didn’t seem to take herself seriously the way most of them did. Then again, I hadn’t really seen her at work.
“Ready for our first rehearsal?” she asked, taking the contact sheet I handed her.
“Of course.” I held up my binder.
“Oooh.” She took it from me and flipped through the pages excitedly. “I like the color-coding.” She handed it back. “I wish I was half as organized.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I told her, and she grinned.
In my experience, directors—like actors—weren’t often known for their organizational skills. But my friendship with Liz had prepared me well for dealing with that kind of scattered individual. Another reason I was so good at my job. There wasn’t much an actor, director, or producer could throw at me. I was ready for practically anything.
“I was thinking we’d do the read-through, take a break, and then do some acting exercises before ending the day.” She looked at me, her eyes wide and curious. “What do you think?”
I stared back. “About what?”
“About that plan.”
Except for tech rehearsals, stage managers rarely determined what would happen during a rehearsal, especially one this early on in a production. But then again, I had been warned that this was going to be a different kind of working environment.
“That sounds great,” I said, because I really had no idea what would be the best way to start rehearsals.
And it had sounded great until, hours later, I discovered exactly what kind of acting exercises Reagan had been thinking about. Gathering the cast of young, female actresses, Reagan clapped her hands together.
“Since the success of this play will depend on the intimacy of the actors, of your connection to each other,” she said, “I think we should expose ourselves. Literally.”
My eyes widened. Surely she didn’t mean what I thought she meant.
Except she clearly did.
Oh. My. God.
I hadn’t realized I was joining a theatre/nudist colony, and I had to amend my previous belief that I could handle anything that was thrown at me. I couldn’t handle the shirts, pants, bras and underwear that were about to be thrown at me.
Joanna, who had been sitting quietly for most of the rehearsal, closed her copy of the script, picked up her expensive-looking purse, and immediately headed to the theatre’s office. If Reagan was offended, she didn’t show it. Not that a show’s producer should have been involved in acting exercises. Especially naked ones.
A show’s stage manager, on the other hand . . .
I glanced over at Reagan, who had already unbuckled her overalls and was pushing them down her slim hips. The other actresses were undressing as well, and none of them seemed to be surprised by the request. I pressed myself to the wall, clutching my production book to my chest as if it would protect me from a theatre full of n
aked women.
I closed my eyes, hoping that they would ignore me, praying to the gods of theatre that I would not be permanently scarred by excessive nudity on my first day of work.
I had been around a lot of naked actors—it was the nature of the business. But usually they were a temporary stage of nudity, changing into or out of costumes in a bustling dressing room. This was different. Really, really different.
“I think we scared Allie,” I heard someone giggle.
I felt a hand on my arm and nearly jumped out of my skin. I opened my eyes. It was Reagan. Luckily she wasn’t completely naked, still wearing a camisole and boy shorts.
“Want to join us?” she asked, a big, encouraging smile on her face.
Behind her was a wall of breasts. So many breasts. Big breasts, small breasts, perky breasts, fake breasts. Breasts that all seemed to be staring at me. Mocking me. Maybe I was old-fashioned but I firmly believed that breasts belonged inside bras. Or at least inside shirts. Not in the face of stage managers.
But no. Apparently these breasts were here to torture me.
“Come on, Allie,” a pair of boobs urged. “Join us.”
“Yeah,” another pair echoed. “It will be fun.”
I was surrounded by them. Was it too much to hope that this was all just a nightmare?
“Join us,” they chanted. “Join us, join us.”
Hands started reaching for me, the breasts came closer and closer, and then—
“I think she’s fine the way she is,” Reagan said. Oh, thank god.
The breasts pouted, but eventually moved away.
I leaned back against the wall, my face burning with embarrassment.
And yet it wasn’t over.
Reagan clapped. “OK,” she said. “Let’s start with Greetings.”
Immediately the actresses began walking around the stage, some of them—and their naked boobs—coming quite close to the corner I was trying to hide in.
Reagan began speaking in a low, soothing voice, directing the young women. “Allow the space to flow through you and you to flow through the space,” she said. “Allow the space to flow through you and your fellow player. Touch a fellow player and allow a fellow player to touch you. See a fellow player. Allow the fellow player to see you.”
It was an hour of that—of watching naked women walk around a room and touching each other. For the most part, I managed to keep my gaze down at my notebook, or up at the ceiling, except for the moments when a pair of boobs wandered over to my corner. It was a situation that I knew most men would have killed to be in. For me, it only confirmed that I was definitely not a lesbian.
By the end of it, the cast seemed to have bonded, Reagan seemed pleased, and I was pretty sure that I never wanted to see another pair of naked breasts—my own included—for as long as I lived.
Chapter 9
ALLIE
After that extremely awkward afternoon, I went to look at a few more apartments. Each of them seemed worse than the next. I was lucky if they met one thing on my wish list. Instead of hardwood floors and big windows, I got broken ceiling fans, no closet space, and a tub that seemed to be sinking into the floor. I even saw a dead rat in one of them. The landlord assured me it would be gone by the time I moved in. Somehow that wasn’t a comfort.
Not yet prepared to face Shane, I walked through Washington Square Park, enjoying the brilliant red and gold leaves on the trees around me. To keep myself from getting depressed over my apartment choices, I once again went over my list of reasons I had moved. Because no matter what, at least I was in New York. At least I had my bagels and my almond croissant and my subways. At least it was fall.
Taking a deep breath, I felt better, fallen leaves crunching beneath my feet as I took advantage of my one day off, wandering around the park, going nowhere in particular. My phone buzzed and I pulled it out of my bag to discover I was getting a FaceTime request from Josh.
When the call connected, I was greeted by the grinning duo of Josh and Emily, their faces smushed together. The resemblance was obvious between the three of us—we all shared the same Lawson family brown eyes and slightly crooked smile. But as far as the rest of my looks went, I got the strange Lawson-family traits and my brother got the good ones. For example, my annoyingly charming brother also got the Lawson-family height and stood well over six feet tall, while I topped out at five-four—a gift from some random tiny person in our family tree.
“Hi, Aunt Allie!” Emily shouted as my brother winced next to her. Our niece continuously forgot that she didn’t need to raise her voice to talk on the phone.
“Hi Emmy-bean,” I said, smiling. Calls from the two of them never failed to make my day. “Spending the afternoon with Uncle Josh?”
“Uh-huh,” she said with a big nod. “We ate ice cream and played video games.”
“So, an average Monday,” I said dryly.
“Hey,” Josh objected. “We did other things too.”
“No we didn’t,” Emily chimed in helpfully.
“Traitor,” Josh muttered.
My older brother, kind and wonderful as he was, was stuck in a rut. He had been a star minor-league pitcher for the Omaha Storm Chasers and there had even been whisperings about him going pro. That was until a shoulder injury last year had sidelined him for good. Since then he had been aimless—providing free childcare to my sisters and getting really, really good at Mario Kart.
“I hope you kicked his butt,” I told Emily, who nodded.
“You tiny liar,” my brother said to her, pinching her nose gently. “You’re getting good, kid, but you’re not that good.”
I rolled my eyes. “Heaven forbid she get better than a twenty-eight-year-old with too much time on his hands.”
“I’m sorry,” Josh began, waving the phone around. “You’re breaking up. I can’t hear you. I think we’re going through a tunnel. Allie, can you hear me?”
“Uncle Josh!” I heard Emily giggle and finally the phone stopped moving and the only face that filled the screen was hers.
I tried not to play favorites with my nieces and nephews, but Emily definitely held a special place in my heart. Her curly brown hair and gap-toothed smile reminded me of how I was at her age. A little weird and a lot energetic, she drove her parents nuts. But I got her. I understood her. Because I knew what it was like to stand out from your family. To be a little different from everyone else. Not to mention our shared obsession for organization and order. She truly was a smaller, cuter version of myself.
“Did you get the care package I sent you?” I asked her. I sent all my nieces and nephews gifts, but Emily always wanted an assignment with hers. She loved getting tasks and completing them. Like I said, she was a strange kid. Just like me.
She nodded vigorously. “I worked on it all last week,” she said proudly.
“Really?”
“I’ll show you!”
She ducked out of sight and Josh came back into view.
“You know, child labor is illegal,” he said.
“It’s not labor if she wants to do it,” I reminded him.
“You’re sick.” But there was only humor in his voice. “You’re taking advantage of a young, impressionable mind. You’re turning her into you.”
“Better than turning her into you,” I retorted.
“She should be so lucky,” Josh told me. “I’m amazing.”
“Stop getting your validation from Mom,” I teased. “She has to say those things.”
“Speaking of Mom,” he started, and a serious look came over his face.
“Oh no,” I groaned. “Not you, too.”
Josh had been the one person in my corner when it came to my decision to go to college in New York. But apparently things had changed, and it was clear that his depression over baseball was about to seep into other things. Like meddling in my life.
“I just think you should consider coming back,” he said, but he wouldn’t look at me, his eyes focused anywhere but my face. “At least v
isit more. We all miss you. Emily especially.”
“That’s not fair.” I felt betrayed. I had been completely supportive of him when he was playing with the Storm Chasers, a job that had him traveling around the country all the time. I had defended him to our parents. I’d had his back. Because I knew that he wasn’t ready to settle down in Nebraska. And I was convinced he wasn’t ready now.
But it seemed like he was giving up, and he was going to drag me down with him.
Josh just shrugged. “Come on, I’ve heard you complain about New York plenty of times. You’d tell me about rats eating pizza on the subway, and the way the place smelled in the summer, and how dirty your feet would get when you wore sandals. It used to drive you crazy living there.”
“Not as crazy as it would make me to live at home.”
“It’s not as bad as you think.” But still, he kept looking away.
“What are you doing, Josh?” I asked, worried about him. “Are you OK?” I knew he wasn’t. On the surface he seemed like the same annoying older brother I knew and loved, but I could tell that something was wrong. That he was unhappy.
“Just think about it, OK?” he said softly. “It would be nice to have you close by.”
It was a low blow, but before I could respond, Emily popped back up in the picture, practically smacking her head into Josh’s chin as she held up a three-ring binder covered in stickers and puff paint. On the cover it read “Emily’s Production Binder.”
“Truly disturbing,” my brother muttered, but he couldn’t hide his smile as Emily proudly displayed the pages inside the book.
“Here’s my contact page,” she said, showing me a list of phone numbers for her parents, her grandparents, Josh, and me.
“Very nice,” I told her. “Your handwriting is getting better, too.”
“And here’s my schedule.” She flipped to another page, where she had a weekly calendar. Someone, either her mom or Josh, had helped her write out her activities.
“I like all the colors,” I told her. And there were a lot of them. Blue, green, yellow, orange. No color was forgotten.