by Mindy Klasky
Ryan followed my gaze. “Time flies when you’re having fun.” The words were innocent enough, but they sent my belly ski-jumping. “Let me walk you home.”
I shot a meaningful glance toward Dani. “I think I can find the way.”
Nevertheless, he washed his hands meticulously at the kitchen sink, drying them on a rough cotton towel that seemed to hang nearby for just that purpose. I followed suit, using the pure familiarity of the action to restore my emotional balance.
I turned to Dani and thanked her for dinner. “My pleasure, Becca,” she said. “And thank you for all your help. Have a good night.”
Ryan held the door for me as I stepped into the hallway. Like a consummate gentleman out of some 1950s movie, he took my keys from me. He turned all three locks easily, using the last motion to push open my front door. When he went to return my keys, though, he held them precisely between two fingers, letting them dangle from their leather fob.
They hung between us, like a mouse, caught by its tail.
I wasn’t sure if the mouse was about to be freed forever, or if it was about to drop into the maw of a hungry snake.
When I hesitated, Ryan said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I could say, for helping with the seed bombs.”
The tone of his voice implied all the other things that he could say instead. I wondered if his chest hurt as much as mine did, if his heart was pounding as brutally as mine. “Ryan, I—”
He stepped closer, raising his free hand to rub a thumb across the tip of my nose. “You had a smudge there,” he said, without stepping back. “A hazard of guerilla activity.”
The gesture was so simple. Disarming. Innocent. And yet the air crackled between us.
I was free to choose. I knew that. I could take my keys, say good-night, send him across the hall. We would never, ever have this conversation again. He would respect my choice. I knew he would.
But I could also choose to kiss him.
His ready arms closed around me, crushing me close. His fingers traveled up my spine; one hand tugged gently at my braid. My lips opened, and his tongue was waiting, teasing, punctuating his silent argument with playful determination. I summoned every last molecule of logic in my naggingly mature brain to gasp, “We can’t, Ryan. Dani.”
“I’m a big boy, Bec. I can do whatever I want to do.”
After a longer kiss than any theatrical director would dare depict onstage, I remembered the other reason we couldn’t be doing this. “We can’t,” I said again. “The show.”
His hands froze. Even though he didn’t move, didn’t take a step away, I felt him pull back, poised on the edge of letting me go. He said, “You’re a big girl, Bec. You can do whatever you want to do.” As if he weren’t certain of the power of that line, he added, “We can make this work.”
“But I…But you…” I knew all the arguments that were scrambling around inside my head. I was tired of all those arguments.
But there was another reason I should step away. Another reason I should forget about Ryan, leave him behind, for as long as we both worked in New York theater. That reason still hurt, though. That reason was still raw, still sharp-edged. “But Dean—”
Even as I whispered my ex’s name, I sucked in my breath. I didn’t want Ryan to misunderstand. I didn’t want him to think that I was saying I still loved Dean, that I still wanted him, longed for him. In fact, I meant exactly the opposite. I’d seriously misjudged Dean Marcus, completely ignored all the warning signs, overlooked giant flashing signals of Right and Wrong. I never again wanted to lose myself in a man the way I’d lost myself in Dean. I never again wanted to forfeit my self-respect, to give away the core of my honor. I never again wanted to risk my job, my professional identity, just for a man.
“I’m not Dean. You’re not the same person you were with him.”
I should have known that Ryan would understand. We’d only known each other for a short time, but he really, truly got me. He understood people; he studied them. He used his intuition to figure out what they believed, why they did the things they did. That was the power that had drawn me into However Long. That was the power that lit his eyes now, that spread a scant blanket of patience over the fire that sparked there. That was the power that waited for me to decide.
Life was never easy. Sometimes, your boyfriend turned out to be an embezzler. Sometimes, your scheduled play turned out to be a legal minefield. Sometimes, your genie turned out to be a lead player in your hastily assembled cast.
But I could deal with all of that. I could make things work. I could do whatever I wanted to do.
I took Ryan’s hand, weaving my fingers between his as I pulled him inside my apartment. The skyline of New York City sparkled all the way to the river. Our guerilla seedlings glinted in the moonlight, leaning toward the window with the instinctive yearning of all living things.
I pushed the door closed behind us, and the latch snicked home like a promise.
CHAPTER 12
A WEEK LATER, I WAS DESPERATELY TRYING TO REMEMBER what I’d been so worried about. Ryan had been right. We could meld our personal and professional lives. In fact, he made the balance seem easy.
First off, he handled the delicate nature of his living arrangements with a shrug and a smile. Sure, things might have been different if he’d been eighteen, if he’d never left his mother’s home. But Ryan was twenty-eight years old. He had gone away to college. He had lived on his own when he worked as a consultant. He had traveled halfway around the world to serve in the Peace Corps.
He wasn’t camping out in Dani’s living room because he was a mama’s boy. He wasn’t so tied to Dani that he sought her approval for his every move, for his every thought, for his every emotional twinge. The cot in her living room was merely a matter of convenience, a resting place until he got back on his feet in the States.
I’d worried that Dani would be angry with me for taking away her little boy. I’d feared that she would be disappointed in my wicked, carnal ways. But she remained her calm, easygoing self, always sweet, always preoccupied with her guerilla activities. She made it seem like I’d hooked up with a good friend’s roommate, rather than with a mother’s son.
Once, I tried to imagine how my own mother would have reacted under similar circumstances. The likelihood of a sane, logical response, though, was so remote that I immediately abandoned the attempt. I did, however, make a point of letting Mom know that Dean was out of my life. She was thrilled—she’d always hated the guy. I managed to make it sound as if Dean and I had come to a mutual agreement, that he’d found someone else, as I had. Things were simpler that way. For everyone.
Ryan also made things easy at work. A formal announcement of our relationship would have been strange under any circumstances, and it was absolutely unnecessary at the Mercer. If people noticed that we walked into rehearsal at the same time each morning, they didn’t say anything. If they saw us leave together every night, they likely chalked that up to the fact that we lived in the same building. Of course, we paid attention to each other during the day—I was always subtly aware of where Ryan was standing, which seat he’d taken at our worktable, what errands he ran while his presence wasn’t absolutely necessary to whatever we were working on. But I didn’t track him like a lonely puppy. I didn’t hover.
I didn’t need to. Ryan gave me confidence in our relationship; he let me trust that he’d be there for me whenever I wanted him. Whenever I needed him. He surprised me constantly, making little gestures that salved my nervous soul.
My stomach flipped every time I walked by the costume shop, because I couldn’t stop playing mental home movies about the morning Ryan had pulled me in there, crushing me against a rack of soft denim work shirts and worn jeans, detritus from the Sam Shepard plays. He’d laughed at my astonishment, his lips vibrating against my throat as the cloud of fabric closed around us, swallowed us up. He’d slipped a single sticky note into my hand, a folded square decorated wit
h a sharp-edged heart.
And he’d openly invited me to sit beside him while the cast worked through the blocking of the complicated opening scene. We’d slouched in seats halfway back in the darkened theater, watching Hal set the placement for the actors. Ryan’s script detailed the blocking to an unusual extent; it was extremely important to him where every character stood. He insisted that the staging was an extension of character development. When I listened to him explaining his thoughts on the subject, I understood, and I agreed.
Once the actors had their blocking down, Ryan relaxed a little. He hadn’t felt the need to be as involved when Hal worked through the characters’ actual lines, when he explored Fanta’s opening words, which broke over the audience like shards of crystal, beautiful and dangerous. By the eleventh time the cast had worked through the scene, even I had been willing—eager, actually—to let Ryan’s fingers distract me. I’d slunk low in my chair, resting my head against the back of the red velvet seat. I’d barely remembered to bite my lip to keep from mewing a protest as he played with the top button on my shirt, then the one below that, then the sweet lace panel at the top of my bra.
He’d laughed at me when the scene ended for the thirteenth or fourteenth time and Teel stepped to the front of the stage. My genie had shielded her eyes with her hand, peering out into the sea of seats with the crankiness of an old woman. When she finally discerned our shadowy shapes, she called out, “Becca? Could you pull together some information for us about these village markets? Some statistics maybe? What percentage of women barter, and what percentage pay outright?”
Teel and her statistics. I’d been certain she was tweaking me, fully aware of the…games Ryan and I had been playing. I’d swallowed hard, twice, before I’d trusted my voice to stay steady as I called back. “Of course, Felicia. I’ll track that down right away.” And I’d even resolved to do the research on my own, rather than to schedule a special study session with Ryan.
In fact, I ended up pulling together a three-ring binder specifically on the markets, printing out photos and news stories, journalistic summaries of the daily chaos that a woman like Fanta would face as she tried to stretch her limited household dollars. Ryan sat next to me, nodding in quiet approval as I spoke to the cast, as I tried to convey just how much haggling Fanta would do, just how frustrating it would be for her when the cost of cornmeal doubled each time that she managed to come to the marketplace with hard currency.
My explanation was apparently effective. The actors’ eyes narrowed, all around the table. Several of them clenched their fists over their bellies. Hal watched, as well, nodding as he saw the bitter truth register. None of the Mercer cast had ever been turned away in a store, had ever watched prices spiral out of reach even as they waited in line to make their purchases. But all of them began to understand the unbearable weight of hopelessness, the frustration, the fear that this would be the first day when they didn’t get to eat at all—not even a bite of corn mush—after their husbands had fed, after their children, after their honored elderly aunties.
The sober silence was broken by the sound of the lobby door crashing open. Kira leaped to her feet as daylight painted the theater aisle. “May I help you?” she called out.
In response, there was a series of loud popping sounds, like gunshots smothered by pillows. “Pop off!” came the rapid-fire response, and Ryan and I met each other’s eyes in momentary horror.
The Popcorn King had come to the Mercer.
Kira and Hal, of course, both knew that we had secured Ronald J. Barton’s sponsorship, but neither of them had had a chance to meet our benefactor. I rushed down the aisle to try to ease the encounter. “Ronald!” I exclaimed as he slammed his cell phone closed. I tried to sound like his visit was an unexpected pleasure. I hastened to take two huge orange shopping bags from him, narrowing my eyes a little to stop the color from vibrating against the yellow of his trousers.
“Thank you, Becca! I thought I should see the show I’m buying!” he said. Every actor’s head swerved toward him, and more than one of the cast caught a breath in disapproving surprise. Ronald barely registered their shocked expressions as he bellowed, “Joke, people! That was a joke!”
“You know actors,” I said, purposely pitching my voice low, hoping that he would reduce his volume to match.
No such luck. He pointed to one of the bags I now held, indicating a huge metal canister with splashes of tangerine and lemon paint across its lid. “I brought food! For the cast! No one should ever go hungry!”
I winced, knowing that Ronald had no way of understanding just how inappropriate his comment was, given the subject matter of our play, given the grim scene we had just worked through. “Thank you,” I said, forcing out a smile. “I’m sure the cast will appreciate this very much.”
“It’s our newest flavor! Mousy Mocha Madness—cheddar popcorn with caffeinated chocolate sugar!”
“That sounds…wonderful.”
“Mouse! Like cheese! Cheddar! Get it!”
“Absolutely,” I said, and I added another, “Thank you.”
By then, Kira had called a brief break in the rehearsal. Hal approached us like a bantam rooster; I could see him positioning himself to complain about the interruption to his cast’s creative process. I attempted to smooth over the awkwardness by making introductions all around. “And you remember Ryan, of course,” I concluded.
“Of course!” Ronald bellowed. “The man who gets things done!” He swallowed Ryan’s hand in his own, pumping vigorously. “Pleased to meet you!” Ronald shouted at Hal. “Great things you do here, or so I’m told!”
Hal looked a little stunned as he took back his hand. His eyes traveled from Ronald’s bright orange sweater to the soothing shadows at the back of the theater. “Yes,” he said, and his voice was strangled. “We try.” He shot a glance at me, one of open shock and disbelief.
“Don’t have much time! But I wanted to bring shirts for everyone!” Ronald grabbed the second bag from me and pulled out two-dozen T-shirts. “There’s more where these came from!”
The shirts in question would definitely come in handy if New York City experienced a blackout of epic proportions. The brilliant orange and yellow swirls shimmered as if lit from within. In fact, the shirts could probably be used for medical experiments—I suspected they would induce seizures if innocent onlookers were forced to stare at them for longer than thirty seconds.
“Er, thank you,” Hal said. I was pretty sure this was the first time I’d ever seen him at a loss for words. He nodded toward me to take the shirts from Ronald. I collected the shimmering mass, but I wasn’t certain what to do with them, how to get them out of our immediate line of sight. Thankfully, Kira stepped forward like the ever-efficient stage manager she was and relieved me of the burden.
“I thought you could use them in the show! Those are supposed to be starving people onstage, right?”
“Some of them,” Ryan said, when Hal was too bemused to reply.
“One or two should wear these shirts! You can add a line in the script! Something about a generous donor providing clothes for the village!”
“I don’t think—” Ryan began.
“That can’t be too much to ask! Not when I’m donating one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to your show!”
“But—” Ryan said.
“All right! You drive a hard bargain! I’ll actually send some shirts to Africa! That’ll make it real! Satisfy you theatrical types!”
“It’s not a matter of making it real,” Ryan protested. “It’s just that the designers have a vision, a concept of how the play will look.”
“One hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” Ronald’s bellow must have been audible on the street. “If you can’t use it here, I’ll find a theater that can!”
Hal leaped forward. In his best artistic-director voice, he soothed, “Of course we can figure out some way to work in a T-shirt or two. Can’t we, Ryan?”
I watched a battle play out on Ryan�
��s face. He must be thinking of the Africa he knew, the real villages, the real people, the truth that he had brought out in his script.
But he was also thinking of his life now. Of New York. Of the Mercer. He was thinking of the career he wanted to build, the play he wanted to present, so that thousands of others could share his vision.
“They’ll need to be toned down a little,” Ryan said. “The family’s clothes are patched. Mended. They’re dusty.”
Ronald glared at him, his eyes as hot as boiling butter-flavored oil. Ryan stood his ground, though, until Hal eased between the two men. “Dusty will be fine,” Hal said. “The subliminal value will be even greater, when the audience doesn’t immediately register the shirts as an advertisement.”
Ronald barked out a laugh. “I like the way you think! Dusty it is, then!” Before he could say anything else, the theater was filled with the sound of popping corn. Ronald snapped into his phone, “Pop off!” He listened for a moment, then shook his head in frustration. “No! That’s impossible! Absolutely not!” A squawk of a protest rose from whoever was on the other end of the line. “Because I said so! I’m the Popcorn King!” The caller, however, refused to give in. Ronald held the phone away from his head and bellowed, “Enjoy the shirts! I’ll take this outside!”
The door closed behind him, muffling his shouts of “No!” and “Money talks!” He must have made his way through the lobby and out onto the street, because the sounds of big business finally faded away.
Hal looked at Ryan. Ryan looked at me. I looked at Kira and the neon pile of shirts that glared in the theater work lights. She grimaced and caught a straggling garment by its toxic sleeve. “I’ll get these to the actors now,” she said. “They can start wearing them today, washing them every chance they get. The colors might start to fade.” She sounded doubtful, though.