“You still with me?” West put his hand on Ryan’s knee, shaking him out of his nostalgia.
“Yeah. Sorry. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think I’m a slut? I mean . . . I don’t know. I know I have a reputation. In the tabloids or whatever.”
West growled. Honest to god, like an angry dog, growled. “Fuck your reputation. Slut is a word used to shame people who are having good sex—usually women, but sometimes us homos too. You never gave a fuck what people thought about you and Ali back in Hollywood. Are people here making you feel like shit because you had fun out there?”
Ryan shook his head. “Not exactly. I got mad at—at a friend this morning. What he said wasn’t that bad, but . . . I guess I’m just sensitive about it. I don’t know how to deal with what people here think of me, on top of what I feel about what I’ve done or haven’t. And the fucking press—my ass was on the front page of the paper. I can’t even.”
West grimaced. “Dude. I have so been there—not my ass on the front page, but figuring out the sex stuff. But that’s part of what this summer was for, right? Introspection? Getting away from the toxic scene?”
“Hiding out at home while my best friend is in rehab?”
“Do you need to be in there with her?”
Ryan shook his head. “I smoked weed. I drank a lot. The one time I smoked opium, it made me itchy, so I never tried heroin. And coke was good, but I only did it when Ali had some at the house.”
“You don’t have to be addicted to something to depend on it.”
“I don’t feel like I need those things—and I know there are fancy words for all the ways Ali and I fucked each other’s lives up—”
“It’s called codependency.”
“Yeah, that. But I was in it for her. Not for the drugs. With her, and the parties, I knew who I was. I was the party guy. I was having a good goddamn time. And I don’t know who I am if I’m not the party guy.”
“I know what you mean.” West ran a hand through his hair and smiled over at Ryan. “Being young and hip in Hollywood is . . . intoxicating. But I went through an identity crisis when Jase died. He was—he was like Ali, a lot. And I partied with him, but . . . then when he was gone, who was left? I didn’t want to party without him, but I didn’t know what else to do with myself either. And I didn’t have a theater back home to find myself in because I grew up under cameras.”
“Caro and Mason have been really good to me.”
“Have they? ’Cause here we are, driving down one of the most gorgeous highways in the country in a goddamn Ferrari, and you’re queening out about your reputation like you’re worried that sleeping with the captain of the football team will ruin your chances to pledge Delta Cannot Help Ya next fall.”
“Did you learn everything you know about high school from John Hughes movies?”
“Yes.” West laughed. “The joys of growing up on movie sets.”
Well, that explained a lot, actually. “But don’t you feel weird, like there’s two different worlds, and we have to live in both of them?”
“I’ve only ever lived in one world, Bry. I make prettier, funnier facsimiles of the other one for money. You know what your problem is?”
Oh, great. Why was everyone so damned eager to tell him what was wrong with him? “No, what?”
“You don’t believe anything about yourself unless it’s been said by someone else. You don’t trust your talent, and you want other people to validate your choices. You crave approval but settle for attention.”
Ouch. “You make me sound like a toddler.”
West shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”
“That’s not fucking fair. You have no idea what it was like for me—” Ryan choked on his own words. He didn’t talk about his childhood. Why would he? Why would he want to talk about a dad who hit whatever and whoever disagreed with him or got in his way? A mom who hit back? The constant fighting over everything from money to the yardwork and housework that had never seemed to get done, no matter how much they screamed at each other? The sarcasm and ridicule whenever he did something wrong? “You don’t know what I went through.”
“No, I don’t. And I have empathy for you, dude, I so do. But here’s my world: My world doesn’t care whether you find yourself or not. It doesn’t care what you’ve overcome, because there are thousands of fuckers out there who want your job and are just as pretty as you. All anyone cares about is whether you can show up on time, do your fucking job, and whether your name can sell the fucking movie. I’m out here to work. What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m working!” Ryan exploded. “Theater is serious acting too.”
“Your name isn’t in lights on Broadway, Ry. You’re playing secondary roles in a seaside playhouse in North Carolina.”
“I’m working. It’s real acting. Small-town summer stock theaters are important—they’re part of the local tourist economy. They provide jobs. And let’s not forget—as long as I’m here, nobody is writing tabloid stories about me and drugs and sex. The story, so far, is just that I’m here. Okay, yeah, so what. I’m fucking here.”
“So be here. Get what you’re going to get out of being here. But if you come back to LA, to the microscope and the high pressure of a film set, and the tabloids are writing about your dick or what you put up your nose? Dude. Welcome to the D-list.”
Trey let himself into the theater and stopped short when he heard voices from the office. Mason and Caro never worked Sundays, but there they were. And it sounded like they were arguing.
“Hello?” he called, to warn them he was there. A moment later, Caro came out of the office, her face flushed and her eyes red, ringed with smudged mascara. She pushed past him like he wasn’t even there, and before he could stop himself, he grabbed her arm.
“What’s going on, Caro?”
“Nothing. Come on, I’ll help with the sets.”
“You’re the stage manager, not one of my crew.”
“Doesn’t matter, it needs done.”
So Trey dropped his iPod into the sound system dock, put on his favorite playlist, and they began turning the plywood set pieces into stone walls and stairs. He liked painting—liked seeing the sets come to life under his hands. He liked the mess and the smell. He found the work soothing, and when he got into the rhythm of it, time seemed to fly.
Caro attacked the work with a ferocity he rarely saw from her, periodically shoving her wild hair out of her eyes and sniffling loudly. “Have you got a rubber band somewhere?” she finally demanded. “My hair band broke.”
“No, but I’ve got a bandanna in the truck.” He pulled his keys out of his pocket and handed them over. “It’s in the console. Should be clean. If you want to sit out there and freshen up your makeup, there are baby wipes in the glove box. I won’t tell.”
She looked up at him sharply. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Trey sighed. He’d seen Caro and Mason dance around each other at work for years. Their relationship was more or less an open secret—anyone with eyes could see they breathed each other like air. He’d never met two people who complemented each other so well. In the theater, they were always professional—and they had never openly acknowledged their relationship to their employees. If he’d known he was going to interrupt a lovers quarrel, he’d have left them to sort it out. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to say it in those words. Their relationship had been the elephant on the stage for as long as he’d worked in the theater. Everyone pretty much knew, but no one talked about it.
“What am I thinking?” he asked instead.
“The business is not going under. It’s not.” She wiped her eyes and set her chin. “I’ll be back.”
Well, hell. He hadn’t been thinking anything like that. Shakespeare by the Sea in financial trouble? Like most of the island’s small businesses—like his own—the theater depended on tourism to stay solvent. Unlike his own business, however, they had the bellwether of
advance ticket sales to indicate how the season would go before it even started. If they were in trouble, what did that mean for the rest of the island?
Trey set his paintbrush down and made his way to the office. Mason had his laptop open, but was staring off to the side, a blank expression on his face.
“Hey, buddy,” Trey said softly. “How’s things?”
Mason looked up and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine.”
“Caro seems pretty upset.”
Mason grunted. “She’s so goddamn pigheaded about that cousin of hers.”
Trey flushed, wondering how much Mason knew, and how his own involvement with Ryan would go over with his boss. “How do you mean?”
Mason shoved away from his desk, chair wheels squealing. “Walk with me, I need a smoke.”
They walked in the dark through the hallway encircling the stage to the exit sign by the back stairs, the exit sign that made Trey think of Ryan’s lips dropping open in surprise when Trey had apologized for Ferdy. God, Ryan. What was he going to do about Ryan?
“So, this thing with Ryan is complicated.”
Trey blinked, and Mason took a long drag on his cigarette before he continued.
“Caro doesn’t want to advertise that Bryan Hart himself is part of our company because she’s afraid it will bring unwanted attention. But Bryan Hart’s name could sell tickets, and our cash flow is down.”
“Unwanted attention?”
“Paparazzi.”
“He’s already got photographers stalking him,” Trey pointed out. “How much worse could it be?”
Mason shook his head. “Worse. Trust me. But the kid brings it upon himself; I don’t see why I need to protect him.”
“Have you asked him?”
“She won’t let me. She thinks it could damage his career if too much attention is drawn to him doing community theater.” Mason made a face, then offered a perfect mimicry of Caro’s lilting voice. “It’s not like it was back in the sixties when it was trendy to do summer stock.”
“I get that he’s her cousin, but it’s your theater too.”
“Yeah, well. They’re close.” Mason plastered the fakest smile Trey had ever seen across his face. “I appreciate your concern, I do, but Caro’s right: we’ll find a way without advertising he’s here.”
“I didn’t realize it was that bad, Mason. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not. It’s just— It’s summer stock Shakespeare. Money is tight is all. We’ll get through. We always do.”
“What would you and Caro do if . . . if you don’t get through? Would you ask him then?”
Sighing, Mason stubbed out his cigarette. “I don’t know. I’ve spent a decade and change trying to figure out why she lets him run wild over what she wants.”
“She loves him. Family is . . .” Trey thought about what Ryan had let slip about his family the other night. “Family is complicated.”
“Yeah.” Mason glanced over at Trey as he lit another cigarette. “I’m sorry. I’m not good company right now. Is there anything else?”
Trey shook his head and then, dismissed, returned inside.
He stopped dead at the edge of the round stage, his body flushing hot with surprise and shame. Caro had returned, mascara-smudges gone and hair held back by his bandanna, and Ryan had joined her, taking up a paintbrush to paint the stairs. What was he doing here? Was he still mad about Trey’s stupid, thoughtless comment? God, Trey would give anything to have never spoken those words.
Ryan was dressed in faded khaki shorts and an old ratty T-shirt with more holes than a cheese grater. When he saw Trey, he gave a shy grin and awkward wave. His grin was infectious, and Trey smiled back.
“You’re painting sets now? Is this a Hertzog thing? No job too small?”
“I called Caro to see if she wanted to get brunch, and she said she was here.” He dipped his brush in the bucket, carefully wiping it to keep it from dripping on the stage floor. “So, here I am, just like old times, right Care?”
“Yup. And he brought doughnuts like a regular fucking hero. They’re in the booth if you want one.” She gestured with her paintbrush.
“Oh, awesome. Thanks, Ryan.”
“You’re welcome.”
Trey made his way to the control booth and the box of doughnuts sitting there. He grabbed a blueberry-cake doughnut and took a huge bite. He almost groaned with pleasure as the sweetness burst across his tongue. Two bites later, the doughnut was gone and he was licking glaze off his fingers as he walked back to the stage.
“Did you go to that new place on the boardwalk?” he asked around his thumb.
“I did. My old chemistry teacher owns that place. They’re pretty great, yeah?” Ryan grinned.
“Amazing. That blueberry-cake doughnut was practically orgasmic.”
Caro snorted but said nothing. Her mood had visibly improved with her cousin’s presence.
Trey picked up his brush and got back to work, stealing peeks here and there at Ryan, who had started at the bottom of the stairs and was painting his way up. He would be in for a rude awakening when he got to the balcony and found himself trapped up there until the paint dried.
“Hey, Ryan?” he began, but Caro caught his eye and shook her head, her own eyes twinkling with mischief.
“What’s up?” Ryan glanced over his shoulder expectantly.
“Oh, I was just going to ask if you would prefer to listen to something else? Or is this music okay?”
Ryan shrugged and sang a few lines along with the pop music pouring out of the sound system. “Nah, this is good, thanks though.”
Caro covered her laugh with a cough and started singing along with Ryan, and before Trey knew it, they had broken into harmony and he was humming along.
They worked for an hour before Caro seemed to have burned off enough of her anger to go back to the office with Mason, leaving Trey and Ryan alone.
“Hey,” Ryan said softly, and Trey looked up. Ryan had stopped painting and was leaning over the banister flanking the stairs and smiling.
“Hey, yourself.”
“You work every day?”
“I work when there’s work, same as everyone else. Listen, I’m so sorry about yesterday—I don’t think of you that way. It wasn’t fair of me.”
“It’s okay.” Ryan shrugged. “It’s nothing I haven’t brought on myself. I do have a reputation as a playboy, party animal. Worse. You’re only seeing the face I showed the world.”
“I really don’t think of you that way. It was a stupid thing to say.”
“Thanks.” Ryan gave a wry smile. “I appreciate the apology.”
“Hey. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.”
That seemed to satisfy Ryan for a while, and they worked in companionable silence, occasionally singing along with the music, until Ryan, now at the top of the stairs, muttered, “Fuck.”
Trey looked up, feigning concern. “Something wrong?”
“I started at the bottom.”
“Yup.”
“I’m stuck.”
Trey grinned. “Yup.”
“You knew this was going to happen?” The outrage in Ryan’s voice was priceless.
“Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
From the office, Caro howled with laughter.
“Oh, that bitch.”
“She’s your cousin.”
Caro and Mason came out of the office to the stage. Clearly the morning’s argument had abated, and they were back to normal—or faking it for Ryan’s benefit. Mason’s eyebrow lifted, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, scanning slowly up and down the staircase.
“Well, you seem to be in a bit of a pickle.”
“Shut up.” Ryan glowered. “It’s not funny.”
“Mason and I are going to go.” Caro took Mason’s arm. “We’ll see you Monday, Ry.”
“You’re just going to leave me here?”
“I’ll keep you company.” Trey smiled up at him.
“Whoa, wait—” Mason stopped in his tracks.
“You promised, Mason. Come on.” Caro gave Mason’s arm a tug. “Bye, Trey, Ryan.”
Ryan shot her the bird.
Their laughter was audible on stage until the front door of the theater swung shut behind them.
“Mason doesn’t want us hooking up.” Ryan spoke so matter-of-factly, it cut off Trey’s own laughter. His jaw dropped open.
“What does that mean?”
“It means . . . I don’t know. I need to talk to him, because he told me to keep my hands off the cast and crew. And I promised him. Shit. I told you he doesn’t respect me?” Ryan sat down on the balcony and crossed his legs, looking at Trey expectantly.
“Yeah, but I think you’re wrong about that.”
“This is part of it. He doesn’t think I’m good enough for you. He judges me without having walked a minute, much less a mile in my shoes. He thinks I’m a fuckup, and he only grudgingly allowed me to come join the company this summer.”
Trey’s mind reeled at that. Ryan not good enough for him? Someone’s wires were crossed somewhere. “So, you let your director dictate who you sleep with?”
“No! It’s not that. You just have to understand. Mason is like . . . He’s the reason I started acting. He was the first guy I ever had a crush on—and, oh boy, that did not go well—and over the years he’s become like a stern older brother I’ve been trying to impress. But all I did was make him think less of me.”
Ryan bit his lip and looked up at the stage lights, and Trey wanted to climb up onto that balcony, wet paint be damned, grab his shoulders, shake him, and tell him that he was more than enough just as he was.
“I want to be the kind of guy Mason thinks you deserve.” Ryan shrugged. “Because I really fucking like you.”
Summer Stock Page 7