Summer Stock

by Vanessa North

  “Yes, ma’am.” He grabbed her handbag and blew her a kiss. “Break a leg, Ann.”

  “You too, Hertzog.” She stuck her tongue out at him in the mirror and then went back to her face.

  In the men’s dressing room, he handed David the purse.

  “Bless you,” David said gratefully. Ryan nodded and went to find Caro. No surprise, she was in the lighting booth with Viki, making sure everything was working correctly before they opened the theater to guests.

  “Hey, Caro, you still keep a stash of bottled water in the office fridge?”

  She looked up. “Yeah. For David?”

  “The show must go on.” He shrugged.

  At seven thirty, the lights went down over the house and came up on stage. The actors and crew watched in silence as Mason walked out to the center of the stage in an honest-to-god tuxedo to address the crowd.

  “Shakespeare by the Sea is a Banker’s Shoals summer tradition. Tonight, we welcome you to opening night of the 2017 summer stock season with our production of Julius Caesar. Enjoy the show.”

  The show itself was Shakespeare at its very best: biting wit and timeless drama. David, for all his green face before the show, shone as the complicated Brutus. Ryan, who had practiced Antony’s “Friends, Romans, countrymen” soliloquy in front of a mirror since he was twelve years old, played the part like an impression of his oldest, dearest friend.

  And the sold-out audience roared.

  Six weeks—a folly? An idyll? Shakespeare would have had a word for it.

  Over the course of the season, Ryan fell into the rhythm of the production as he always did, with one exception. Giddy from the thrill of performing, the cast frequently moved on to the parties afterward. Ryan was happy to skip the parties—and the hangovers—and go home to Trey horny and ready to make more dirty memories to cherish when the summer came to an end.

  And life with Trey over those six weeks was nothing short of perfect. Trey made his own schedule, often doing rental house maintenance, so he was busy, but able to swing by the house to have lunch—or sometimes a nooner—with Ryan. He came to as many of the shows as he could, until he could probably recite every line of both plays as easily as Ryan himself.

  But six weeks came to an inevitable close, and Ryan woke up that last morning frowning and melancholy.

  “You could stay here.” Trey traced Ryan’s lips with his finger as early-morning sunlight poured through the curtains of his bedroom. “West is going to want his house back, but you can live with me. And . . . I don’t know. You’re a partner in the theater now. You could be a real part of it.”

  Ryan nipped absently at Trey’s finger. He wanted nothing more than to be cocooned in Trey’s arms forever. He could be himself here in a way he’d forgotten how to be in California, where his job was tied up in keeping up appearances. Keeping up appearances wasn’t who he was—he knew that now. But the job? The art? That was who he was. A defining part of him. And the ambition that propelled him across the country seven years earlier would never be satisfied if he didn’t give it another try. He didn’t want to end up resenting Trey for being the reason he gave up a dream he’d had since childhood.

  “I can’t stay.” He saw the disappointment in Trey’s face, and it killed him. “If I stay here now—it’s like giving up on those dreams that sent me west in the first place. It’s like saying all those people who thought I wasn’t good enough, the ones who thought I was nothing but a party boy, a D-list nobody with a pretty face that wouldn’t last long—it’s saying those people were right. It’s letting the gossip be true. And it’s—it’s letting a campy sci-fi show that was canceled halfway through the first season be my best work. And I’m not done, man. I’m only twenty-five. I’ve made some mistakes, but don’t I deserve a chance to prove I’m more than my mistakes?”

  “Of course you do.” Shoving away from Ryan, Trey scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course. I’m just being selfish.”

  “You could come with me. Mike got me a six-episode guest run on Triage. You could come out for a week or two and see Hollywood. I could take you to some of the studios.”

  Trey shook his head. “We’re being silly now. Trying to turn our summer together into a life—that’s not how it works. We both know better.”

  Ryan’s chest was splitting in two. “I don’t. I don’t know better. I don’t even know how this works. I know I have to leave, and I know I don’t want to leave you.”

  “You’re talking about putting a Band-Aid on an amputation.”

  “I’m talking about our life!”

  “It’s won’t be temporary long distance. We’re talking an entire continent between us for—for months at a time. What kind of life is that?”

  “That’s the life of a guy who works in movies,” Ryan snapped. “You knew who I was. And you knew I was leaving.” He stood up and started pacing around the room. “So this is how it ends? Us bitching at each other because you won’t leave and I won’t stay, and we’re too damned stubborn to try and find a compromise?”

  “What kind of compromise is there?”

  “I could try to find work on the East Coast. New York—or Atlanta even. Atlanta’s got a booming television and film industry. It’s not a perfect solution, but it’s something, right? Please don’t make it be all or nothing.” Ryan knelt by the bed and took Trey’s hand between his own, pressing the knuckles to his lips. “Give me a chance to try to have it all.”

  “Now who’s being selfish?” Trey squeezed Ryan’s hand, letting him know he was teasing. “I don’t know. A clean break is probably for the best, don’t you think? I don’t want to fall out of love by attrition. If we end it like this—at least we had one amazing summer together that we can look back on fondly.”

  Well, that was that. Bitterness washed over Ryan, who stood up and turned away to hide the wetness in his eyes.

  “Okay, then. I guess I’d better pack. I’ve got to get to Dare County Airport by three. And if you won’t even try, I don’t have anything left to say.”

  “Ryan, don’t be like that. Can we just do this like adults?”

  Ryan yanked a T-shirt over his head. “That’s the second time you’ve called me a child. The first time, I believed you when you said it was a joke. Now I think it’s just your way of pretending what I want doesn’t matter. And you know—I get that your ex did a number on you and you can’t let yourself be vulnerable. I get it.”

  “This isn’t about him.”

  “Isn’t it?” Ryan gestured around the room. “Isn’t every fight we’ve ever had at least a little bit about him? I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m asking you to spend a few weeks in California and let me share something of myself with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I love you. And I don’t think you want this to end either, but I need to start being Bryan Hart again—and if you can’t love that part of me too? I’ll see myself out.”

  Ryan started shoving clothes in his overnight bag. Shorts, T-shirt, goddamn it, where had his underwear gone? Blinking back tears at the sudden reminder of his first morning in this house, he dug his fist into his forehead and took a deep breath.

  “You can keep the underwear.”

  “Ry—”

  Ferdy’s bark cut off the rest of his name as Ryan strode through the living room to the back door.

  That was fine. By the time he landed on the West Coast that afternoon, he’d be Bryan Hart again.

  Whoever that was.

  Ryan set the script down on Mike’s desk with shaking fingers. It was good. Really good. Academy Award good. And they wanted him. No audition necessary, they’d specifically asked for him. So why did he feel uneasy about it? Sure, he’d rather not spend six months shooting in Texas, of all places, but it was a good role—and it was a lead role. It could be the perfect role to make the leap from character actor to leading man. And the idea of taking it filled him with dread.

  “As your agent, I should caution you—I don’t know that pla
ying a young gay man from the South is the best idea so soon after coming out,” Mike said. “But your work since you’ve been back in town has caught the best kind of attention. You have your pick of ‘young gay man’ roles, and there’s Emmy whispers for the work you did on Triage.”

  “Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it.” Ryan shook his head. The popular hospital show had put him through the ringer in the role of a paramedic held hostage with the ER staff by a gunman and the whirlwind romance with a nurse that followed. It had been some of his best work—but award-worthy? No one with a brain in their head was going to give Ryan an award for anything.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Mike’s voice cut through the fog of misery Ryan had once again wrapped himself in.

  Ryan looked up. “Nothing. I’m fine. You’re probably right about the gay thing; I don’t want to get type cast. But this is a great opportunity. How much time do I have to think it over?”

  “I’ll call the casting director and let them know you need a few days, but you’re leaning toward yes. The dancing show called again. They offered—”

  “No reality TV.” Ryan cut him off. “They literally cannot pay me enough to do another reality show.”

  “Let me put out some more feelers. Jesus, you’re one grumpy motherfucker. Do you think you can cheer the fuck up before your audition tomorrow?”

  Oh yeah. The teenage drama needing a high school teacher. He was pleasantly surprised he hadn’t been called to audition for the role of one of the kids, but slightly terrified that he was now too old to play a teenager on TV.

  “No. I can’t cheer the fuck up. But I’m an actor, so I’ll act.”

  “Listen, Ryan, I know I was a dick last spring, but you’ve done incredible work since then. You should be proud of what you’ve accomplished over the last few months. And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if quitting drinking has made you miserable, do me a favor and go on a bender. Just stay out of the papers.”

  “I didn’t quit drinking.” Ryan looked down at the script on the desk again. “I mean, I guess I did—but it wasn’t a conscious decision. Anyway, getting drunk isn’t going to make me feel better. But I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “What can I do? This is what we’ve been busting our asses for. You have everything you ever wanted.”

  No, I don’t.

  “What kind of role is going to make you happy?” Mike spread his hands wide. “You’re in your prime. I just want to help you make it last.”

  “I don’t know. I doubt playing a high school teacher is going to do the trick.”

  Mike gave a helpless shrug. “All right. Call me after, let me know how it goes.”

  “You’re going to take root on that barstool.” Kim glared at Trey across the bar. “Not that I don’t enjoy your scintillating company, but you do realize that when I get home, I’m going to be up with a colicky baby every two hours. You’re actually making me look forward to pacing around his bedroom.”

  “Whatever.” Trey kept his eyes on the football game on the screen above the bar with halfhearted interest. But even men in tight pants grappling with each other didn’t hold much appeal.

  “Have you talked to Doc Wharton about your depression?”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  “You haven’t mentioned her lately. Have you been to see her?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think that’s kind of important? Seeing as how you have posttraumatic stress disorder after your husband tried to kill you?”

  “She hasn’t done any more for me than you have.”

  “That is bullshit. I’m not your therapist. I’m a bartender, and I’m cutting you off.”

  “I’m not drunk.”

  “I don’t care. Go home. I’m tired of watching you sulk.”

  He sat up and stared at her. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “Well, I’d like you to pay for your beer first.” She folded her arms across her chest and stared right back at him.

  What the hell? He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and threw a ten-dollar bill down on the bar.

  “Do you need change?”

  “Keep it.” He shoved his wallet into his pocket so hard he heard fabric tear. What the fuck ever.

  “Good night.” Kim crossed her arms over her chest and gave the door a pointed glare.

  He studied her for a long moment. Dark circles under her eyes, mouth flattened into a thin line. She was exhausted. And dead serious.

  “Fine. Good night.”

  “If you want to see your nephew this weekend—”

  He turned and walked away before she could finish the sentence, shoving through the heavy door to the bar and out into the cold, windy parking lot. Dusk was falling over the beach, and the whole world was as gray as he felt.

  A car door slammed nearby, and he flinched from the noise, then unlocked his truck and climbed inside.

  He banged his hand down on the steering wheel, scowling. Then did it again, and his hand hurt, but he didn’t care. The third time, he hit the horn and the blast startled him. Damn it.

  A soft knock sounded to his left. Kim. Fuck. She was crying. He rolled down the window.

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffled and reached through the window, placing her hands on the sides of his face. “I love you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re my brother. And because you’re wonderful. And I don’t know what crawled up your ass and died, but you’re scaring the shit out of me.”

  “Do you know how things ended with Ryan?”

  She took a step back and shook her head, then came back to the window. “No. That was months ago. He went back to LA, and I thought you seemed okay.”

  He blew out an angry breath. “I am not okay.”

  “Hold on, I’m coming in.”

  She walked around the truck and climbed in the passenger side as he rolled the window back up.

  “What about the bar?”

  “There are three people in there; Candace can handle it. Tell me what happened with Ryan.”

  “He invited me to visit him in LA, and I called him a child.”

  She stared at him. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I’m an asshole and I hate myself. I don’t know. I have no idea why I said it. I certainly don’t think he’s a child. We were fighting, but— I knew what Hollywood meant to him and I made it all or nothing.”

  She sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. “You said it because you’re terrified and ashamed of being terrified.”

  He scowled, but tipped his head to the side so it rested on hers. “Maybe.”

  “Are you going to let Vincent ruin everything, forever?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you love Ryan?”

  He didn’t answer at first because the word had always seemed like such a nice word. Love was a nice thing for nice people. Ryan had loved him and it had been beautiful, but it had to end because he didn’t deserve—

  “Love isn’t very nice, is it?”

  She sat up straight and grasped his chin in her palm, turning him to face her. “Love is wonderful and terrible, and no, it isn’t very nice. But you get to choose whether it’s the best part of your life or the worst.”

  “Are you sure you’re not a therapist?” He smiled sadly.

  “I wish I got paid like one. What are you going to do?”

  “He’s gotten on with his life. I missed my shot, and now . . . I don’t know. I figure out how to get on with mine.”

  Except he wasn’t. He was wallowing in misery like it was his job.

  “Maybe you should call. Text him. I don’t know, I’m pulling this out of my ass here, but have you thought about apologizing?”

  “Apologizing?”

  “You know, that thing you do when you hurt someone.”

  “I know what an apology is.”

  She practically growled. “So you realize you owe him one?”

  “Why would he want to he
ar from me?”

  “Okay, I’m going back inside. We almost got somewhere for a minute there. Almost. Next time you’re in a shitty mood, call Doc Wharton.”

  The door slammed behind her, and even though he knew she was right, knew he should see Doc Wharton, he let the fury boil over instead.

  He drove home, kicked the door of his truck closed, and marched inside. Ferdy whined and tilted his head as Trey dumped food in the stainless steel dog dish and dropped it unceremoniously on the floor.

  Even his damn dog was rebuking him.

  Was this the life he wanted?

  He turned on the TV and started flipping through the channels looking for a game—any game—to distract him, until a familiar sight stopped him cold.

  Ryan.

  The paramedic’s uniform clung to his chest and shoulders, and in that particular scene—where he was braced over a patient, giving CPR—oh holy night, his ass. Trey’s mouth went dry.

  He wanted that. Not the ambulance ride with a paramedic straddling him—no, thank you, once in a lifetime was enough. But Ryan’s attention, Ryan’s body, Ryan’s hair—what the fuck had he done to his head? The military-short buzz cut was hot—but there was nothing left to grab, and that realization was a bitter pang in Trey’s chest. Ryan had changed—of course actors were chameleons—but Trey hadn’t been there to witness it. To share in it. To rub the freshly shaved buzz for luck.

  He’d missed it. And it was his fault.

  A Mohawked black woman at the reception desk at the Adams Casting Agency gave Ryan a once-over above the tops of her clear-rimmed Warby Parkers and held up her finger. She radiated a cool, edgy elegance in her ice-blue suit and huge hoop earrings, and was speaking what sounded like Japanese into her cell phone. When she hung up, she asked, “Audition?”

  He threw on as much charm as he could manage and grinned. “Am I that obvious?”

  “You’re not carrying donuts—not that anyone in LA eats donuts—so you can’t be a salesman.” She smirked. “You’re a little old for the role, aren’t you? I’m Chihiro Adams—please forgive our mess, we just moved into this space. Diane, my receptionist, landed a walk-on role on a sitcom at the last minute, and I keep accidentally calling my mother instead of answering the phone.”