The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  11

  Jill

  As soon as rehearsal ends, I head straight for the ladies’ room to lecture myself in the mirror.

  What were you thinking?

  Why limit it to one thing? The morning was a cascade of bad decisions. And seriously? “There’s someone else?” That’s rookie-league face-saving. I could have just said, “You don’t want me, but my totally real and not at all imaginary boyfriend does.”

  The door opens, and I grab my lip gloss for an excuse to be there. Shelby, one of my castmates, pops in. She’s in the chorus with me, a few years older, and an amazing dancer, with a sort of ballroom flare, all hips and sexy sway.

  “Hey, there,” she says. “The whole cast is going out to Zane’s for drinks. Want to join?”

  I almost decline, then I remember that, not only does our director not date actresses, he doesn’t fraternize with the cast after rehearsal, either.

  “I’m in,” I say. “Let me grab my bag, and I’ll meet you by the elevator.”

  I leave the restroom and head for the elevator. I spot Davis talking to Alexis inside the doorway of one of the rehearsal studios. Well, I can only see part of them, but he’s the only one in the studio in a white button-down, and her hand rests on his arm, no mistaking those long, scarlet nails, that tighten on his sleeve. What a cliché.

  Sort of seething, but mostly smarting, I angle to stay out of their line of sight. But I stop cold when I hear Davis say in a low voice, “Of course you’re the best, Alexis.” It sounds like he’s smoothing some ruffled feathers. “These are just nerves. I knew from the first day, I had to cast you as Ava. When you’re on the stage, you are Ava . . .”

  While I’m still gasping at that sucker punch, Alexis loosens her grip and pulls him in for an embrace. I hurry by so I won’t get caught listening.

  What the hell? He’d said the same thing to me this morning and had seemed so incredibly sincere. Does he think actresses are interchangeable? Or is he playing us both?

  Ding, ding, ding!

  We have a winner. To him, we’re all fragile flowers needing praise like we need the sun. So he doles it out, and that’s how he coaxes out such great performances. It’s insidiously clever, and totally Machiavellian.

  I was easily fooled because I wanted his words to be true, to believe I was his first choice. Now all I want is to march up and demand he never toy with me or my feelings or any other part of me again. But not while he’s with Alexis. Chin up, I walk right past the closed studio door on my way back, and don’t give it a glance.

  Shelby is waiting at the elevator and we step in and ride down. “That dance number was brutal.” She stretches her neck from side to side, as I force Davis and his puppeteering ways from my brain. I don’t have any extra mental real estate to devote to him. “I thought I was going to die.”

  “Yeah, totally,” I agree. Actually, the dance number was all cardio, and I’m a wizard at cardio. But I also really like fitting in. “I think I might collapse later because of that number.”

  Shelby gives me a playfully stern look. “Drinks first, collapse after.”

  “But of course.”

  We head into Zane’s and find our crowd. Alexis has turned up, though she’s off in the back of the bar with her publicist, so I hang where a bunch of chorus members have pulled together some tables. I order a beer, and we talk about this show and other shows we’ve done. When Kelly Clarkson’s “Catch My Breath” starts on the bar’s sound system, a group of us grab our imaginary microphones and sing along—loud and boisterous and actually on pitch. When the number ends, we get a rousing ovation from the rest of the bar.

  I head to the bar to order another beer. As I wait, I take out my phone and text my brother Chris in California. We talk—okay, we text—every day, and I like to keep him up to date on my life. We were close growing up, and he always looked out for me—until the business with Aaron. Somehow, I could never find the words to tell him what was going on. I guess by sharing the details of my life in New York City now, I feel like I’m making up for my silence years ago.

  Rehearsal is great. But director is strange.

  I send off the note, then wonder why I mentioned Davis now that I have his number. He’s a master craftsman who knows how to use his tools perfectly. “Used” is how I feel after hearing him tell Alexis the same thing he’d told me. You are Ava.

  Chris writes back quickly. Define strange.

  You know, like Broadway director strange.

  He replies I know this may shock you, but I know nothing of Broadway directors. BTW, I’m probably coming to NYC next month for a work trip. Can you make some time for your big bro?

  I nearly squeal. I haven’t seen Chris in a year.

  Yes!!!!

  As Shelby joins me at the bar, I put my phone away. She pushes a hand through her dark, wavy hair and asks, “On a scale of one to ten, how hot is Patrick Carlson?”

  I nearly spit out my beer. Then I realize it was just a question—not a dig at the single-minded, single-sided passion of my late teens. Because no one knows about that. And everyone with eyes knows Patrick is gorgeous.

  “Oh, he’s all right,” I downplay, and Shelby laughs and bumps my shoulder with hers as I glance back the way she came. “Is he here?”

  “On his way, someone just said.” She looks at me impishly. “Is there a reason you’re asking? If you like him, you should go for it. I worked in South Pacific with him, and he’s super nice.”

  Earlier, I’d thought I might ask him out. I didn’t want it to be because of what I’d said to Davis, or in a reaction to Davis’s door-slam. I didn’t want Davis to factor into it at all.

  I did the safe thing and turned the conversation toward her. “What about you, Shelby? Anyone special in your life?”

  “Since you asked . . .” She laughs and waggles her hand, showing me a gumball-sized sparkly rhinestone ring. “I am involved with someone. It’s not a real diamond, obviously. More a promise of a ring to come. He’s an actor too.”

  “Oh cool. What’s he in?”

  She sighs, and her brown eyes look sad. “Nothing right now. He just moved to Los Angeles since pilot season is starting. He’s hoping to land something soon. He’s working as a personal trainer between auditions.”

  “What about you. Are you acting full-time?”

  “I used to moonlight as a hairstylist. I worked at one of the blowout salons for a while and did a ton of updos for weddings. I loved it. I’ve been doing hair for fun my whole life. But now I mostly do voice-overs to support myself—and then this kind of gig, of course, when I land one.”

  “Can you teach me how to French braid? I grew up with two brothers and my mom worked all the time, so my French braids are disasters.”

  “Oh, you’d look gorgeous with a French braid, with that perfect long blonde hair. I’ll do yours next rehearsal and then teach you. Mine are epic. I was a nun in The Sound of Music back in high school and I did Maria’s hair, just messing around one day. The director saw and had me styling Maria and half the Von Trapp kids for the week-long production.”

  I laugh since she grins while telling the story, and I take a sip of my beer. “Maybe Davis will enlist you then for your mad hair skills.”

  She pulls back and eyes me with such disbelief that I’m sure I’ve offended her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you would have to work double.”

  “No. That’s not it,” she says with a laugh. “Do you really call him Davis? No one calls him Davis, except for Alexis. He’s Milo to everyone.”

  Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I didn’t mean . . . I just . . .” I can’t finish because I don’t know what to say. I call him Davis because he asked me to. Now that’s just who he is to me.

  “I’d say to go for it with him, because he’s got that whole tall, dark, and broody thing going on, but he doesn’t date actresses.”

  “Oh yeah?” I try to sound as disinterested as I want to be. But am I the only one who didn’t know this about him?


  “Yeah, ever since Madeline Blaine—” Shelby cuts off when she catches someone’s eye and waves. “Hey, beautiful!”

  I turn to look, and oh, hey, it’s Patrick, walking over to us and wrapping Shelby in a big hug. When he lets go of her, it’s my turn. It’s nice, with potential. He feels good and strong, and as he releases me, he says, “Hey, Jill! How are you?”

  “Great!”

  The bartender scurries over, fast enough that I guess he recognizes Patrick. “What can I get for you, sir?”

  “I’ll have what they’re having,” he says, placing one hand on my shoulder and one on Shelby. She was right—he is super nice, the kind of nice that makes you feel like you’ve been friends way longer than you have.

  As he waits for his beer, the three of us chat about today’s rehearsal, then Shelby excuses herself for the restroom.

  It’s just Patrick and me at the wooden bar, with One Republic’s “Feel Again” playing. “I love this song,” I say, making conversation.

  He grins and sings a bit with the chorus. “What else do you listen to when you get tired of show tunes?”

  We talk bands for a bit, and considering he’d been my unattainable ideal for so long, it’s surprisingly comfortable. And you know what? It doesn’t matter what Davis would make of it. This isn’t about him. It might have been, but he doesn’t date actresses.

  In the next lull in conversation, when Shelby should be coming back any minute, I ask, “So, remember that super awkward thing where I sent you flowers and asked you out?”

  He looks wary but takes his cue from my tone. “Er, yes.”

  “Ignore that.” I blew out a nervous breath. “This is just me, enjoying talking to you, and wondering if you’d like to get together for coffee sometime.”

  “A date?” he asks cautiously, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes like he doesn’t think it’s the worst idea ever.

  “Um . . . if you’d like it to be? It doesn’t have to be anything but, you know, hot water and ground beans.”

  He turns and faces me, taking my hands as if he’s a gentleman come to court me. Then, very seriously, he says, “I would love to go out for water and ground beans with you, Jill.”

  “Hot water,” I correct.

  “Hot water,” he agrees, and breaks his straight face with a smile. My day has moved from cold and confusing to warm and wonderful.

  At least until I’m drenched by a cold beer I never see coming. “What the . . .?”

  I spin to see Alexis has crashed into me, and the beer from her empty glass is now soaking my clothes.

  “Oh dear, I’m so sorry . . . um . . . whatever your name is.” She hardly bothers to feign contrition.

  “It’s Jill, and you just spilled your beer all over me,” I snap.

  She narrows her eyes and looks down her nose at me. “I said I was sorry. You don’t have to be snotty.”

  I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t snotty. I’m just covered in hops now.”

  Patrick hands me a napkin. I try to blot up the mess, but it’s hopeless.

  “Excuse me,” I say, and head for the bathroom. The cloth napkin is little help, so I grab a handful of paper towels and blot at the wettest part, but I’m fighting a losing battle. Even my tights are wet.

  Someone opens the door. I look up to see Alexis stumble into the bathroom. Despite the beer on her breath, her crystal blue eyes are steely and cold. “You.” She points a finger at me, and I want to slap it away. I want to smack Davis too, for telling her she was the one. “Whatever your name is. This isn’t going to be some All About Eve situation here.”

  I roll my eyes. I mean really, see-it-from-the-back-row rolled them. “I’m not plotting against you, Alexis.”

  She snorts. “Oh right. Oh sure. I know your type. You want my part. I’ll be watching you, and I won’t be the only one. If I think for one second that you’re trying to pull something on me, your career will be over like that.”

  She snaps a finger. The gesture is over-the-top and stagey, and I’m done. I have had it.

  “Can we cut?”

  “What?”

  “The hidden cameras.” I make a show of searching. “If we’re on a reality show, there must be hidden cameras somewhere.”

  “We’re not on a reality show.” Then she drops her voice and looks around a little wild-eyed. “Are we?”

  “We must be. The conspiracy theories, the overacting—”

  “Overacting!”

  “Yes. Because that’s the only place where people say annoying things like this.” I gesture to her and my skirt and all of it. Gloves off, I face her and lean a bit closer, so she knows I’m serious. “So, unless we’re living in a Telenovela or with the Kardashians, why don’t you stop focusing on me, and save the drama for the stage?”

  I turn on my heel and leave her with her mouth hanging open. It’s a small victory in this roller coaster day. A victory that feels entirely Pyrrhic when I have to say goodbye to Patrick and Shelby because I’m soggy and smell like a brewery.

  12

  Davis

  My sister takes a sip of the white wine she’s ordered. She nods approvingly at the waiter holding the bottle. He pours more into her glass and then tips the bottle toward me. I decline with a curt wave. I’m not in the mood tonight.

  He bows and walks off.

  Michelle stares hard then imitates me, adopting a frown and a standoffish little shrug that mirrors mine.

  “Are we going there again?” I sigh.

  “Well, you’ve barely said a word.”

  “We just got here five minutes ago.”

  “That’s five minutes of talking we could have done.”

  “You talk all day long for your job. Don’t you ever want to not talk?”

  “Surprising, I know, but I actually like talking. And I thought you talked too. Oh wait, you tell people what to do.” She flashes me a just kidding smile that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with her.

  “But isn’t that what you do too?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “Touché.”

  This is what my little sister and I do—needle each other, get under the skin, and don’t let each other get too much in our own heads.

  I take a drink of my water as Michelle savors another swallow of her wine. She rolls her eyes as she savors it, like TV chefs appreciate deliciousness with their faces. “This is divine,” she says as she holds up the glass. Then she looks again at me. “So what’s with the whole enigmatic, broody thing you have going on today? I’m aware that’s your usual, but you’re operating at double the daily dosage today. Crap day at rehearsal?”

  I shrug. I can’t get the details of what happened in the stairwell this morning out of my mind, but neither do I want to discuss them. “It was fine.”

  We’re at a too-cool-for-words restaurant on Canal Street, not far from my loft. This place is called The Cutlery Drawer and there’s not a matching utensil in the place. The tables are all black lacquer, the floor is charcoal gray tile and the utensils are a strange hodgepodge. My sister picked it. I think it’s more fitting for a nightclub, but this is her hobby. She spends her days advising on the challenges of love and relationships as a psychologist and her nights researching the newest eateries in Manhattan for us to check out.

  She narrows her dark brown eyes and leans across the table. “I don’t believe you, Davis.”

  “You don’t believe that I had a fine day at rehearsal?”

  “I believe that when you say fine it means shitty. Something’s bothering you.”

  “I swear, some days I wish you weren’t a genius shrink at such a young age.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “I was right then.”

  I say nothing.

  She softens her tone. “C’mon, Davis. What is it? I hate to see you all wound up.”

  “It’s nothing,” I huff, but I can’t put that cat back in the bag.

  “Are you being careful with your new show?”

  I pick up a fork and twirl it
between my thumb and forefinger, looking away. “Yes,” I mutter, because now she sees right through me.

  She presses her palms together, almost as if she’s praying. “Please tell me you’re not falling for some captivating young actress who’ll break your heart again?”

  I drop the fork.

  “Oh, Davis.” No teasing now. That’s worry etched in her features.

  “Michelle, I’m fine.” It’s up to me to look out for her, not the other way around. I look at the menu.

  “I don’t believe you. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. I hate what Madeline did to you.”

  “She just left, that’s all. Okay? Please, let’s stop investing the whole affair with so much monumentality. Besides, it was a few years ago.” I don’t want to dwell on Madeline Blaine. I don’t want to revisit all the promises we made, all the things we said to each other. Most of all, I don’t want to remember how much it hurt when she walked away, too soon after the play we worked on together ended for it to be happenstance. You gave me my first big break, and for that, I will be forever grateful, but I don’t have time in my life for love. I need to focus on my career. Then she went to L.A. and did just that.

  It’s not like I expected a fucking plaque for having plucked her out of the pile of young hopefuls. That’s what I do. I would never expect her to owe me anything as her director.

  As the man she fell in love with, though, I had hoped for a lot more than a cold goodbye after the curtains fell. But that’s how it goes with actors. They fall in love with their roles, they fall in love with the show, they fall in love with you. Then it ends and they move on because they know how to turn emotions on and off.

  “I read she was in talks to do that new Steve Martin play and is coming to New York. I’m totally not going to see it, even though I love his work,” she says, boycotting the show preemptively.

  “Let’s talk about something else. Health care reform or troubles in Congress,” I say sharply. My sister is the only person who really knows me. Sometimes I hate being known. Sometimes I prefer the appearance I’ve carefully crafted with my work.