“So why did you tell Alexis that day at the studio that she was your Ava?”
“You heard me say that?”
She nods.
“Because that’s what she needs.” I run my index finger along her face. Her skin is so soft, and it’s impossible not to touch her. A soft sigh escapes her lips.
“So, you give her what she needs?”
“Look,” I say firmly. “Alexis needs to feel as if she’s the center of the universe. That’s how she gives the best performance that her fans love. But even though I told her she was meant to play Ava, that doesn’t change that you’re the one I wanted more for the part. But that’s what I had to tell her to get her to deliver for me.”
“So, you play us all?”
I give her a look as if she can’t be serious. “Is that what you think I’m doing to you?”
26
Jill
I shake my head. Because I don’t want to think he’d do that. I can’t even contemplate that he’d toy with me.
“Jill, you have to know I’m not playing you,” he says in his cool and controlled voice. He’s the consummate pro now. The man who wins awards and rains money down on the show’s backers. He’s not talking to me as a lover. He’s talking to me as a director. “But this is how I work, and every actor needs something different.”
“What do I need then, as an actress?” I want to know how he categorizes me. He’s brilliant at his job, and I want to understand how he does it. How he knows what we need. How he makes us give it to him. How he drives us to work harder for him.
“You,” he says, then stares out at the audience as if he’ll find the answer there in the vast expanse of empty chairs. In the row after row of red upholstered seats that will creak and groan with theatergoers in two more weeks. With patrons who will never know the blood, sweat, and tears that were shed on the path to opening night, but will hopefully fall in love with the artifice that seems real. “You need someone to see you. To know you. To understand you. That’s what makes you so good in this role. Ava needs so many of the same things, and that’s why you connect with her character.”
I am reminded of the day he told me the news. Of the time we had drinks and talked about what he saw in me when I played Eponine. Maybe it sounds vain, maybe it sounds egotistical, but it thrills me deep in my heart and soul to know that he admires my talent. That he thinks I have talent. That he thinks I’m more than good enough. This is what I’ve always wanted, to be able to move people with a performance.
I swivel around so I’m sitting cross-legged, and I take his hand in mine. “It means the world to me that you gave me this chance. You know that right?”
“Of course I know that,” he says in a callous voice that surprises me. Maybe he’d rather not hear how much I admire his work. Maybe what he wants from me right now is something I’m not sure how to give.
“Now let’s get to work because if I spend all night talking to you, we’ll never get this show ready. I want to work on the scene where Paolo finally breaks down Ava. Where he gets her to open up to him and admit all her truths about being alone her whole life, and he helps her make the best art.”
Breaks down Ava. Those words reverberate in my head. Paolo breaks down Ava, and there’s a voice inside me, a quiet little voice that’s asking if Davis is doing the same to me. If that’s how he’s getting what he needs from this actress.
But maybe I want to be broken down.
We are oddly silent as we pack up three hours later. I grab my coat and my purse, and he gathers his phone and his notes, and the silence between us is full of unsaid things. As if neither one of us knows what happens next. Do we go our separate ways, or do we find a way to reconnect after we leave the theater together? I want to say something, to ask a question, to make a joke. But I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what’s happening with us.
Then my stomach growls loudly as if it’s an ornery creature begging for food, and he laughs deeply. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh like this, the kind of laugh that takes over your body.
“Do I need to feed you?” he asks in that playful way he has, and I can’t help but smile and crack up too.
“Evidently, I could really go for a burger and fries. Would you care to take me out on another date?”
His eyes light up, and whatever sadness filled the day is wiped out in that grumbling sound. I’d like to send a thank-you note to my hungry belly for giving me a reason to spend more time with him. Time away from the play. “Yes.”
At the diner, we talk more, and I ask him questions about all the shows he’s done, and he tells me about his productions, sharing stories and anecdotes. I love hearing him talk about what he loves, and as he does, I realize that what he does for me is much more lasting than what a handsome actor in Wicked did for seventeen-year-old me. That idealized man smoothed over my pain and gave me hope that there would still be love in my life.
But this man is changing me. The protective layer between the world and me has been cracking, but it’s just now that I want to hurry it, not hold it back. I want to be my true self, and I want people to see my true self. Like Davis had said . . . I want to be seen.
And I don’t know what the hell to do next.
“What are you thinking?” he asks, as he bends his head to kiss my neck. A soft kiss. A sweet kiss.
That you make me feel all sorts of things. That everything with you scares the hell out of me. That I don’t know how to hide or pretend this isn’t happening anymore.
“That these fries are awesome. Did you know they’re my favorite food?”
“Ah. You say that as if you let me in on your darkest secret. But I suspect that’s not what you were thinking.”
“Chinese food is actually my favorite. Cold sesame noodles,” I say. Then I look away and he pets my hair. “But, that’s not what I was thinking.”
“What were you thinking about?”
I can’t tell him my darkest secret. I can’t tell him all that I’m feeling. I’m not even sure what this is, or what it could be. But I manage one small step.
“You,” I whisper, and he leans his forehead against mine, sighing deeply as I trace the ends of his hair with my fingers. “I was thinking about you. I think about you all the time,” I say, and the admission terrifies me, but it also makes me feel lighter. Like I can start to have all the things I’ve denied myself. All the real things.
“You do?”
“Yes. So much it scares me,” I say, and my throat hitches, but I keep it together.
“It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to feel,” he says in a soft, tender voice. It’s such a contrast to how he spoke to me back at the theater.
And because he’s done so much for me, I need to do something for him. Something that will be good for me too. Something necessary. “I was never dating Patrick. We only spent time as friends. But I’m not going to anymore.”
He tries to fight a smile, but it’s no use. The smile owns him. He glances away then back at me at last, uttering a confident “good.”
“It is good,” I second.
I pull back and look at him, seeing him in a newer light than before. He’s always been heart-stoppingly gorgeous with his dark hair, ink blue eyes, and strong jawline. But he’s beautiful in a different way now. Because I know who he is, beyond the man in the second row of the St. James Theater who called me in for the chance of a lifetime. That chance still exists though, and I need to protect it. “We still have to be careful at the event this weekend, okay? I don’t want people to talk about me. We can’t arrive together, and we can’t leave together.”
“Can I get you a dress, though?” He looks so hopeful, like he’s been dying to do this for me.
“You don’t have to do that. I can find something to wear.”
“I know you can, Jill. I know you’re perfectly capable of doing everything on your own. And I know I don’t have to. But I want to do something special for you.”
“Then I would
love to see what you choose for me. Because everything you do for me is special. That’s why I’m going to do what I need to do tomorrow. For me, and for us.”
There’s that smile again, and I think I might have made him the happiest I’ve ever seen him. Then he smothers me in a kiss that makes me forget we are in a public place. But there’s a part of me that no longer cares.
27
Jill
I trot up the steps to the stage door, light-footed considering I’m going to friend zone possibly the nicest guy on earth. I head down the carpeted hallway to his dressing room and hear The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling” before I get there. It’s just what I’d expect him to listen to. The happy guy who needs to be in a good mood all the time.
I tap on the half-open door, and Patrick waves me in. “Jill! Come in.”
“Hey!” I copy his tone, then bring it down. “I need to tell you that I won’t be able to go to mini-golf with you.”
“That’s all right. We can reschedule.”
“Actually . . .” It’s hard to keep the smile completely from my face. “I’ve started seeing someone. So probably best if I give it a miss.”
“Oh.” He seems a little perturbed. Then his expression clears, and he points at me with a grin. “I thought you had a happy glow about you.”
“So, we’re good?” I bite my lip. “Because I have had fun with you.”
He gets up from his chair to give me a hug. “I had a good time too. And I think it’s great you found someone who makes you so happy. And we can still mini-golf. We’ll just get a group together. Problem solved.”
“Problem solved,” I agree with a grin as happy as his.
And loose end knotted.
The cream-colored box from Neiman Marcus is so stunning I don’t want to ruin the beautifully tied bow by opening it. But I’m the kid at Christmas, and I’m dying to know what he picked out. I tug on one end of the gold-trimmed bow, undoing the knot and tossing it on my couch. Excitement races through me as I wiggle off the top, then unfold the tissue paper carefully.
I gasp and bring my hand to my mouth.
“Oh my God,” I say out loud.
I’m home alone and grateful because I need to have a moment with this dress. I lift it up, reverently, because I’ve never had a dress like this, and then I stand and hold it against me, running my hand along the sapphire fabric, savoring the hourglass shape. I’m about to go check it out in the mirror on my closet door, when I see a note in the box. Gingerly, I lay the dress down then reach for the note. It’s on stiff cardboard, and I open it. Butterflies make a quick visit to my belly, but I shoo them away. I want to know what he’s written. I’ve never had so much as a text message from him, so I don’t know what to expect.
For the most beautiful and captivating woman I know. And hope to know.
Davis
My heart leaps to my throat, and all my instincts tell me to shut it down. To run. To act. A million malformed ideas invade my brain on how to pretend, avoid, hide. My heart knocks hard against my chest like it wants so desperately to escape, to stop the flood of feelings this note has unleashed.
But then I flash onto the show I’m doing in one more week. Onto the role I’ll be ready to step into at a moment’s notice. Into Ava. I picture the moments when she lets Paolo in. I see the scenes play out in my mind when she finally can move past the physical and accept all that he wants from her—for her art, for her love.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself that I am like her. She is strong. She is brave. She is more than the damage she’s done. I open my eyes, run my fingers over his words then tuck the note safely into my purse. This note won’t be locked away. This note will stay with me.
I gather a small section of the fabric on the skirt as I walk up the red-carpeted steps of the Plaza Hotel on Friday night. I’m in shoes my size. Shoes I bought for myself—my own Louboutins. I wanted to have something I chose for me, even though I can’t fault Davis’s taste. It’s impeccable.
A man in a black jacket with gold piping stands elegantly by the Roman columns, then quickly reaches for the door and opens it for us with a grand gesture.
Shelby and I walk inside the luxury hotel, and I’m immediately assaulted with images of Eloise, The Great Gatsby, and the history of this icon of New York City. I imagine all the other men and women, in evening dresses and tuxes, who’ve walked through this lobby as we do, across the polished tiles on the floor, the red leaf pattern on the carpet, and through the French doors of the Palm Court to the Terrace Room just beyond.
An attendant takes our coats, and Shelby gives me another once-over, shaking her head in admiration.
“If I had your body, I’d wear a Herve Leger form-fitting bandage dress too,” she says.
“Oh stop. You have a perfect body. You’re a Broadway baby, just like me. We have to look good,” I say playfully.
Naturally, Shelby begins humming Lullaby of Broadway, and I join in, but then our little rendition fades out as we head into the Terrace Room. I’ve been in the Plaza. I’ve had high tea in the Palm Court. I even stayed in this hotel one night with my mom when we went on a shopping trip when I was a little girl. But I’ve never entered this room as a guest at a formal event, and the word awestruck takes on a new meaning.
Soft light from crystal chandeliers bathes the opulent room in a warm glow. The walls are lined with replicas of Italian Renaissance-style paintings, while the archways that ring the main floor bring majesty to this jewel of a room. Steps on each side lead up to another level that wraps the main area so you can stand at the railing and watch the mingling, the dancing, the champagne-drinking, and all the beautiful people below.
We walk down the steps, and I spy all sorts of Broadway star wattage, from my idol Audra McDonald to one of my favorite actors of all time, Michael Cerveris. There are producers and agents, choreographers, and music directors, and of course, the money men and women who make the shows go round. I even spy Joyelle Kristy, a rising film starlet who played a leather-clad superhero in a hit film and is said to be on the hunt for a juicy theater role so she can follow in Scarlett Johansson’s footsteps.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
I turn, and it’s Reeve. He told me he’d be attending when we worked out yesterday morning.
“Hey gorgeous,” I say, and give him a quick kiss on the cheek then introduce him to Shelby. Reeve is joined shortly by Sutton Brenner, the casting director and the woman who stole his heart.
“So good to see you again, Jill,” she says in her crisp, British accent, and leans in to give me cheek kisses. “How’s everything going with Crash the Moon? We’re so excited for opening night, and I know you’re going to be the best one in the whole show.”
“Well, I’m only in the chorus.”
She blows air through her lips as if to dismiss the thought. “That’s where all the stars begin, my darling. And I have no doubt yours will be the brightest on all Broadway. I can’t wait.”
“Do you ladies need a beverage?” Reeve suggests and nods to the bar. We follow him, and I want to tease him that he’s now flanked by three women, but then I see Davis talking to a woman with dark hair and a fabulous figure, his hand is on her elbow. I’m about to get all territorial, until I realize they have the same cheekbones.
She must be his sister.
But I don’t spend much time appraising her because he’s so sexy and so sophisticated in his tux, and when I see him in it, I swear that tuxes were made for men like him. My blood heats as I look him over, and even from across this spacious room, with all these people between us, and the piped-in show tunes playing overhead, and the twinkling lights, I can’t help but want to be all alone with him. Can he feel the pull through the crowd? Sense that I’m here, wearing the dress he picked out for me? Goosebumps rise on my skin as I remember the last time I walked into a public place and he looked me over as if he would only ever have eyes for me. I lick my lips briefly at the memory, and it’s then that he
happens to look up from his sister and notice me. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly and shoots me a quick grin, but then returns his attention to her as I make my way to the bar.
“Isn’t it great that he’ll be coming back to New York soon?”
“Hmm?” I ask, when I realize Shelby’s been chatting with me the whole time as we weave through the sea of Broadway beautiful and benefactors alike.
“My boyfriend. From Los Angeles. Hello, earth to Jill?”
I shake my head, as if I can quiet all these thoughts of Davis. I tell myself the curtains are rising, and I am shedding myself and becoming a character. Tonight I’m playing the part of someone who has supreme focus on her friends, not on the man across the room who has slowly, carefully, wonderfully worked his way into her heart.
“That’s awesome. I’m sure you’re totally psyched,” I say.
“He’s going to concentrate on his commercial work and voiceovers for a while since pilot season didn’t pan out.”
“That’s too bad about pilot season, but it’ll be nice for you to see him,” I say, and then Reeve turns around and hands me a champagne glass. The bubbles tickle my nose, but it tastes crisp and light.
Then I can feel a tingling in my neck, and a quick ribbon of desire unspools in me. For the briefest of moments, fingertips graze the skin on my back exposed by the V in the dress. But then they’re phantom fingers, and they’re no longer on me. I turn around, and Davis is at the far end of the bar, his back to me, as he chats with Michael Cerveris.
How does he do that? Just set me aflame with one touch? I down the rest of my champagne, and Shelby gives me a wide-eyed look.
“I’m thirsty,” I say. “I need another.”
“You go, girl,” she says, “Besides, I see Jane Black setting up over there for her set. I worship the ground her high-heeled boots walk on, so I need to go kowtow.”
The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4) Page 17