The Interview

by Alice Ward

  It was a question I’d asked myself repeatedly. “I don’t know, but the fact that they are has to mean something, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe. It could also mean you’re lonely and trying to make something out of nothing.”

  “Believe me, it’s not nothing.” My stomach rocked from side to side in agreement. “It’s definitely something.”

  I heard a loud, creaking squeak from his end of the line and imagined his scrawny form stretching back in his favorite La-Z-Boy. If I knew him like I thought I did, that recliner was still sitting in the corner of his stucco living room with a ratty old afghan draped over the back, and a series of empty Pepsi cans lined up on the end table beside it. He’d probably been watching one of those trashy reality TV competitions when I’d called, though he never would’ve copped to it.

  “So, what you’re telling me is that this woman you’ve known for a month has got you all twisted up to the point that you want to dig up everything you’ve spent years burying?” The disdain in his voice was palpable. “All that big city pollution must have finally gone to your head.”

  “You know, I called my brother for advice, not judgment,” I reminded him.

  He sighed. “Look, I’m not saying she’s a gold digger or a fame whore or a bad person. She’s probably a great person, or you wouldn’t be as interested as you are. But it has only been a month. What makes you so sure she’s not going to go running to every gossip rag and rumor mill as soon as she knows your secrets? Shit, you could have a fantastic relationship for a year, but one big fight and she’s calling the media.”

  “She is the media.”

  The squeak of the chair broke our conversation again, and this time I heard the leg rest thud as Artie presumably sat up. “What?”

  “She’s a theater critic.” I journeyed back for a second to the moment I’d first laid eyes on her, her back turned to me in my dressing room and the look of alarm on her face when I’d startled her. “That’s how I met her. She was reviewing Concrete on opening night.”

  “End it.”

  The command was so harsh and abrasively delivered that I actually drew back as if he’d been in front of me snapping the order directly into my face. “I can’t just—”

  “Bro, I’m not kidding. Call it off, tell her it’s over, move on with your life. I’m serious. No good can come of this relationship.”

  “You want me to break up with her because of her job?” I was too stunned by the force of his reaction to feel anything but indignance.

  “I want you to break up with her before this entire situation blows the fuck up.” He was probably on the edge of his seat now, just like I was. It was the way we always argued with each other, never coming to blows or personal attacks but always heated just enough to verge on hopping to our feet. “And it’s gonna blow the fuck up, bro, all over our lives. This is a nuke waiting to explode. I’m talking Hiroshima.”

  Before I’d pressed the call button, I’d known I was potentially setting myself up for this kind of conversation. Now that it was happening, however, I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was inclined to insist Artie was overreacting even though I’d made the very same points to myself over and over again.

  “She’s not like that. Even if we didn’t work out, she wouldn’t pull my skeletons out of the closet.”

  “If you tell her everything, you’re pulling those skeletons out yourself, and the only person you’ll have to blame for it is you. I can’t deal with that chaos right now, man. I’m not in the mood to become a social pariah, and I can’t handle the paparazzi on my front lawn or following me to the doctor’s office.”

  As quickly as I’d defensively heated up, I became cold. My skin felt sticky, and my throat grew tight. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  He let out a derisive snort. “The same thing that’s been wrong for ten years. This isn’t a problem that gets better.”

  “Have you been getting your treatments? Has anything new come up?” Something was building in my gut, hot and bubbly and sickening. “Do you need more money?”

  “I’ve been having it rough lately, but it’s just the nature of the beast.” He coughed like his body wanted to bring the point home.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  The laugh that came out of him was weak and scratchy with phlegm on a raw throat. “You deal with my shit too much as it is. I’m not gonna call you every time I take a dive.”

  I wanted to snarl at him that one of those dives could be the last one, but I figured it would be the ultimate display of insensitivity to bring that up at the moment, so I instead said, “I feel like a jackass.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m calling you about relationship problems while you’re dealing with real problems.” I shrugged even though he couldn’t see me. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Yeah, you are, but I don’t see how that applies here.”

  His teasing jab quirked the smallest smile from me, but concern for his health had overtaken the concerns I had about Sadie, and I was far from being cheered up. “You want me to come out there for a few days? I’ve got a good understudy.”

  “This show has barely started its run, bro. Stay where you are. I’m fine.”

  “I’m Tate McGrath. If I want to take a few days off, I take a few days off.”

  He cackled. “Yeah, okay, Big Shot. Just stay in New York where you belong and enjoy your return to the stage.”

  “Only if you swear you’ll let me know next time you downslide.” Banter was part of our typical exchanges but bartering about this was as serious as a heart attack to me. If he didn’t agree, I was going to show up on his doorstep by the next morning whether he liked it or not.

  “Fine. Next time I get the sniffles, I’ll give you a call.”

  I hesitated, unsure what else to say to him. My fear for his well-being was now tumbling around inside me, and it made me nauseous. I would have taken uncertainty about Sadie ten times over if it meant I didn’t have to worry about Artie. Fussing and nagging him about keeping up with his treatments and staying away from cigarettes and alcohol, though, had always had an adverse effect, usually ending up in a fight, so there was no purpose in continuing the conversation down that path. Luckily, he took the pressure off me by speaking first.

  “So, is this chick you’re seeing hot, at least?”

  I smirked. Good old Artie. “You’d think so. I think she’s beautiful.”

  “Damn, you must have it bad for her.” He whistled under his breath. “You know you have to cut it short, though, right? You have to. Plus, if you do go ahead and tell her the truth, she’ll probably break it off anyway. Not many good women would stick with guys like us, you know?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to sound genuine in my agreement, but the image of Sadie’s face was swimming in my mind’s eye. My heart and my head were going to go to war over this one. “I know.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sadie

  Somehow, I’d inadvertently gone back in time. For nearly a month, I was a woman walking around with her head in the clouds, waking up in the morning with a smile on my face while falling asleep at night with the man of my dreams’ arm around my waist. I’d been fluttering with nerves, blushing with compliments, and imagining the bliss that was to come in the future both near and far. Then, like something out of a science fiction movie, I’d found myself plucked out of my fantasy and dropped back to the morning before I’d met Tate.

  The change was subtle. I still poured my coffee into the same insulated mug and checked my hair in the glossy microwave door before buzzing out the door to join the other millions of New Yorkers hailing cabs and weaving toward the subway. My route to work was no different, and I even saw the man with the scraggly beard and wading boots sleeping outside the bakery on 17th like I did every day.

  Sandra was at her desk looking as polished as always when I got to the Apple offices, Jenna was at her desk looking as groggy as always when I passed her cubicle, and my computer screen w
as black and waiting for me to start my type-a-couple-words-and-backspace routine.

  But there had been a shift.

  The exhilarating lightness in my stomach I’d come to appreciate had weighted, and I’d returned to a state of utter uncertainty about my romantic future. It was like the last few weeks had been nothing more than a really long daydream because here I was once again unable to say I meant something to Tate McGrath, just like I’d been for all those years before Concrete opened.

  We were still seeing each other. The awkwardness of the dinner at his penthouse the other night hadn’t ended us, but I was at a point where I was pretty sure one more evening like that would be the death of whatever relationship we had built. I couldn’t handle his evasiveness about anything personal, and I couldn’t handle my constant waffling between feeling like I was being pushy and feeling like I had a right to push.

  “Why isn’t journalism a second-shift job?” Jenna’s face appeared over the edge of my cubicle, eyelids drooping and mouth turned down. She was wearing more makeup than usual.

  I shoved one of my many notepads to make room for my thermos. “Haven’t you heard? The news never sleeps.”

  “Yeah, well, neither do I.” She let out a yawn loud enough to rouse anyone nearby who was also drifting in and out of an early morning stupor. “I’m out all night stalking celebrities at clubs and art galleries, and then I’m here from the butt crack of dawn until dinnertime. What the hell made me think being a gossip columnist would be glamorous?”

  “You’re getting no sympathy from me. I spent last night in Brooklyn watching a pair of middle-aged twins shout at each other across a farm set. Apparently, corn symbolizes the growth of our souls, did you know?”

  The smirk she cracked was half-hearted and interrupted by another deafening yawn. “Speaking of theater, how’s the hunky A-lister? Still got you starstruck?”

  I swiveled in the chair toward my computer so she couldn’t see my face as I casually replied, “He’s fine.”

  “Liar.”

  “No, I’m not.” I fired up the device and watched the screen turn from black to black with a loading bar. The Apple really needed to invest in some higher-tech equipment. “He’s really fine.”

  She hopped up onto the desk beside me, forcing me to look at her by sheer proximity. “I’m sure he is, but you’re not. What’s going on with you two? You’ve been getting quieter lately, and you don’t have that good sex glow anymore. Is he getting lazy in bed or something?”

  “No.” The word came out biting and defensive, which I hadn’t intended, and I altered my tone to something more akin to frustration. “That part is fine. Amazing, actually. He just won’t… let me in.”

  Jenna narrowed her eyes at me. “Wait, are we still talking about sex? Like, some kinky strap on shit?”

  “God, no!”

  “Okay, sorry.” She held up her hands in surrender. “So, you mean emotionally.”

  “Yeah.” I shook my head a little to clear the remnants of the unwelcome mental image she’d provided me. It had thrown me enough that my despair had dissipated momentarily, allowing me the opportunity to construct an explanation she’d understand. “He doesn’t mind me letting him in. I’ve talked about my parents and my childhood and, I don’t know, my life story, I guess. But anytime I ask him anything about his, he shuts down. It’s almost like I offend him by wanting to know about him. And he still won’t go anywhere publicly with me.”

  She crossed one leg over the other, hooking her fingers around her knee. “Because of the paparazzi?”

  “That’s what he claims. I believe him to an extent, but part of me can’t help feeling like I’m some dirty little secret he’s keeping under wraps.”

  “Maybe he’s seeing other women, and he doesn’t want to get caught.”

  I frowned. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. And how does that explain him changing the topic or going silent when I bring up his past?”

  “He doesn’t want to get in too deep.” She nodded sagely, eyes wide like she was trying to impart her certainty to me. “Players never do. I see it all the time, some big name actor out every night with a nobody lingerie model. They’ll be out at clubs and premieres, but you never see them together just walking through the park.”

  I knew what she was saying was true, but my gut was telling me she was wrong in this case. Tate and I spent so much time together that I couldn’t imagine him finding any more to woo someone else. And he just didn’t read player to me. Distant and lustful, sure, but not a closet womanizer.

  “It’s possible,” I said again, not interested in provoking Jenna to continue insisting Tate possessed a wandering eye and manipulative spirit.

  “Have you talked to him about this?” She craned her neck to see if our editor was making the morning rounds yet. He must not have been in sight, because she remained perched on my desk. “That you feel like he’s being closed off with you?”

  “Yeah, right. He clams up when I bring up anything personal. What do you think he’ll do if I bring up that he clams up?”

  She fixed me with the kind of stern, knowing stare mothers usually gave obstinate teenaged daughters. “And that’s exactly why you’re upset right now. Look, how can he change what’s bothering you if you don’t tell him you’re bothered?”

  Jenna was a unique sort of woman. A little flashy, a little vain, and way too much into drama. She cared more about the latest manicure trends than world events, and her idea of a meaningful relationship was one that allowed her to date other people on a whim.

  Then, just when she seemed like the shallowest, most superficial human being ever to walk the face of the Earth, she said something so obvious yet profound that it became undeniable she had a deep, intellectual layer buried somewhere beneath the makeup and spray tan. I had to admire her for it.

  “You’re right.” It was a phrase I said sparingly to her, and she straightened up with smug pride.

  “I know I’m right.” Jenna was also a woman prone to gloating. “So, you’re going to talk to him, aren’t you? Because I’m getting tired of seeing you so down. You’re going to need a facelift by thirty if you keep this up.”

  Nodding, I opened my mouth to reply, but I was cut off by the multi-line phone on my desk suddenly lighting up and ringing at a volume wholly inappropriate for the morning hour. I stared at it, my stomach twisting into a knot. Since Tate had called me on that same phone to ask me out, I’d received only two other calls, and both times I’d gotten flustered because I’d anticipated the person on the other end of the line to be him. This time was no different.

  I reached for the handset and glanced up at Jenna. She hopped off my desk, jabbed a finger at the phone, and mouthed, “Talk to him.” Part of me wanted to ask her to stay for moral support, but she gave me a finger-waggling wave and left my cubicle before I had a chance.

  “Hello?” I was so nervous that I completely forgot to identify myself in the professional manner I usually did.

  My poor greeting was met with a pause, and then a voice said uncertainly, “Hello, I’m trying to reach Sadie Danes.”

  It was a female, probably middle-aged by the sound of it, and most definitely not Tate. My stomach unclenched, which was a relief, but I also felt a rush of disappointment. Now, I was going to have to gear myself up all over again to have the dreaded conversation with him.

  “This is Sadie Danes.”

  “Hi, Ms. Danes. My name is Bernadette Fry. I recently read your review of Concrete, which was fantastic, by the way.”

  I furrowed my brow slightly. The compliment wasn’t unappreciated, but I’d never had someone reach out simply to tell me they liked what I’d written. “Thank you.” I wasn’t sure how to handle this with a flattering level of modesty. “It’s always nice to hear good feedback.”

  “Of course. The reason I’m calling, though, is because there was some incorrect information in the interview with Tate McGrath.”

  Ah, now this was a normal call. “I apologize ab
out that.” My finger was already hovering over the Hold button on the base unit. “Why don’t I transfer you over to the department that handles—”

  “Ms. Danes.” She cleared her throat and softened her tone. “I don’t mean to make accusations, but either there was a gross misprint or Mr. McGrath lied to you.”

  My chest tightened, and I looked behind me with the irrationality that someone had turned on an enormous vacuum to suck all the air from the room. All my doubts, all my worries, about the validity of my relationship with Tate seemed to close in around me. I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t a fool reverting back to pubescent crushes. My gut had been right all along.

  The validation didn’t feel as good as I would’ve hoped. It was crushing.

  “What was the incorrect information?” I didn’t want to know, but I needed to know.

  “Well, I’m a PR rep for The Gold Rush Community Theatre in Sacramento. We were thrilled to see our establishment in your publication, but unfortunately, I have to tell you that Mr. McGrath was never affiliated with us.” She laughed. “Believe me, we wish he was. It would certainly be excellent publicity.”

  “Yes, I imagine it would be.” My tongue felt numb, and I couldn’t speak with the sophistication and enunciation I ordinarily would have on a business call like this one. “Are you absolutely sure he never worked with you? He did mention he was young when he was part of the Gold Rush. Maybe you’d have some record of him hidden away somewhere.”

  There was a rustling noise. “The first thing I did when I read the interview was go through our records. I even dug back to the ones dating before Mr. McGrath was born, thinking we may have misplaced something.” Papers flapped and snapped against each other. I pictured a woman with mousy brown hair and friendly smile lines around her eyes shuffling through the contents of age-stained file folders as we spoke. “There’s nothing to indicate he’s even stepped foot in our theater, let alone acted on our stage.”

  So, there it was.

  Tate had lied to me.

  I wasn’t as surprised as I ought to have been. He’d taken such great lengths to avoid discussing his past that it shouldn’t have been a far cry to figure he’d lie about it if he couldn’t get away with changing the subject. Of course, that did nothing to soothe the growing ache in my heart.