CHAPTER 59

There’s nothing like having professionals read—and sing—your script, especially if it’s the first time you’ve heard it out loud. The SoHo loft is chic and spacious by New York standards. It’s still cozy with eight of us sitting in a circle, chairs from the table and stools from the bar pulled around so we’re all facing each other. I’ve always loved the tradition of a reading. It’s like being on stage, nerve-wracking and thrilling at once. It’s not unlike reading my poem in front of Carla, though the stakes are much higher. It’s personal because my work is personal. I sit back, pull the pencil from behind my ear, and tap it lightly against my leg as the actors sight-read a song. The dark-haired woman singing the lead stumbles over a part of the chorus—partly because it’s tricky and partly because everyone’s flagging a bit after three hours of working on this show. I hold up a hand. “Let me fix that. Ten-minute break?” Everyone nods, and I scribble the change I want on her version on the book. If it works, I’ll put it into my version, the master. When I finish, I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from my writing partner. Miranda: How’s the reading going? Emily: A few rough spots. I’ll keep you posted. How are you feeling? Miranda: My body’s rebelling. Have a drink for me. My throat closes up. Her chemo started this week, and she wanted to come today, but I told her to take care of herself. It’s another reminder of how much is riding on this. A drink appears at my shoulder, and I look up. “You need a break too,” comes a kind, masculine voice. Jeffrey is tall and pushing sixty-five, with a receding hairline and sharp blue eyes. After reviewing the information on the funders, I knew he was my best chance. The man has three granddaughters and a history of seeing potential in unusual projects. “This is amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you for being so receptive when I asked if we could move the reading to your place. I know Ian usually hosts.” “My pleasure. Can’t let him have all the fun. Besides, your pitch was persuasive.” “That’s a kind way of saying I showed up at your office unannounced and sang you one of the songs.” His smile is gentle, but his eyes sparkle as he nods toward the balcony. “Let’s step outside. It’s a nice night.” I follow him out, and he pulls the door shut after us. “My first musical, we were work shopping it for months,” he says under his breath. “Ran three years off-Broadway and—” “Ten years on it,” I finish. A Broadway show costs millions to stage, and most don’t make that back. Then there are the unicorns, the ones that resonate—Phantom of the Opera, Rent, Hamilton. They cover all manner of things, but they stay with us. “They’re not all like that,” he goes on at my expression. “A production has to capture people in the right way, at the right time. Most never do that.” “That’s why we try. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s hard.” I lean over the railing, staring out at the bright lights of the city as I continue. “I used to think being in the spotlight was about talent or worthiness or luck. But it’s more than that. It’s a thousand choices to try something when you’re afraid, to say yes when it’s easier to say no, to believe in what you’re doing on those days you don’t believe in yourself. “Do you believe in this enough to fund this?” I blurt, turning toward him. His face goes blank, but I’m not here for validation. There’s something more I need from him. “I’m sure people ask you for money every day,” I say. “But I’m not asking you to invest in me. I’m asking you to invest in this.” I gesture behind me. “This idea, this story, this possibility. If you honestly believe it will move people—that’s what we’re all trying to do. I know I’m enthusiastic. But don’t mistake it for naïve. I’ve seen a lot of this industry. I understand you need to make a profit. But I also know you wouldn’t be in it if there was anything else that would satisfy you.” I take in his impassive face, my hands fisting at my sides as my heart falls into my stomach. But after a moment, Jeffrey laughs softly. “You must have been influenced by your father.” Once the question, the deflection, would’ve made me angry. It doesn’t anymore. “We’re always influenced by the people in our lives.” “Would he be attaching himself to this?” I shake my head. “I won’t ask him, and neither will you. It’s not his story.” He turns that over as I stare out over the street, the people laughing and the cabs passing below. “Well,” he says at last, “we’ll reserve him tickets.” My glass slips, and I fumble to grab it before it hits the patio. “You mean you’ll fund it?” When I look up, he’s smiling. “It’s a fabulous story, and I have a couple of directors in mind. But I won’t pretend some of the appeal isn’t standing right in front of me. Your talent, energy, charm… You’ll make a stellar lead.” My heart kicks as I drop into one of the chairs on the balcony. “Something wrong?” he asks. “Just waiting for the blood flow to return to my head.” I want to tell Timothy. As the conversation inside drifts through the glass, I want to call him. It’s everything I wanted. But also, it’s not. It’s been a week since I came back to New York. Timothy’s back in LA now, finalizing the deal on his new house. We left things in a good place but agreed it was best to keep some space between us for a while, which is why I haven’t reached out to him and he hasn’t reached out to me. I’m still reliving our time together this summer, the days and nights in Dallas and LA. I decided to write them out like a diary, to preserve them like the perfect memories they are, but every time I start, it’s too fresh and it hurts too much, so I close the book. “Are you all right?” I blink to see Jeffrey, his glass raised. “I’m great.” I rush to clink my glass to his. Sadness makes this moment bittersweet. I try to focus on the good, but my heart’s still heavy. “How’d it go?” Andie jumps on me when I enter our apartment. It’s two in the morning, and I’m ready to fall into bed, but I give her the news, and she shrieks, wrapping her arms around me. “Shit, A, you’re making a show!” “Apparently.” My grin stretches across my tired face. “So, you did it, and NT wasn’t even involved,” she muses. Before I can argue, she heads for the kitchen and pours shots of bourbon. “Cheers.” We toss them back, and the warmth burns down my throat. I think of Miranda’s reaction when I called her on the way home, how ecstatic she’d been despite the late hour. I debated whether to tell her tonight or tomorrow, but hearing her reaction, I was glad I didn’t wait. “You tell Timothy yet?” ’s gaze over the shot glass is full of meaning. I shake my head. “He deserves to know—it’s his story too,” Andie goes on. I pour us both another shot and pass her one. “I feel like I pulled it from the air.” We toast and toss this one back too. “Come on.” Andie sets her shot glass on the counter and leans a hip against it, her lips twisting. “A girl who thought her heart was stolen and that’s why she couldn’t feel goes on a journey with the help of a boy who shows her what it means to live and learns she had it all along.” I’m shaking my head before she finishes. “The female lead is nothing like me. She doesn’t have a heart. She doesn’t think she’s missing anything until someone points that out. I’ve never had that problem. I feel way too much.” “Obviously. But you’re not her. Timothy is.” I wash the shot glasses and cast a look over my shoulder. She tips her chin down, staring at me as if I’m being deliberately slow. My hands still in the sink, bubbles filling the basin. “You’re the other lead,” she goes on. “The boy who shows her what it means to live, and love, and take chances.” I turn off the faucet and watch the water drain out. The shiny dish soap glints on the surface as the bubbles spiral around and around, finally slipping down the drain. I set the glasses on the drying rack. When I face my roommate, I brace a still-wet hand on the counter. “That’s not true.” But my chest squeezes. The next breath is harder than the last. It’s our story. Mine and Timothy’s. Not all of it of course, but the core. I cross to the couch and perch on the arm. Andie’s face fills with empathy as she follows. “He’d be proud. You should send it to him.” “How long have you known?” “Since you started telling me about it a year ago. Does he know you love him?” I shove off the couch and pace the width of our apartment. “Yes.” I pause by the window. “But Timothy has always chosen freedom, to do his own thing and rely on himself. New York isn’t what he wants. And I want this show, Andie. Not only for me, but also for everyone involved. For everyone who’ll get to see it if we keep going.” “You want it enough to let Timothy go? Not that I want to lose you and Jacob to LA”—her lips curve in a sad smile—“but you could write.” I return to the counter for the shot glasses and pour half a glass more for each of us. “We always stayed true to our dreams, for better or worse, and I love that about us. But a career isn’t made or broken in one perfect moment. It’s hundreds of choices over thousands of days. What if love is the same, Andie?” I think of the ups and downs with my family, my dad. “Maybe we were meant to be apart for a couple of years, and that decision wasn’t wrong, it was just one more choice that helped us grow and learn and become more of who were supposed to be. Maybe we have more choices ahead of us, starting right now, and nothing in the world can keep us apart if I find ways to choose him.” The ideas start coming in a rush, all at once. “If I can find the right person to play the female lead, I can finish the show without having to be in it.” Her eyes widen. “You’d give up playing the lead for Timothy.” A surge of energy takes me over, and I know in an instant what I’m thinking is right. “I wouldn’t be giving up something I want. I’d be choosing something I don’t want to live without.” He’s my best friend, the only man I’ve ever loved. The only man I will love. Taking up a Broadway stage might have been my dream, but I have another dream that matters every bit as much. Us.