THE BIG HAMMER: …they are toddlers.
BROADWAY BABY: *GIF of girl putting her hand to her chest in mock offense with the word “GASP” at the bottom*
BROADWAY BABY: But in all seriousness, I’ll give you a pass because that’s actually kind of cute.
THE BIG HAMMER: Just like me.
BROADWAY BABY: THAT remains to be seen. You know…since I have no idea what you look like since you won’t tell me WHO you are.
THE BIG HAMMER: All in good time.
BROADWAY BABY: Grrrr. For real?
THE BIG HAMMER: Ooo I like it when you growl at me, baby.
BROADWAY BABY: I’m hanging up now.
THE BIG HAMMER: We’re texting. You can’t “hang up.”
BROADWAY BABY: Semantics. Now, for real, why won’t you tell me who you are?
THE BIG HAMMER: I will. All in good time. Patience, grasshopper.
BROADWAY BABY: I don’t understand what you are waiting for.
THE BIG HAMMER: Can I be serious for a moment?
BROADWAY BABY: Why do I find it hard to believe that is something you are actually capable of?
THE BIG HAMMER: You know me so well already, baby.
BROADWAY BABY: **rolls eyes**
THE BIG HAMMER: I don’t want to tell you who I am yet because I’m afraid it will hurt my chances.
BROADWAY BABY: Chances of what?
THE BIG HAMMER: Getting you to fall in love with me.
I stare at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up with another text, but it never comes. When I answered the first ping, I was annoyed. However, the longer our conversation continues—though there was a better chance of Mimi not going out tonight than me admitting it—the more highly entertained I am.
No matter how much I rack my brain, I can’t figure out who my mystery texter is. I should probably call my brother and see if it’s one of his friends messing with me. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Time to put it out of my mind and head to the theater for the first of my two performances of the day.
I’m slinging my messenger bag over my head when it hits me. The number didn’t come up as a number or even UNKNOWN like most new ones would. No, this person’s info was saved in my phone. And seriously, who the hell calls themselves ‘The Big Hammer’? What is he, fifteen? Then again, that’s probably the mentality of most of Teddy’s friends.
Still…I didn’t save it, so…
Stepping out of my room, I look down the hall at my roommates’ open doors—my wouldn’t-know-how-to-mind-their-own-business-if-their-lives-depended-on-it roommates/best friends.
I scrunch my nose and press my lips together, making a face, having a pretty good idea who Mr. The Big Hammer is.
Nice try, buddy.
When my phone buzzes again, I almost don’t check it, already resolved not to engage in more texting with him. I may be an actress, but I don’t need that kind of drama in my life.
I risk a glance at the screen when it buzzes a second time and smile when I see it’s my brother.
TEDDY: So??? Did we hear back yet?
TEDDY: Don’t keep me in suspense over here, Care Bear.
I love that even though his schedule is crazy enough to rival my own, my older brother still manages to be involved in my acting career. Little things like this make me wonder how we can share the same genes as our parents. That is not a road I want to go down right now, though.
BROADWAY BABY: Not yet, but it should be today or tomorrow.
TEDDY: You better call me IMMEDIATELY!!!
BROADWAY BABY: Don’t I always?
TEDDY: Truth. Okay, gotta go. Keep me posted. Love you.
BROADWAY BABY: Love you too!
His text is completely unnecessary. He is always the first person I call when it comes to audition news, and—fingers crossed—he will be the first one I’ll call if I ever do receive that Tony nom. He likes to stay informed every little step of the way. I’ll wait until I know if the role is mine for sure before I reach out to my parents, though I don’t expect much more than a text in response—if I even get that.
Don’t dwell on things you can’t change, Mels.
Following my own advice, I pop my earbuds in and head for the subway, arriving at the theater with more than enough time for my hair and makeup to be done before the two o’clock curtain time.
“So…” I say around a swallow of wine.
“So?” Ella is the picture of innocence as she keeps her attention on the old episode of Sons of Anarchy we have playing on Netflix. I can’t blame her—because Charlie Hunnam, duh.
One of my favorite parts of my day is when we’re all back in our apartment, showered, dressed in pajamas, and curled up together on our couches in the living room. SOA is the most recent show we’ve been bingeing, and even though it’s a rewatch, we don’t complain. I mean, you saw I mentioned Charlie Hunnam, right?
And let me tell you, in the season we are currently on, when the Sons are sent to jail, Mr. Hunnam is looking especially fine with his shorter hair. Le sigh.
He also kind of reminds me of a certain hockey player I shouldn’t be thinking about, and oh yeah, I was trying to say something, wasn’t I? Damn sexy badass bikers distracting me.
“When were you two going to tell me you gave Jase Donnelly my phone number?”
I’m not 100% certain he’s my mystery texter, but the badly feigned expressions of shock staring back at me confirm my suspicions.
“Oh don’t even try it.” I point at them with my wine glass. “It’s a good thing I’m the actress in our trio, because the two of you suck.”
“You know what?” Zoey straightens, getting as serious as she can—which is not very. “I’m not even sorry we did it. You should have given that Greek-god-of-hockey-playing-perfection your number as soon as he asked for it.”
“You’re nuts, you know that?”
“Never claimed I wasn’t.” She shrugs.
“But for real, Mels,” Ella cuts in, “you should’ve given him your digits yourself.”
“Plus, you should know better than to leave your phone behind when you go to the bathroom.”
I let out a puff of frustration, downing the rest of my wine in one swallow. Are best friends supposed to drive you to drink?
“You guys know why I didn’t give him my number.”
“Pfft.” Ella waves me off. “That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”