“You’re arrogant,” I said.
He mirrored my stance, arms crossed. “You’re dramatic.”
“You’re condescending.”
“You’re inexperienced.”
“You’re pushy.”
“You’re inflexible.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“Likewise,” he said.
The truth was that with each barb, we could easily be talking about ourselves.
“You’re also so fucking good that I can’t look away,” Cal said.
My breath escaped me. I stared at him, and he shrugged.
“Honesty, right?”
“Right,” I said.
There was silence.
“It wouldn’t kill you to say something nice about me,” he said.
“It might,” I said.
A wrinkle appeared between his eyes. I’d hurt him. I told myself that I shouldn’t care. He’d hurt me far worse.
It’s not a competition, my therapist would say.
And I was being an asshole. A stubborn, dramatic, inflexible asshole.
“Sorry,” I said. “You’re…”
“Don’t strain anything,” he said.
I glared at him.
“You’re in control,” I said. “You know what you’re doing. You have a clear vision. And it’s a good one.”
Red tinged his cheeks.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Honesty, right?” I asked.
“Right,” he said.
“I still don’t trust you,” I said.
“We’ll work on that,” he said.
I didn’t appreciate the surety in his voice.
“Let’s just focus on getting through the workshop,” I said. “Cordially.”
“The workshop and the out-of-town tryouts and a Broadway premiere,” he said. “Can you survive that long being cordial to me?”
“I can if you can,” I said.
We both started walking toward the door.
“Do you really think we’ll go to Broadway?” I asked.
“Yes,” Cal said. No hesitation.
I’d been that confident once. I missed it.
Harriet was waiting for me out on the street. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of me and Cal leaving together, but he just lifted a hand in acknowledgment and walked away from us.
“It’s nothing,” I said when she hit me with a questioning look.
Neither of us had made any plans for after the workshop. In fact, I’d spent the last few weeks so focused on this one particular day that I realized I hadn’t really thought about everything that would be happening next. All the work and stress and energy that was going to be required of me. Of all of us.
Suddenly I was exhausted.
I expected Harriet to say something, to suggest we go somewhere to discuss how the reading had gone, a postmortem on the first day, but the two of us just walked to the station, waited for our train, and then sat side by side, silently, heading to Brooklyn.
Her stop was first. As we pulled into the station, Harriet turned and gave me a hug. Held me tight.
“It’s really happening, isn’t it?” she asked.
“It really is,” I said.
She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe it.
“See you tomorrow,” she said, and got off the train.
CHAPTER 8
Today was the day I was looking forward to the least.
One-on-one with Cal.
We’d be discussing character motivation, rehearsing my solos, and practicing choreography. Of course, his assistant would be there—and a pianist too—but I still couldn’t shake the nervous, itchy feeling that this was a bad idea.
My therapist thought I had some unresolved issues with Cal.
I thought, No shit, Sherlock.
The problem was that I didn’t really want to resolve those issues. I wanted to stay angry at him. Because in some ways, it felt more dangerous to forgive him.
I had to remind myself of what he’d done. Or rather, what he hadn’t done.
I’d lost so much.
Cal…had not. He was fine. Better than fine, in fact.
The unfairness of it was hard to swallow. But that was okay. I preferred that bitterness sitting in the base of my throat, instead of a nostalgic lump quivering with hope.
“Morning,” Cal said.
“Morning,” I said.
Polite. Calm. I could do this.
“I thought we’d discuss Peggy and her motivations first,” Cal said. “Then work on incorporating those insights into her solos and movements.”
“Sure,” I said.
It wasn’t that I had a problem talking about my character. I knew Peggy. I loved her.
But there was something about discussing her with Cal that made me feel eggshell vulnerable.
“She’s got a lot going on, our Peggy,” Cal said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Lots of hidden depth,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
Cal’s assistant sat there, taking notes, the tip-tapping of her computer keys comforting and distracting. It was easier to be cordial when we had an audience. I was a performer, after all.
With his arms crossed, Cal leaned back in his chair, giving me a long look. I sat at the edge of my seat, hands folded like I was waiting for afternoon tea.
“Feel free to jump in whenever,” he said.
I didn’t appreciate his tone. That “Did you even do the reading?” tone. The “I went to college and you didn’t” tone.
Polite. Calm. Perform.
“She’s strong,” I said. “Tough.”
“On the surface,” he said.
“She’s not faking it,” I said.
“I didn’t say she was.”
“She’s been through a lot,” I said.
“Let’s talk about her coping mechanisms,” Cal said.
“She’s good at compartmentalizing,” I said. “All aspects of her life are separate from each other and that’s the way she likes it.”